"There's a naked girl swimming in the ocean," said the young man.
The older man chuckled. "That's beach life." Then he did a double take, as he steered their motorboat into deeper water.
"Naked? No clothes?"
"She's bare all right," said Phil. His binoculars were plastered on the swimming figure.
"That's new!" said George, the older man, eyes gleaming. "Even in Atlantic City." Then his eyes dulled. "Probably ugly." He knew life usually let you down.
Phil Griffin adjusted the glasses, frowning in concentration.
"No. She's luscious. What a… breast stroke… go faster."
"Wish I could," said George Panther. "There's a problem with our gas supply."
The rest of his words were drowned in a roar as Phil reached over and jerked the throttle of the outboard motor full open. The motorboat surged forward, drowning out George's, "Hey!"
The swimming figure that Phil wanted to inspect was well out in the bay, almost halfway to a yacht that rode the waves across from the Atlantic City Boardwalk. The nude swimmer seemed headed for that yacht.
The roar of the engine made further talk impossible. George Panther contented himself with steering grimly to avoid running down the less interesting swimmers here close to shore. By this time he already had a good idea of who the target swimmer was, and he knew she'd be mad when they caught up with her. The motorboat waves would make her bob in the ocean and lose strokes. But he also knew this Phil Griffin and didn't want to argue.
George shook his head as he watched his young partner. Phil Griffin was handsome, well-built and impetuous. At twenty-seven he was one of the best swim trainers for Olympic endurance swimmers in the nation, but he had this fault…
Right now Phil was both enjoying the sight of the girl's body and rating her athletic power, George guessed.
He was right about that. "Not bad," said Phil in a murmur that George couldn't hear. At first Phil had hoped that the swimmer was Madeleine Metcalf, the women he'd come three thousand miles to find, but he could see it wasn't her. She was, however, a powerful swimmer, cleaving the water with a steady two-mile-an-hour stroke that was professional. And she was sexy.
It would be good to talk to this stranger. Ever since Phil had left California, he'd feared he might not get his prize swimmer, Maddy Metcalf back. If not, he'd need a replacement, and this girl was worth an interview.
Of course Maddy came first. Absolutely. Still, as he scanned the trim lines of the unknown swimmer, he felt a rising excitement. Even if she had a trainer, or belonged to a club, he might get a date. After all, he was a stranger in town with no black book of numbers to turn to.
Watching Phil with sardonic amusement, George also guessed Phil's secondary interest. George was Maddy Metcalf's uncle. She'd told him plenty about her training time with Phil. Phil and Maddy had worked to get her on the U.S. Olympic swim team two years ago, in 1924, pointing for the Paris meeting. Gradually they slipped into a hot affair so heavy that Maddy broke training and didn't make the team. Afterwards she fled Phil.
For two years Phil had been obsessed with getting Maddy back. He swore he'd put her in the 1928 Olympics two years from now and get her two or three gold medals. Maybe, thought George, if Phil could stay away from sex.
The engine stopped. Just like that. One moment they roared along, cutting through the waves, gaining on the swimmer. The next the motor died abruptly and they slithered through the water, slowing to a stop.
"What's wrong!" cried Phil in agony.
"I told you I was about out of gas," said George. "Full throttle burns it up too fast. If we'd puttered along…"
Phil glared up, stood up and started to take off his clothes.
"You're going in the water?" asked George, astonished.
Phil stripped rapidly.
"I might as well say hello to her."
Clothes off, Phil wore bathing trunks, not conventional shorts. Phil never bothered with shorts. He stepped to the edge of the boat.
"Tell 'em on the yacht to send out some gas," said George. "I'm stranded."
"Maybe the girl isn't swimming to the yacht."
"She is. That's my backer's daughter, Flair Singleton," said George.
But Phil was gone, cleaving the water in an expert dive that left George's motorboat rocking only gently.
Alone in the boat George pondered the situation as he watched Phil cut through the water like some Goddam porpoise. What a swimmer. Only the young man's wound in the Kaiser's war prevented him from winning his own gold medals. On land you'd never know, but the water knew, he was permanently slowed down.
