Chapter One

 

‘Becky,’ Emma Hoffmann pleaded with her best friend, ‘they’re going to make us suck their cocks!’

The nineteen-year-old paused for dramatic effect. ‘Don’t you get it?’ she whined, ‘either we grab the photo-shoot assignment or we’re gonna end up doing hardcore to pay for this dump!’

There was no mistaking the desperation her voice. The shower had gone cold again after the superintendent had cut off the electricity in lieu of the girls’ unpaid utility bills and the blonde teen shivered in the darkness of the one bedroom apartment.

‘Becky!’ She repeated. ‘Are you listening to me? Another New York winter will kill us. If we don’t get out of here we’re gonna end up blowing pervy old geezers for a living!’

Becky cringed at the brutal imagery of Emma’s words but she absolutely hated dealing with crises. The nineteen-year-old buried her chestnut hair in the duvet in the hope that their problems would simply go away but her pal was relentless.

‘Emma,’ she countered, ‘do you have to use such filthy language? Can’t you put some clothes on for Chrissakes; no wonder you’re freezing!’

‘We won’t freeze in the heat of Sumatra!’ Emma countered. ‘Just think of it, all those golden beaches. We could be surrounded by adoring hunks while we bask in the warmth of a tropical sunset; I mean, what’s to think about?’

Becky gave the blonde a resigned look. ‘I guess anything is better than going through with another one of those awful dildo movies.’

Emma pouted. ‘You think that was bad? It’s gonna get a lot worse unless we do something seriously radical to make the next rent!’

Becky shuddered. To think that they’d been forced to stoop so low to earn a buck.

The self-styled casting director must have sensed their vulnerability. A couple of drinks and some righteous Mexicali weed had served to weaken their defences, and then the creep had flattered and wheedled the two teen beauties out of their clothes and into writhing and orgasming themselves atop a Sybian vibrator machine beneath the gaze of who knew how many cameras and live feeds. The brunette cringed in horror. They’d unwittingly achieved immortality as a couple of internet porno sluts and how long would it be before their friends or relatives finally stumbled across them humping their naked pussies in glorious HD? She wanted to puke. There was no denying they’d hit rock bottom in their fortunes. The afternoon’s work had at least netted the girls some hard cash but two weeks later and they were right back where they started; flat broke and about to flee their apartment like couple of criminals.

What the hell happened to the American dream? Four years of acting school had netted them a thousand failed auditions and a couple of months as hoofers in some lousy out-of-town revue. Emma had practically sold her soul to act as second feature in some cat food commercial, and then bupkis ... But none of that had stopped their agent from hounding them for his cut, the louse. Becky ground her teeth; she was sure the shyster sonofagun would strong arm his own mother for a percentage.

Now this foreign photo assignment. Becky had heard terrible stories about western girls and slave-trafficking in far-flung places but the alternatives didn’t bear thinking about. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, she thought to herself; maybe they ought to disappear for a while and try their luck with the modelling offer. Who’s to say they wouldn’t meet a couple of eligible billionaire bachelors? Her heart told her it had to be bull-shine but she was in no mood to face reality.

Emma!’ she scolded. ‘The super will see you through the window!’

‘So what?’ The blonde said defiantly. ‘Let the moron drool if he wants to, he ain’t getting none of this beautiful thaang!’

Emma gave a mischievous smile then she spread her legs and teased the hairless mound of her honey-pot. She angled her body until her pert bottom was illuminated by the soft yellow light spilling down from the neighbouring apartments then she began to bump and grind her way about the bedroom in a sassy, devil-may-care attitude that fooled nobody. She was just as fearful as her friend of risking a job offer on the other side of the world but like all teenagers, deep down inside she felt herself to be immortal. She knew white women were the ultimate prize for slave traffickers but surely none of that could possibly happen to a couple of streetwise chicks from the Big Apple. Hey, she reassured herself, let’s get real! They were both U.S. Citizens, weren’t they? The thought gave her courage. The blonde felt herself to be on the brink of a life-changing experience and she felt like scolding Becky for her lack of spirit. Her friend was far too fond of her creature comforts and it was high time she realised there was more to life than the 24 hour buzz of their native city. Emma picked up a pillow and hurled it across the bed.

‘Whaddya say?’ she teased. ‘You in or out?’

Becky made one last attempt to bring her pal back to sanity.

‘How are we going to pay for the flight, miss smarty-pants?’

Emma gave a sly smile.

‘The tickets are already paid for. I’ll show you the emails if you don’t believe me. We’re flying club all the way plus hotel bills and expenses for our stopover in Australia, and that’s a round trip, baby! How d’ya like them apples?’

‘Up yours!’ Becky hissed, but she knew she was doomed.

Emma gave a triumphant laugh then she began to sing at the top of her voice.

‘We’re off on the road to Sumatra...’


Chapter Two

 

Captain Fanston busied himself with his pipe while he considered the proposition.

The stranger looked strong and he seemed to know boats. Fanston decided to ignore the poorly doctored passport and the lack of a seaman’s ticket; after all, the fifty-year-old was hardly in a position to pick and choose from the meagre collection of applicants that had offered to man his deserted vessel.

