Prologue

 

April fool's day had gone, spring break was nearly over, her twenty-first birthday was just around the corner, and her boyfriend of six months had stayed behind at school to study. The girl who had worn the yellow poke-a-dot bikini arose, gathered her swim suit from the ocean's edge, and stumbled toward the Fort Lauderdale Palace where earlier that morning she had seen the swimsuit hanging in the shop window across the street and been tempted. "Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow poke-a-dot Bikini," she had sung, the lyric springing from her lips like lightning bugs flitting into the sky. It was a song her father sang, a song made popular during the sixty's, popular like she had been for the last three hours.

Still awash with alcohol, the girl dragged the flimsy panty brief up her legs and over her hips, pulled the minuscule bra in place over her breasts and tied the string. It was the empty Tequila bottle's fault; she told herself, but she knew it wasn't. She had set out to fuck all those guys since before the sun went down. 

Because her college roommate visited friends in Miami, she was walking alone on the sidewalk in front of the motel when a god in human form trailed by an equally appealing god specimen, yelled, "Hey beautiful, ya wanna party? Bring a bottle-bonfire on the beach-nine o'clock tonight."

"I'm underage," she had shouted back, wagging a finger but adding a blond hair shake coupled with a butt wiggle for their entertainment. 

The god laughed, and the specimen pointed. "See the clerk at ABC liquor; name's Bradley, bat your eyes and he'll take care of you." 

Both deities moved on, but the temptation remained. Temptation has a way of weaseling into dark corners of the soul. Bradley the girl found out was old, was bald, and made a business of selling alcohol to underage college kids. The girl knew she shouldn't have gone to the liquor store, and she knew she shouldn't have gone to the party, but spring break is a crazy time, and she had wondered how it would feel being a party favor.

Thirty yards away, the girl's eyes caught the light from the bonfire and the earlier impropriety once more entered her mind like fuel from a fire-breathing dragon. "My friend says you'll go for it, will you?" the god caressing her breasts had asked.

She didn't remember kissing her god, and she couldn't recall when he took liberties with her or when her hand had filled with flesh. She shook her head, or thought she did, and drained the last few drops of the illegal Tequila pint. It had been easy to score booze from Bradley.

"Ah-come on...," her god persuaded.

"I've never done it before." 

"Do you want too?"

"Too much light," she had slurred. 

"There isn't over by the beach chairs..." He nodded south toward the dunes.

"Will you take me back to my room?" 

"I like you; besides what's the problem, my friend says you want it."

"All of you?"

His head pumped.

"Will you do me first?" She had asked disregarding the caution from her inner voice.

"Last," he said.

"First and last if I do it." 

"First and last, then..."

"I don't think I can walk that far."

"I'll carry you."

"They won't hurt me...?"

"No!"

 

***

 

Her god was big and strong and handsome and his cock reached depths she thought unreachable. With pain she thought unbearable, like a horse's kick it consumed her breath, and forced her eyes to engage his. In a night without stars, they were the most fearsome eyes she had even seen. Why hadn't she noticed those eyes before? "My god you're so big," she whimpered. "I can't take any more." 

"Sure you can, honey..." He pulled her wrists above her head, "A girl like you-so wet-shaking your ass at us, begging to get fucked."

"Please pull out..."

He snorted and penetrated deeper. "I wanted to be last after my friends loosened you up, but you wouldn't have it."

She had had cock before, plenty of cocks she guessed but never a cock like this. "AAAHHH," she moaned. "Sweet Jesus you're big."

He arose on his elbows, called her "CUNT" and pounded his cock faster through the folds of her flesh like a battling ram.

"Please kiss me," she begged. "Will you at least kiss me?"

"Are you worth kissing?" 

"I want to be," she groaned as beach sand flew in all directions and no-see-um fleas chewed her skin. Horrified by her perversion, the question of worth stuck unmoving in her mind.

"Ask me again!"

"Please kiss me..."

"Will you be a good fuck for my friends?"

She could have lain on her back beneath her god forever, could have serviced his cock throughout time. "I promise," she sobbed, her hot tears draining down her chin like corrosion.

Her god gathered steam. He fucked her hard, fucked her quick, licked her face, and bit her neck. He ravished her pelvic split, jackknifed her female spread, and rode her thighs like a mule. "Whatever they want...?"

"I promise," she convulsed.

He kissed her then, deep and ethereal. "Something to get you through," he teased before tapping her womb with his own fertilizer and rolling away. 

She felt his weight lessen and watched him bend. She saw him collect his swim trunks and felt their mixture leaking down her legs. "Who's next," she heard him yell.

Next was his friend, the facsimile. She watched him remove his, dark as night, swim trunks, sighed as his cock sprung forth, and gasp as he climbed aboard. "I told him you were hot for it. A whore in the making, I told him. Move that ass, girl," he yelled. "Fuck me back, or I'll thrash your butt."

The girl groaned and her body caught speed.