George pulled out a hip pocket flask, inhaled some slightly cut gin and considered the possibilities. He had oars; he could row ashore for gas, but he was broke. He could also row to the yacht and get free gas, but that also took effort. With the wisdom of his forty-five years, he decided to wait until Phil sent rescue. It would come soon because Flair Singleton was no Maddy Metcalf. Maddy still had a soft spot for Phil, despite her anger at him. Flair on the other hand was a bitch virgin with warm spots for no man. Phil would get a fast shuffle. With a sigh of contentment, George laid down on a seat, rested his flask on his chest and began to daydream future glories, staring up at a blue sky of an August, 1926, afternoon in Atlantic City, New Jersey…
"Hello there," said Phil swimming up to the girl.
"Beat it," said the girl. "Twenty three and a big skidoo."
"I'm Phil Griffin. I train women swimmers," Phil offered.
"I've heard of you. I've heard you were coming. My father's nurse is Maddy Metcalf. She used to swim for you."
"Uh," grunted Phil. Not so good… if Maddy'd said too much.
Phil was aware of the girl's sleek, gorgeous body. She must be twenty or so, with blonde features and a smooth, tanned skin. She had meat on her bones, but was beautifully proportioned. He could tell she was also an endurance swimmer, being able to talk so easily in the water.
"Headed for the yacht, huh?" said Phil.
"Yes. It belongs to my father, Victor Singleton. I'm Flair."
Victor Singleton would be George's backer, the pharmaceutical executive from New Jersey inland, Phil knew.
"Is Maddy on the boat?" he asked. "I've come all the way from California to see her. I guess you know that. I have a new project for her."
"She's not on the yacht," said Flair. "She hates you. I can see why. You're too fresh."
"Listen, I was just admiring your stroke. As a professional trainer…"
"Take off your trunks."
"What?"
"When I'm stripped, I don't allow clothed swimmers alongside."
"How come you're stripped?"
"Dad gave me a bathing suit. I tried it out. It belongs on somebody's old maid aunt."
A real flapper, thought Phil. A wild girl of the twenties, a rich man's reckless daughter.
Flair suddenly stopped swimming and for seconds Phil was treated to the sight of two magnificent breasts, nude, with big, pink centers. Treading water she let herself sink her glories just out of sight.
"Strip or skip," she insisted.
Phil felt a thrill of erotic feeling. To swim with this beauty, it was a small price to pay. He doubled his body and his trunks were gone.
"I'm really only interested in your style," he said, grinning. "Maybe you could swim in my new project."
"Maybe you want to screw me in the ocean," she shot back. "Maddy confessed you tumbled her once in a pool."
"A pool, maybe. The ocean, no," said Phil. "It's the waves."
It was too bad, too, because going naked had sent thrills and tempting rushes through his belly. His cock had slowly begun to stiffen just at the realization of being out here all alone with a beautiful, naked girl. A wild one. Their bodies touched. For a second he felt warm, silken flesh lubricated by the water.
"From what Maddy says you'll figure a way to beat the waves and invent ocean sex," said Flair drily.
The conversation was not going the way Phil liked. This kid was too forward. She'd shot him two insults inside of a minute. That got his back up.
"So I've got the name," he told her. "I might as well have the game."
He reached out and ran one hand down the sweet slope of Flair's naked back. Gently he squeezed the satin smooth globe of one buttock, slick from the water. Let's see how Miss Tart Lip took that!
No scream. No slap. Instead she calmly reached down and grabbed his half-erect cock.
"Oh!" said Phil.
She squeezed it as he had her buttocks, but in the awkward way women handled men's pricks. Then she pumped it and that felt very, very good. Phil felt an awesome rush of pleasure. He'd been five days on the train coming East, with no dates, and not much before that. His balls were loaded. His blade powered up to full erection in only a few of her hand strokes.
"Ah-huh!" he gasped.
"That's my best stroke," she said.
"Uh. I've g-got one too," he said. He felt along her warm inner thigh and up between her legs. Her cunt was right where it was supposed to be, a bush above, two soft lips in his hand and warmth inside.
"Ah-huh!" she gasped in her turn as his fingers bored in.
For a wild few seconds they treaded water, mutually masturbating each other, as if seeing how far the outrage between perfect strangers could go. Phil's cock throbbed with intense pleasure. He could feel her quivers as he probed inside of her cunt.
