Violet Summer July Rain

I remember it all like it happened yesterday. I remember each one of them even though we are not in touch anymore. There are times in your life when everything makes sense, you seem to have it all, and then things turn upside down overnight. Suddenly. With no warning or intimation. But that is Life. You grin and bear it.

But what if things go wrong not once, not twice, but 3 times in a row? Within a span of a few months? In the same Summer of the same year? What if the events are set in motion not by providence or destiny, but by an individual? 3 individuals, to be precise. 3 people who you know, who you are close to, who you call friends.

3 of my closest friends stabbed me in the back and committed the ultimate sin. The ultimate act of betrayal. Can we call it Life? Is that a part of 'growing up'?

My name is Summer. Summer Bancroft. And this is the story of those 3 bitches who could have ruined my life, destroyed my happiness and damaged my self worth. 3 of my best pals who slept with my Dad behind my back for 3 entirely different reasons without sparing a thought for me. Or my late mother.

This is the story of Violet, July and Rain. Narrated by them individually. They will tell you everything in their own words, with their own filthy mouths, since most of it happened behind my back and I am not privy to all the details. They will confess to every sin they committed that summer.

But I will be back in the end to tell you how it ended. Because even though they were the ones to have started it, it was me who ended it.

It was the summer of 2016. And those 3 sluts -- Violet, July and Rain -- fucked my Dad for reasons best known to them, and fucked up my life forever.

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Chapter 1 -- Violet's Confession

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"Violet! Hi! We're here. Behind you!"

I was almost halfway across the giant hall when these words from a familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. The words came from behind me, and before I could turn around and look for its source, I heard quick footsteps walking up to me and stopping just short of a yard from my body.

I didn't need to guess, or turn around, or smile in surprise. It had become so routine that the element of surprise had long disappeared from the way Summer greeted me. Always with a cheer, always running up to me from behind, always stopping a few inches short of coming in contact with my body. As if some invisible force abruptly stopped her from hugging me.

Everytime. Like clockwork. Like a dull melancholic chore. Repetitive. Never spontaneous.

Summer is my BFF. We have been friends since our sophomore year. Always sincere, forever trustworthy, unflinchingly loyal. If there were one person whose advice I valued the most on this planet, it would be her.

But this was no ordinary day. This was a very special day on the calendar -- one that took me years of aspiration and sweat and labor to get to -- for both me and Summer. This was the day my art gallery finally opened to the public, with Summer being at the forefront of all publicity and media managing activities.

And she had brought a companion! Who was the man she had brought along to the most interesting evening of my life? Handsome and tall, middle-aged but fit, he looked like Paul Newman from the 1970s in a pinstriped Armani suit.

And he had Paul Newman eyes!

I opened my arms and walked up to Summer. She looked ravishing in her Vera Wang gown. She always did. She was born into money after all. She wasn't raised by a single mother in Omaha working two jobs a week and looking for a third on summer vacations to make ends meet. She didn't have to borrow cash from a dozen relatives and also take a bank loan to pay for art college. She didn't have to settle for an Express or Esprit ball gown purchased at throwaway prices on Black Friday. She could afford an Oscar de la Renta or Vera Wang. She had a rich dad!

"You came finally," I hugged her tight. "What took you so long?"

"Him," Summer pointed at the guy in the Armani suit. "He is the cause of the delay."

"Hi! I am Kyle, Summer's dad," he stepped forward and extended his hand. "Great to meet you!"

"Hi! I am Violet. Nice to meet you too," I responded rather exuberantly, which perhaps did not escape Summer's notice. But how could I not? God! Those Paul Newman eyes!

There are blue eyes. There are striking blue eyes. And then, there are Paul Newman blue eyes. Not just striking, but dreamy. Not just charming, but ethereal. You could float in them forever. The Rolls Royce of blue eyes. Overwhelming.

"I had to bring him along," Summer continued. "I wanted him to see what we had accomplished -- me and you -- our crowning achievement. But I should have anticipated the dozen or so phone calls and emails he received before he even got in the car."

"I am deeply sorry," Kyle added apologetically, facing me directly with his piercing gaze. "I should have been here on time. This looks all so mind blowing. Amazing work!"

