The Marina

The SUV pulled into the near-empty parking lot at just past midnight on a pitch black, moonless night to dispense its precious cargo. As the girls stepped into the dim amber light of the parking lot, my pulse quickened and my body surged with nervous energy. I couldn’t believe it. A year of meticulous planning to make this long sought-after moment a reality had finally come to fruition.

Per the driver’s instructions, the girls made their way inside to the marina’s small clubhouse, following signs to the reserved conference room. They had no idea where in the world they were, nor what to expect. When they arrived at the appointed room, there would be no one there to greet them.

I stood across the street from the marina’s parking lot, hidden in the deep shadows between two small buildings, smoking a cigarette. I observed them through the clubhouse windows as they milled about with anxious and confused looks on their faces. This should have been my finest hour. I should have been in there with them. Instead, I found my feet anchored to the ground, paralyzed by indecision and unable to move. My stomach churned. The longer I stood in the alley, the more I teetered on the edge of retreat.

It wasn’t just nerves. I was scared.

Arguably the hardest part of the plan lay behind me. I’d somehow managed to convince six sets of strict, religious parents to send their hypersexual teenaged daughters to me – a person they’d never met – knowing that I’d whisk them away to some undisclosed location for seventeen weeks with no contact from anyone. And for that dubious privilege, they’d collectively paid me over a million dollars in cash. One point two million, to be exact. And they’d agreed to all of it for no other reason than their daughters enjoyed sex too much.

The finish line now beckoned. All that remained was to walk into that room, introduce myself, and take them to the ship. After that, and for the next seventeen weeks, we’d be free. Free from shame. Free from judgment. Free to be ourselves. Free to explore.

Free to fuck.

My scalp tingled and my heart thumped in my chest. I lit a fresh cigarette with the dying embers of the previous one before adding its smoldering filter to the pile at my feet. Blood whooshed in my ears as I scanned the darkness, my senses attuned, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Huddled shapes, shuffling boots, crackling static, or three particular letters emblazoned in yellow across a dark blue tactical vest. I wiped my face and cold sweat stung my eyes.

No, I wasn’t just scared. I was fucking terrified.

The list of felonies I’d committed to get the girls into that clubhouse was extensive. Wire fraud, bank fraud, computer fraud, money laundering, theft by false pretense, hacking, and forgery were just some of the many crimes I could think of off the top of my head. If things went badly and I was apprehended, any competent attorney general would probably tack on false imprisonment, kidnapping, human trafficking, and racketeering charges to that list as well.

I waited another fifteen minutes while I looked and listened, but I saw nothing and I heard nothing. Nothing waited for me out there in the blackness. Nothing but fear and my own paranoid thoughts. I took a deep breath and raised a silent prayer. It was now or never. I put one foot in front of the other and strode with purpose across the parking lot.

Six heads turned as one when I entered the room, and all conversation ceased. I’d dressed casually in white shorts and a white polo with the austere Gethsemane logo embroidered on the chest. I carried with me an official looking black briefcase. Caribbean business casual. The briefcase held nothing of consequence, but I felt it lent an air of authority and professionalism. The corporate equivalent of a clipboard.

The girls stood silently around the small conference table from which I’d requested the chairs be removed. With nowhere to sit, they’d been forced to stand while they waited. It seemed a trivial thing, petty even, but I felt it important that they remain off-balance and disoriented. We stood at a critical juncture, and until we boarded the ship and were on our way, I remained exposed and in danger.

Once on the open water, far from shore, I’d be safe again. Well, safer, at least.

The girls stood silently, waiting for me to say something. They shared expressions ranging from confused to fearful to anxious. I read on their faces the exhaustion from their long journeys and the uncertainty of their future. Then, one by one, those varied emotions coalesced, crystalizing into a singular expression.

Anger.

These six girls were angrier than they’d ever been in their lives. At the moment, their anger was directed at their parents, but it would soon enough be redirected to me.

Tread lightly, I admonished myself. The last thing I needed right now was to become the surrogate target for those hostile feelings. I moved to the head of the table and set my briefcase on top.

“Before I begin, please take a moment to introduce yourselves to the rest of the group.” I pointed to the girl on my immediate left. “Please tell everyone your name.”

“Um, my name’s Tabitha, sir,” she said, straightening her clear-framed eyeglasses on her face.

Tabitha Cargill. So surreal to see her in the flesh. So much smaller in person than she’d appeared on video. Petite yet athletic, she had a gymnast’s build. A firm bottom and muscular thighs far out of proportion to the rest of her tiny frame. Long blonde hair curtained a pretty face so full of youthful innocence. She lifted her bright blue eyes to meet mine and I was struck by how large they appeared behind her thick lenses.

She seemed disconcerted when I returned her gaze and she flicked her eyes around the table before settling them on nothing in particular on the table. I suppressed a smile. Tabitha acted shy and awkward, but I knew it to be just that. An act. During our interviews, she’d described how she employed that very same affectation to great effect with older men.

She’d also admitted to being a chronic masturbator, who often walked around with objects inserted into her pussy and asshole. A manifestation of her fantasy to be fucked in every hole by large groups of well-hung men. To look at her now, I could hardly believe it.

I nodded and pointed to the next girl. “Go ahead.”

“Hey. Julia.” She gave a little wave to the group.

Raven-haired, brown-eyed, and bronze-toned, Julia Lauder could not have been more different. A stunning girl with the body of a Brazilian swimsuit model. Standing next to the diminutive Tabitha, she appeared a giant in comparison. Her height and classical beauty afforded her a sense of stature and confidence the other girls lacked. Head held high and shoulders thrust back, she met my gaze with a serene and imperious detachment. Where Tabitha personified meekness, Julia held the bearing of an Amazonian princess.

Around the room we went.

Veronica Newhouse, a homely strawberry blonde with pale chunky thighs, a big butt and thick waist. She introduced herself to the others as “Ronky”. An unattractive but oddly intriguing name that suited her well because, to look at her, one would never suspect just how sexually uninhibited and adventurous she could be.

Veronica persisted in a state of near-constant arousal. She lived for sex, and her appetites were as varied and indiscriminate as they were inventive. After several interviews, where we plumbed the depths of her libido, I believed those predilections to be entirely unbounded. Nothing was too extreme or over the line for Veronica.

Tracy Bechtel introduced herself next, but we all had to strain to hear her soft, breathy voice over the hum of the clubhouse air conditioner. She was painfully shy and awkward, but unlike the coquettish Tabitha, there was nothing beguiling about her. A short-haired chubby girl with an angelic face and bright red lips, she was all plush curves and soft-spoken sweetness. A cherubic and anally fixated daddy’s girl, who loved to suck cock and eat pussy.