Flair suddenly released his jabber. "Why am I doing this?" she asked the ocean. "I don't care about your stupid prong. Finish yourself. Uh, uh!"
She gave another gasp at his invading fingers that had worked a short way inside of her box and expertly pressed on her clitoris. She eased her loins off his hand. She began to swim away rapidly.
Phil stared after her in awe as he tread water.
"You're a virgin!" he cried after her, astonished. His fingers had told him the truth. A flapper she might be, and wild, but no man had invaded that glorious belly. Probably because of her tart lip, he thought.
She scolded him over her shoulder.
"That's right, Mr. Prick!" she cried. "Shout it to the world. Yell it to the Boardwalk. I'm proud of it and no man will ever change it. Especially you!"
She swam on, while Phil looked back over his shoulder. George's boat drifted some distance away. There was no sign that Panther tried to rescue himself by rowing. The yacht looked closer.
He saw Flair reach the yacht's landing platform at water level, saw a white uniformed servant come down the ladder to hand her a large towel to cover her nakedness. She stood there a moment staring at Phil across the water. A warm wave blurred his vision; when he cleared it, he saw her final gesture of contempt. She deliberately opened her towel to expose herself fully for a second, then closed it and went on up the ladder.
"Bitch," he groused. But he was still hard. That body was as shapely a figure as he'd seen in all his twenty-seven years. Wasted on a hard personality, he thought. Sadly he swam on to the yacht.
No servant greeted him. Nor was there anyone on sight on the deck.
Naked, he felt very exposed, but no one came into view. The boat tugged gently at its anchor like some ghost ship without humanity aboard. Weird!
Silence. Creaking anchor chain. Sunny deck. Ahead of him were twin doors of some master cabin. He went through, anxious to hide his nudity. He found himself in a glass-walled living room, carpeted, with a bar, chairs and tables. The carpet was thick and new, the furniture gleaming brown wood. Old Singleton must really be rich because this was ultimate luxury, a craft more than a hundred feet long, with glittering appointments, solid wood, shining brass, eye-blinding whiteness of white paint. He dripped a little water on the rug.
No humans. No sound. It was spooky, all right. He crossed the big cabin to a door at the other end. It opened into a hall, empty, with closed doors on the left and right. Sleeping quarters for the millionaire? There was a bright blue carpet with an embroidered "S". New. It felt good on his feet and he made no sound.
He walked down the hallway, half the length and stopped at a big door on his right. Should he knock? Or just barge in? He stood uncertainly in front of the door.
There was a sudden rush of feet and he felt his arm grabbed and twisted up behind him. A solid body hit his and drove him through the door, as he grunted in surprise. His arm was locked up behind him. He and his attacker burst through the door, and it was a bedroom, right enough. There was a huge bed with a satin spread and an "S" embroidered on it.
The surprise of the sudden attack had caught him off guard, but now he brought his strength into play. His assailant had to use both arms to pin his one arm but slowly he was able to pull it loose. His attacker pressed against his making him realize that it was a woman, that she was nude, that it was Flair Singleton. The smooth skin, the warm flesh were dead giveaways. He jumped forward out of her grasp, ending in the middle of the room.
"Aha!" she said. She spun around and locked the cabin door.
He stared at her thunderstruck. She was still baby naked. Close up, out of the water, he got the full effect of her unclad body. She had a beautiful face with a pug nose and those bright blue eyes. Her thick hair was wet, of course, much darker than it would be when dried and coiffed. She had broad shoulders for a woman but they matched her powerful but softly curved body. There was the shapely torso, soft rib cage, sexy belly button and flat belly.
"Aha?" he asked, swallowing hard.
Her eyes dropped to his crotch. His cock still jutted out stiff from his belly. In his loaded condition, the blood would seep away most slowly and reluctantly. His prick wanted to deliver its load of manhood into the world.
She walked up to him. She took his big prodder in both of her warm hands.
"Would you believe that I've never touched a man's sex until yours in the water a few minutes ago?"
Her voice was softer. She looked shy.
"In-interesting," he said. He was so stricken by her beauty, by that tanned, silken skin, the glow of health, the voluptuousness of her body that his mind felt thick, non-functioning.
"My father protects me. My father won't let me have anything to do with sex," she said. "Is it all right if I look at you?"