He flashed a smile which could best be described as sparkling. It immediately put me at ease. I had no idea Summer had such a hot father. Great eyes, super smile, terrific suit draped on his wide shoulders like a second skin. Wow!

How come I had never seen him before?

"Dad is not a newbie to art galleries, just so you know," she spoke with equal measures of affection and pride. "He is a regular at art shows and exhibitions, especially here in NYC."

"Is that so?" I asked in admiration.

"Oh! She exaggerates," Kyle replied dismissively. "But I do have good contacts in the world of art. Some really good contacts."

"You are in tech, I have heard. Right?" I asked quite naively.

"OMG! I can't believe you just said that," Summer blurted out. "Babe, he is the CEO of ThinkConn. He runs the most advanced next gen AI R&D centre in the whole world. Haven't I mentioned it before?"

"Um ... you must have," I responded embarrassingly. "I must have forgotten, pardon me. But I am curious to know why a tech czar like you takes such a keen interest in art?"

"Oh! It's an old hobby actually," Kyle responded with a hint of humility in his voice. "I have been an art enthusiast since childhood. Did a bit of sketching and painting and portraits and landscapes in my youth, and .... You know, it's mostly since my wife passed away that the art bug has truly bitten me."

"Dad looks for an excuse to promote and support upcoming artists," gushed Summer reverentially. "Especially financially."

Of course he did! I looked at him in part-awe and part-curiosity. A self-made tech titan who calls himself an art enthusiast, a billionaire with the sex appeal of a Hollywood star -- Kyle would be a dream boss for every aspiring young woman artist like me. I wonder if he isn't already playing the role of sugar daddy to some pretty young gal somewhere ....

Stop!

I don't need a sugar daddy, I admonished myself. I tend to have these secret desires and selfish thoughts from time to time. They come and go in waves, drifting my thoughts to a fantasyland I have never been to but would wish to visit one day. A land of secret desires and unfulfilled aspirations that beckoned me every time I came across a friend or acquaintance in a Vera Wang gown and a sugar daddy in tow.

But Kyle was no sugar daddy. Not to Summer at least. He was her real father. But what if ...

"You graduated with her, right?" Kyle interrupted my chain of thoughts. "Less than 8 months ago, was it? Opening an art gallery like this in such a short time is nothing short of remarkable," he spoke with genuine admiration. "Kudos to you girls."

"It was all Violet, all the way," Summer stated humbly. "I just took care of the marketing, publicity and image management. She did all the artworks."

"All?" Kyle looked stunned. "Herself?"

"Yep," Summer seemed to bask in my success. Whatever I might proclaim publicly, this gallery is, and will remain, my baby. It was my labor, my sweat, my vision that went into making this dream come true.

And my talent. Not Summer's.

"Wow! You must be truly gifted!" Kyle gushed in awe. "Would you be kind enough to show me the rest of your artwork? The ones you have created yourself, I mean."

"Right now, Mr. Bancroft?" I could not suppress my excitement. It's not everyday that a rich and successful man expresses a desire to check out my work. And today was the most important day of my life so far.

"Kyle, please," he replied humbly, "call me Kyle. And yes, I would appreciate it if you could show me right now."

So, off we went to the furthest corner of the giant hallway of the virgin gallery that I called "The Corner Crib". That was the official name of the labor of my love and ambition, my gallery -- "The Corner Crib". It was there, at the extreme end of the passage, that all my 'babies' hung proudly from the walls, far from the madding crowd.

"Extraordinary! Exceptional! Mind blowing!" the praises were effusive and Kyle heaped a dozen of them on each painting of mine. "You deserve a much bigger audience, Violet. You need the 'right' audience, the real connoisseurs of the art world."

I know. I have never doubted my potential or talent. But I do not have the right contacts. I do not have a sugar daddy ...

"I will help you get in touch with the who's who of the art world," he declared like a generous benefactor. "Your talent needs to be seen across the nation. And I will put you in touch with those who can make it happen."

I gasped. Was my desire finally going to come true? Would this be a real voyage to that fantasyland of my dreams? Can I finally leave Omaha and the Omaha-girl behind?