The old sea dog had scoured the freight offices of Darwin harbour in an attempt to commission a return load to Manila. The Jenny Well had already discharged her cargo of teak a couple of weeks earlier and he was only slightly surprised to lose most of his crew to the dives and bordellos of the surrounding dockyards. He sighed in resignation. It was one of the hazards of his profession. The pay for deckhands was low anyway; the work could be back-breaking and there was little to compensate a man for the two or three weeks of boredom at sea aboard an ancient tramp steamer plying its trade between Australia and the scattering of multiracial islands to the north.

‘You have a name?’ Fanston wanted to know.

Valerian Purgis had a new moniker already prepared.

‘Leisser,’ he tried his alias for the first time. ‘Jack Leisser,’ he repeated the name with more confidence. ‘I’ve had it with the sheep-shearing for a while and I thought the sea air might do me some good.’

Fanston pretended to swallow the explanation. There wasn’t a sheep station within a hundred and fifty miles of the city but the grizzled sailor was hardly in a position to demand references.

‘Welcome aboard.’ He offered Leisser his hand and the strength of the returning squeeze reassured him he’d made the right choice.

‘You can mess with the cook,’ Fanston growled good naturedly. ‘Be back here for noon tomorrow; we ship out on the evening tide.’

 

Valerian Purgis, or Leisser as he’d now decided to call himself, made sure to steer well clear of the streets until his departure. It had been more than seven months since the Northern Territory Police had instigated their manhunt, and to the chagrin of the police commissioner the nationwide search had produced nothing of substance, but Purgis wasn’t stupid enough to doubt their tenacity.

He replenished his glass then he turned to watch the next pole dancer. He’d chosen a seat at the far end of the stage so he could keep an eye on the entrance. He had little reason to fear discovery in the darkness of the nightclub but old habits die hard and he checked yet again for the reassuring feel of the revolver in his waistband.

The girl seemed to have singled him out. She hit him with a fellatial smile then she made her way purposefully on her hands and knees across the stage until her breasts swung rhythmically above his sweaty forehead. She gave an inward squeeze of her elbows. Her nipples bulged in unmistakable invitation and Leisser was forced to readjust the discomfort in his trousers.

She knew precisely the effect she was having on the rangy customer. Megan Walters liked the macho type and this one looked like he’d been around the block a few times. Leisser gave her a drunken leer but her laugh was lost in the pounding of the rock music. She gave him a wink and turned her body slowly about-face until he found himself staring up at her fulsome backside. The girl was built like a pneumatic cupie doll. He decided she couldn’t have been more than eighteen; her body still possessed the flawless texture of a teenager and Leisser wondered if she had a boyfriend. He squeezed his prick beneath the bar counter then he willed her to stop stalling and wriggle her delectable buttocks free of her G-string. In a moment of madness he proffered her a twenty dollar bill. She snatched the money then she licked her lips and hooked her thumbs each side of her flimsy garment and watched his face carefully as she began to draw her hands slowly down the oily glow of her thighs. The bitch was teasing him but the secretive glint in her eyes seemed to promise much more than a five minute letch at her naked body. She hurled the panties aside then she spread her thighs and thrust her pelvis directly above his nose until he could smell the heady scent of her womanhood. His throat went dry at the sight of the depilated vagina. She still possessed an air of innocence and the cute pout of her sex-lips promised a tight, elastic vulva yet to be sullied by the endless stream of pricks that was sure to be her fate once her “show business” career was over. She rocked back on her heels and used her hands to spread her knees then she leant in suddenly and hissed a few words in his right ear.

‘I get off at ten!’

It took him a couple of seconds to realise what she’d just said. The heady waft of cheap perfume nearly caused him shoot in his pants but he swallowed some air and managed a nod. She hit him with another conspiratorial smile then she stood up and moved along the stage to work the other customers. A tough looking seaman gave Leisser a look of pure hatred. Leisser weighed the bruiser up and decided he could take him. He raised his glass then he gave the pug a toothy smile that flashed blue-white beneath the strobe lights.

 

Leisser nursed his hard on for another three agonising hours before the redhead finally showed up backstage and made her way over to his table.

It turned out she only wanted to talk.

Leisser almost told her to go fuck herself. He was about to try his luck with one of the whores hanging around the seaman’s mission but something about the girl made him give her at least a chance to try on her sob story ... and they always had a story. Megan Walters merely had a variation on the same old theme. She’d been raised in a broken home; her daddy was a drunk and a molester and her brutal boyfriend already had plans to pimp her out to his scumbag pals in order to fund his habit. Leisser tried not to stare at her 36 inch bust and the silky smooth flesh of her thighs but it was hard work as she whined on with increasing desperation into her Campari and soda. She was terrified her partner would carry out his never-ending threats to cut her pretty face to ribbons if she continued to refuse to blow his buddies for hard cash. She wanted out any way she could and Leisser must have fitted her juvenile fantasies of a knight in shining armour. He knew she’d be trouble with a capital ‘T’ and he wanted nothing more to do with her and he had to work hard to convince her he was nothing more than a lowly seaman with his ship already stoking her boilers in readiness for the open ocean. Sweet Christ, he thought to himself, only eighteen years old and she’s already fucked for life! In a rare show of pity, he forced his last thirty dollars and change into her fist and made his excuses but she gripped the sleeve of his jacket and pleaded with him one last time.

‘Jack, please wait! Won’t you at least tell me the name of your ship?’

He must have drunk more than he realised because the words simply tumbled from his mouth.

‘The Jenny Well,’ he slurred. ‘I’m bound for the Moluccan straits, baby … and I ain’t coming back!’