"Why… why not?" he stammered, still transfixed.
Her hands had thrilled him. Now she opened them to look closely at his cock, bending down with those great breasts slightly extended.
He felt a sweet rush of desire from his sex centers up and down his spine. She rubbed and stroked the mushroom shape of his swollen cock head, pumped the skin on the shaft. He gave a gurgle of pleasure as thrills shot through him.
"Ohhhhhh."
"That feels good, doesn't it?"
"Baby, that feels incredible! What you've got there is a length of muscle made hard by the rush of blood to the organ, which swells and makes the skin tight, but the skin can move a little and excite a million and a half pleasure nerves so that a man walks up on his toes, creaming and crooning. Ahhh. We call it masturbation."
"Like this?"
She pumped his cock vigorously.
"Oh, baby!" he cried. "You'll cause an explosion. I've got enough stuff inside to blow off your hands."
"You've got to explain sex to me," she insisted. "It's my one chance of a lifetime. Dad never lets me go out alone. He hires guards. But they're away, he's away. Suddenly on the ocean I'm with a man, he's naked, and his thing is risen hard. I can't pass this up."
She was so different than on the ocean that Phil couldn't believe it. In the water she was tough, mature. Out of the water she was totally innocent. Or playing so.
"Get on the bed," she said.
Phil didn't know what to do. All his life he'd ruined chance after chance to get ahead by falling into sex. Somebody's wife, somebody's sweetheart, or some of his students. On this trip East he'd sworn to put business before pleasure. Now this.
As long as she pumped on his blade he was willing to stand there and let nature take its course. He was crazy to shoot off his load. But now she stopped and crudely walked him to the bed by pulling on his cock so he had to follow. It was the cruelty of innocence, as if she could not release the wonder organ that her father had kept her away from all her life.
He went to the bed. He sat on the bed. She sat beside him.
"You have a c-cock," she said. "I have a c-cunt. I can hardly say the word. I call it my box." She actually blushed. She opened her legs and before his horrified eyes stroked her delicate pink instrument to make her fingers gleam with girl essence. Her cunt was as swollen as his prick.
She anointed his blade with her warm girl oils. He fucked up lusciously into her fist, smelling musk, thrilling, crazed for sex.
"Prin… princess in a locked tower," he said.
"What?"
"Nothing. Let's get back to my cock and your cunt." He groaned. This birds and bees stuff was going to put him right back in the dark hole, like with Maddy.
"Cu… box!" she cried. "That word's so sexy! I wish I could say it."
She jumped up and straddled his lap. While he stared at her in horror and delight, she fitted her cunt to his cock and sat on his stiffness. His prong immediately nudged into her about an inch and stopped, hitting her hymen. He felt her slick oils. He felt her intense inner body heat. His entire cock head was gripped tightly by her virgin opening. Great thrills of desire-joy swept up his body. He was on fire to grab her hips and fuck her deeply, crazily.
"I… ahhhh!" he moaned.
"Oh, we won't do anything," she promised him. "I'm just learning things. Ah. Eeee! Yes, I'm just putting things together."
She bounced a little. He almost died. Somehow both his hands pressed tightly against the richest naked globes he'd ever touched. Hot, hard nipples dug at his palms. Jelly-firm breast flesh warmed his hands. He sweated. He moaned. As she jiggled he felt a slight tearing of her maidenhead.
It was too much. He grabbed her shoulders and forced his mouth on those flaired lips, feeling soft flesh, wetness, sensing her sweet, young breath. He ruthlessly drove his tongue into her mouth.
Blue eyes shot wide. For a second his tongue reamed her silken mouth, trying to fuck down her throat. Silken saliva laved and smeared him. He thrilled.
She jerked free, sputtering. "What did you do that for? That's repulsive! Ughhhh!" She shook her head. He could see the fast beat of her pulse in her throat. Her lovely face was pink with the blush of sexuality.
He gripped her hips and dug his prick against her hymen. It tore some more. She jerked and gave a small scream, while his ruthless cock throbbed happily and he felt the exultation of virgin blood run down his shaft.
He was pretty well imbedded in her cunt. Maybe two glorious inches.
"I thought we weren't going to do anything," she whined. "It hurts."