Kyle got busy that very moment itself. Excused himself to make some phone calls, presumably to the 'movers and shakers' of the art world. I could not believe my luck. Or the fact that all this happened with no planning from my side. Wonder where I would be with a bit more planning and a sugar daddy like Kyle in my pocket!

8 long years have gone by since that day. A part of me still thinks that I should feel gratitude towards him. Perhaps a part of me is indeed grateful for whatever he did to boost my career that day onwards. But that part conceded defeat to the 'other part' that day -- the other part that clings on to the fantasy of hope, the part that's a survivor. A dreamer ...

I was prepared for failure when I embarked on the art gallery project. I did not have sufficient funds, the money was entirely borrowed, I had no inheritance of my own, and nothing to fall back on in case the enterprise tanked. I was prepared for that reality, I was ready to live with the feeling that I tried my best but could not succeed for lack of endorsement and no fault of mine. But Kyle Bancroft's magnanimity and generosity and his seductive blue eyes made me believe that I could do it. That I should do it. That I could have what Summer had, and so much more. That I had to wipe off the stain of Omaha from my being forever.

I had found myself a sugar daddy. And though I hated to admit it to myself, I was happy and content deep inside for the first time in my life.

--xxx--

Kyle and I exchanged phone numbers and email IDs that day. Pretty soon, we began to exchange gifts, flirtatious looks, dirty texts and nude selfies with each other. All behind Summer's back, of course. And finally we ended up exchanging body fluids one evening on his luxury yacht, aptly named "The Infinite Ark".

There was nothing 'infinite' in that yacht except luxury and comfort. You could easily get lost in its gigantic belly for a weekend. And I spent my first weekend with Kyle in that floating palace, anchored a few miles into the ocean from the Hamptons shoreline.

In those early days of our relationship, I had been introduced to and struck deals with the most important names in the art world on the East Coast. And though Summer had a very good idea of Kyle's contribution behind all that was going on and the way these plum deals were falling on my lap from nowhere, she had no idea that it all came at a cost. A price that I was too willing to pay. A price that I had myself invented in the first place to fulfil my dreams and aspirations.

I had to keep her Dad's lap warm every weekend! Literally.

On that first weekend aboard the floating palace, he asked me to sit on his lap. There was nobody else beside us on that boat that evening. The moment I sat down and rubbed my bottom on his crotch, I could feel his instant boner rising rapidly.

I knew this would be the day -- or rather, evening -- that he would go the whole hog. Away from the city, the land, the crowd, and in the safety and privacy of his luxury boat, Kyle would surely attempt to fuck me. What I didn't know was how. I found out the moment I sat on his rock hard boner.

He lifted up my dress and pulled at my panties. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, trying to roll it down at first, then deciding to pull it aside, and finally tugging at it violently. That tech tycoon was certainly no expert at removing girl's undies, and his lack of finesse and knowledge turned him frustrated and clumsy.

He tried to rip it off with force. I asked him to stop.

"Don't! Let me take it off," I tried to get up, but he pushed me down and held me tight on his erection.

"Don't tear it off," I tried to reason with him. "I have to return home wearing it."

"Why?" he growled like a wounded animal and pulled again.

"Why? 'Cos the dress is flimsy," I wasn't sure why he needed to know.

"You don't need it," he ripped it off anyways with one sudden jerk. "Never wear your panties when we are together." He threw the torn thing on the floor.

"Never?" I was taken aback by his aggression.

"Never ever," he repeated and made me sit on his erect cock slowly.

He never used protection. Neither that evening, nor ever. He said he liked the feel of warm slippery flesh rubbing on his organ. And loved the friction caused by the tiny little lumps inside my pussy. What he loved most, though, was to dump his load inside me. Raw.

Everytime. Time and again.

I discovered soon enough that he was a kinky pervy motherfucker, with kinks and fetishes so wild and extreme that they bordered on depravity. And he liked to explore his perverted fantasies on young women -- "the younger the better" in his own words. He said he liked us -- girls -- young and fresh, with clean and well-scrubbed privates and well-oiled / lubricated cavities that would tempt him to do things unimaginable in nature and unacceptable by all standards of decency.