Swim trunks up... swim trunks down. The facsimile rolled off, and another rolled on. 

The boy from Minnesota, the one she had teased earlier by the bonfire, had her next. "Dirty slut," he shouted when he came.

The girl heard another "next." She was beyond caring who she was, or what she was, or what she would become by then, the disgraceful word corrupting her mind like a devil's toxin. 

Another put her on hands and knees like a dog and made her bark.

Then she was doubled. A short skinny dick found her pussy while a long skinny dick used her mouth. She screamed when a third dick lambasted her anus with pain. "Make my friends happy," her god had told her. If I'm anything, I'm a real good fuck she thought as her over flowing swamp was once again filled with a gigantic thickness.

"First and last," he had promised. She began ferociously to fuck him. "You can hurt me if you want too," she cried a moment before her god and the world disappeared.

Chapter One

 

At half past midnight with the house draped in darkness, Robin Miranda eased into a spare bedroom, cast the door lock, and crossed the gray Berber to the mahogany desk next to seldom used Murphy bed. Along the right wall, in front of a crushed velvet multi-flowered rose colored couch, a low coffee table sat, and angled at ninety degrees stood a matching recliner chair. Outside the white-curtained window clouds obscured the stars, and it had begun to rain.

Dropping her purple terrycloth robe on the floor, Robin stood naked. Then slumped onto the chair, awakened the computer, and typed the password. She glanced down at her painted red toenails and then at a picture of her eighteen-year-old son displayed on an end table. Jason had slept over at the Davis house and would start college in a few weeks while Rupert, the dying Heinz 57 variety dog, lay curled on his mat in the corner. Robin doubted he would survive winter.

After watching the Cubs lose the ballgame to the Cincinnati Reds on television, her husband, Frank, had gone to bed, would sleep through the night, and Robin had slipped to the appointed rendezvous. "My god, what if Jason or Frank finds out?" She murmured to the traditional off-white walls. Still, the online world of sex was an irresistible lure for her. With seconds to spare, the instant messenger acknowledged her presence.

Robin would be forty next April 21st. A Gemini with disparity in personality, she had not aged as gracefully as Sandra Bullock, was overweight, and her breasts sagged. Her blonde hair was laced with strands of gray and her blue eyes clouded from living. Her days were hectic, her nights were lonely, she dreamed of strong controlling men with big luscious cocks, and longed for love.

Robin turned on the microphone, set the volume and focused the web camera toward her middle. With practiced fingers she scrolled to the chat room, typed in the code, massaged her pussy as ordered, spread its wetness toward her clitoris, pulled the blindfold in place, and waited. The man who had taken charge of her life required obedience. "His sex doll," he called her.

She supposed the online affair started as an amusing interlude from boredom and the vicissitudes of a loveless marriage. Sable, her college roommate and best friend for twenty-five years would raise an eye at the risk. Robin imagined her accusation. "You're a slut, just like you were in college, Robin Marie." Gosh, she wished Sable hadn't died from Cancer. Cancer, Robin feared above all else, their friendship being ended by Cancer.

Was she a slut in college? She was. She had become a slut the day her father died. To ease the pain, she drew joy from listening in on intimate telephone conversations between her mother and Eugene, her new husband, but also her dead father's brother.

Eugene was a lustful man. With dirty eyes, he watched a girl's every step, and more often than not put bruises on his wife's backside.

After Robin got drunk and let a strange man grope her breasts at her eldest sister's wedding party and later flirted with Kathryn's new husband, Claude Jorgensen, in her mother's eyes, she was never much more than a dirty slut.

She became a dirty cheating low life whore and mother slut with the plumber. Jason was fifteen at the time, the intimacy between Frank and her had grown cold, and the plumber was torrid. He had that bad boy thing going on; brown pony tail, moody smile, hooded eyes, was a decade younger than she, and had bulging muscles. She recalled glancing at his crotch and imagining a cock generous enough to unclog the largest drain pipe.

He hadn't been shy either. Handing her the invoice for a replacement water heater, he printed his cell phone number in bold letters at the top, jerked her into his arms and consumed her lips. "Call me," he growled turning away and leaving her weak-kneed, breathless, and the lining of her stomach eviscerated by bumble-bees.

She resisted temptation for days after that. In her mind, she cataloged all the reasons not to call, but then manufacturing a lame excuse, she telephoned. "I need to know your name for the check," she announced.

"What you need, Mrs. Miranda is my cock," he sniggered, his laugh boisterous and condescending. Across the phone line her face colored with shame and she shook.

"Meet me at Casey's-twelve o'clock tomorrow, you know Casey's?"

"I work."

"Names Shawn-noon..." He clicked off before she could say anything more, or even negotiate a different time.

Even with flames on her face, she wouldn't have gone, but that night when she needed love, Frank was too tired, and when he agreed, he was inadequate. In that instant, noon the next day would not arrive soon enough. Robin trembled with anticipation.