"That's right. We have to stop," he said. God! But he was right. One tiny, stainless steel thread of reason held his pleasure-crazed body back. He must not wreck this trip East with stupid sex, not even with this princess, not even with a virgin. He'd had virgins. He'd had Maddy. There'd been a few others.
She got up off his lap. They both stared down at her crotch, silently watching a thrilling trickle of blood join the gleam of her sex-welcoming oils on her satin inner thighs.
She put her finger just inside her cunt lips and made a circular motion. She moaned.
"That's my sex center, isn't it?"
"Clitoris, yes." He swallowed and felt his breath rushing in his throat. God, what a sweet agony.
"It feels so great there. Your penis felt great in my cu… box."
"Cunt."
"Oh, heavens. If you say that word again, I'll die!"
She fell back on the bed, legs wide apart. Phil felt he was the one who was about to die. He thought she might be somehow seducing him, yet that didn't make sense. She had the most authentic hymen he'd ever encountered. She was a total virgin.
"I have to learn," she said. "It's my one chance in a lifetime. Dad'll keep me a virgin till I'm forty and dried up. Put it back in."
"Put it back in? Listen, Flair, if I do your maidenhead is gone."
"Nonsense. Put it back in."
He looked down at her virginal beauty, soft face, voluptuous body, those high, perfect breasts, those thrilling hips and thighs and the steel restraint snapped. He mounted her. He dug his cock back into her cunt. He shoved. She gasped as more gristle gave way and more blood flowed. He grunted as he felt the exquisite pleasure of deflowering this beauty.
"Ouch. Say the word."
"Cunt."
"Uh!" This time she bucked on his prodder and more tearing took place. "Ohhhh," she cried. "I can't stand it."
"I think I can stop. Otherwise it's a fuck."
"Uh!" She bucked once more on his penis. Evidently that word also stirred her.
"Cunt," he said.
"Uh!" she went. Her eyes were shining as her face grimaced with pain. More hymen went. The blood flowed now.
"Oh, Jesus, Goddam, fuck your cunt!" he cried and cruelly rammed his cock against her maidenhead with fury. She screamed and came off the bed, her buttocks squeezing, her belly tense to his as he battered her gristle away and sank deep into her tunnel.
"Stop!" she ordered. "I can't stand it!"
He stopped. He was half worn out with the thrills and rushes of delight in his belly from pronging against this thick hymen. Now he had five of his seven inches buried in that ripe but tight belly and to all intents and purposes she had been fully deflowered.
She looked up at him and seemed dazed.
"We can't go on. Your thing is eight inches long and two inches around."
"Seven. Only an inch and a half."
"We have to stop."
"Cunt," he teased her. "I want your cunt."
She suddenly locked her legs around his back and gave a series of heavenly sex bunts on his prodder. His cock oozed in until it lightly touched her womb wall.
"You're fucked!" he gasped, his prick dry-throbbing madly. He almost fainted from the intense heat, the sweet friction, the surging throw desire in his guts. He'd never had such sex pleasure.
"Oh, oh, oh," she went, thrusting on his cock, impaling herself. Mixed blood and oil gave fabulous service to his sliding shaft. Her eyes got big. She began to lift under him. She was so strong that she could lift his weight.
"Something's going to happen!" she cried.
He was astounded. Most girls did not enjoy deflowerment, nor have orgasms that first time. Not at the moments of battering.
He grunted and began to rock his prick rapidly in and out of her tight cunt.
"Phil!" she cried.
He could not help her in this exquisite moment of fast prick friction. He was totally lost in the sweet, hot flesh, the enveloping, satiny package of her body and especially in that tight little deflowered heaven she called her box.
"Uh, uh, uh, Flair. Want you… want your body, your being," he gasped, flexing and ramming her wildly.
"Ohhhhhh!"
Her big body strained up, locked and her cunt went into spasms. Throb, throb, throb. She sighed and fell back on the bed, only to shoot up again, buttocks tight, loins grinding his. Throb, throb, throb.
"Ahhhhhh," she keened.
He could've expected it. A magnificent body like this would produce fierce, healthy girl orgasms. He drove her through her pleasure spasms while she whined and keened and throbbed, finally to fall back under him on the satin spread, exhausted, face shining with moisture, eyes dazed.