The notion that I was in control quickly vanished in the first month itself. It turned pretty dark after that. His desires became more and more depraved, his acts more and more vulgar, and my experiences more and more harrowing. His striking blue 'Paul Newman' eyes did not look inviting anymore. They were filled with dark sinister lust and primitive evil desires.

He derived an inexplicable otherworldly pleasure in violating my asshole. Not just with his cock or his fingers, but with other objects as well, names of which should best be left out for the sake of decency. He would apply oil or lubricant lovingly for hours, and just when I thought today would be MY day for pleasure, he would indulge in a shameless act of perversion that would leave me speechless in shock and disbelief. All he cared for was his own pleasure. All he craved for was his own gratification.

He never fucked my face. Never asked me to suck his cock. On the one occasion that I tried to blow him, he admonished me for being proactive. He did not want my participation. He only wanted my submission. Kyle Bancroft was a horny, dirty, sick and sadistic piece-of-shit who reduced me to a fuck toy. And I submitted to his dangerous whims willingly and unconditionally.

It was worth it, or so it seemed. Within a couple of months, the Lombard Group arrived at my doorstep with a blank chequebook and a contract to open 2 more art galleries, this time on the Wast Coast. My body was battered but my heart was thrilled. I would be relocating to Los Angeles. Permanently.

I had arrived! I had indeed arrived in the world of high art and fine living. The stink of my poverty-stricken childhood in Omaha was finally gone. I was now being called the most successful upcoming talent in the world of art by people who matter. And to add cherry on top, my sugar daddy had found a new toy to play with once he got to know of my plans to relocate to LA. Her name was July and she was an architect.

I was now free of Kyle's clutches. Free of his kinks and fetishes. Free to finally make that dream voyage into my land of fantasies -- the land of unfulfilled dreams and secret desires -- except that those dreams were now very much within my grasp, and those desires could be fulfilled easily.

I was now successful and happy. I did not need Kyle or Summer anymore. I did not need "The Corner Crib" anymore. I signed over the ownership rights to my art gallery to Summer before boarding the flight to LA.

It was now time for July to find out her destiny.

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Chapter 2 -- July's Confession

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I am a Brooklyn girl. I am a Brooklynite who works in Manhattan. And I love my walks.

I enjoy walking down Manhattan Bridge every Saturday morning, all the way from the York Street Subway Station on the Brooklyn side to East Broadway Station in downtown Manhattan. It has become something of a ritual for me, especially in Spring and Summer -- to cover the entire length of 2000 metres on foot and pause only to revel in the panoramic views of the mighty Brooklyn Bridge and the imposing Manhattan skyline bathed in early morning sunlight.

Walking the Manhattan Bridge is one of New York City's best-kept secrets. The views from this bridge are far more spectacular than those from the Brooklyn Bridge. And it was on one of these early morning walks in the Summer of 2016 that I met the man who would change my life forever.

That day was just like this one, except that it was a Monday. I was on my way to work -- from Brooklyn to Manhattan -- walking down this bridge instead of riding the overcrowded Subway. As I approached Canal Street on the last leg of my journey, a commotion on the street caught my eye. I don't remember why, but that day, I felt compelled to check what it was all about.

A middle-aged man, probably in his late 40s or early 50s, was engaged in an animated argument with a construction worker. A few minutes into the conversation, it became evident that the guy had accidentally rear-ended the vehicle driven by the construction worker with his car -- a Porsche 911.

And the man in overalls was in no mood to relent.

A small crowd had gathered around the two men, listening attentively to every word exchanged between them, but doing nothing to resolve the situation. That was a rare sight in itself -- a handful of office goers engaged in idle spectatorship on a busy Monday morning in the busiest part of the busiest city in the world. How weird!

I took a close look at the middle-aged man. He was both tall and handsome, and looked incredibly well-groomed and rich. He wore a pin-striped suit that must have cost upwards of $2000, and had on his wrist a gold-plated Rolex. His shoes had the distinct appearance and feel of hand-crafted leather.

And he had piercing blue eyes. Those were the most striking features of his personality. I felt an immediate attraction to them. An instant appeal.

"Why would a rich dude wearing a gold-plated Rolex and driving a flashy red Porsche argue with a construction worker right in the middle of the street?" I thought. Intrigued, I stepped forward and tried to draw their attention.