It was all his now. He ached all over and thrilled to ecstatic heights as he drew close to his own moment of glory. Pure erotic delight sang up and down his whole body as he panted to plant his manhood deep in her cunt, against her waiting womb. He fucked hotly.
Suddenly the giant fist of orgasm gripped his belly, thighs, cock and balls. He went tight and paralyzed with a wounded grunt.
"Uh, huh, huh!"
He went dizzy. He felt spinning, exalting leaps of pleasure. Virgin cunt deflowered and won!
Spurt, spurt, spurt. Gorgeous shots of jism unlocked his packed, congested sex system. The relief and good feeling were incredible.
"Ahhhhh!"
Spurt, spurt, spurt. So much, a continent of sperm throbbing and, gushing out of his reservoirs. He had climbed straight up to joyous lust heaven.
"Uh, ah, ah, ah!"
She was his passive receptacle, the sexy, dazed woman clinging to him, powerless to stop his hands from holding her cunt glove tight to his belly as he pumped her body full of his manhood and meaning, centering every drop deep, deep into her belly. She jerked a little in surprise as she felt his virile sperm shots.
"Hoooo," she sang. "I think I'm wet. I'm really wet. I think you've got an ocean in me."
Finally he was empty and glowing. It felt so good that he just folded down on her soft yet firm body completely lust-emptied, feeling as if he were no longer the same man who had swum alongside this sexy creature. Those weeks of abstinence had turned him into a wired up crazy man. He felt human, good, open and friendly. Happy beyond description.
"Flair, that was the best I ever had."
"Better than Maddy?" she asked in surprise.
Careful now. "It was incredible," he said.
The door to the bedroom began to reverberate with blows. He heard shouts and, wood smashing as somebody knocked the wooden door in and it splintered and gave way with a crash. A whole horde of men suddenly appeared.
He looked back in astonishment over his shoulder. He was too weak from the sex to move off the taken girl's body.
Actually it was only four men standing there, glaring down at him and Flair, still fuck-locked on the bed.
One of them was George Panther, rescued somehow from the sea. Another was a tall, fierce-looking man with white hair and hard, ominous eyes. He decided in a flash that this had to be George's rich man, the pharmaceutical millionaire, Flair's father. The guards puzzled him. They were two young guys about his age and they looked like real hoodlums, not hired guards from Pinkerton's. They had guns in their hands.
They marched up to the bed. They ripped Phil off Flair's body. For a second everybody in the room saw the fruits of recent lust, a big red stain on the figure "S" and a wet center of sperm and oils where lovers had locked.
Flair gave a scream, jumped up and rushed through a door that had to be the stateroom's bath. That left Phil in the grip of two husky, armed men. They marched him up to the white-haired man. The older man stared down at Phil's lower belly, stained with his daughter's virginal blood.
George Panther tried to make the best of it.
"Mr. Singleton, I'd like you to meet… uh… Phil Griffin. He's just come to Atlantic City."
Those hard eyes drilled Phil with fury. "He came all right."
"Muh-Mr. Singleton, I know in the pharmaceutical business, you people are like doctors, so I would ask you to judge…" Phil didn't know what he was saying. He'd been dragged from utter bliss to utter tragedy in less than a minute.
"Me a druggist?" howled Singleton. "What the shit! I ain't no druggist. I'm New Jersey's biggest and toughest bootlegger. They call me Vicious Vic Singleton, but not to my face. Only I get to call me that to my face."
"Bee-bootlegger?" squeaked Phil. "George didn't say."
"You fucked my daughter," cried Vicious Vic. "I've been saving her virgin state for a bigshot wedding and you got the blood all over my 'S'. You crummy prick, you're dead!"
It was almost a shriek. Phil stared in ultimate horror at the men, at George who was sheet-white and shaking his head.
"I think you made a mistake, Phil. I have to say that, boy. I hope you understand."
One of the hoods raised his gun.
"You prick!" shrieked Vicious Vic. "Who told you to shoot him in here? You'll get blood and brains all over my new rug, you stupid fucker. Outside is where you shoot him!"
"I can explain," said Phil as they dragged him through the door. "I was merely trying to answer the young lady's questions about sex."
But he knew he could never explain and that his life was over. He'd deflowered the precious daughter of a bootleg gangster, the most savage breed of men alive in America.