Sold Out

Once clear of the channel, I pushed the throttles forward, coaxing the twin marine diesel engines to full power, and motored at max cruising speed from the auxiliary helm on the flybridge with my heart hammering in my chest.

Holy shit, I did it. I actually fucking did it!

I couldn’t believe I’d managed to arrange this farce, and I suddenly wondered if I’d be able to pull the whole thing off without ending up in prison. For the first time in months, it seemed possible.

The bloated catamaran moved quickly for her size, and she churned smoothly over the low Caribbean swells. After an hour, I’d put twenty miles between us and St. Croix. We were far offshore and out of sight of land. More crucial to my state of mind, however, we were now well outside of U.S. territorial waters. I checked the chronometer. It was nearly two a.m.

After slowing the cat to a crawl, I set the autopilot to hold our course, relying on the ship’s radar to alert me to any approaching vessels or obstacles. Satisfied that things were squared away for the time being, I made my way downstairs to the salon.

Descending from the flybridge, I found the six girls hanging out around the salon dining table, eating and talking loudly. I’d set out a large assortment of snacks while they were below deck, to which they’d availed themselves with gusto.

The clothing I’d provided was typical beachwear and mostly formfitting, and I found the choices they’d made interesting. They quieted when they noticed my presence. I saw a mix of happy and anxious faces, and one or two skeptics. And then I saw Bianca’s angry scowl. She laid into me the moment she saw me.

“These clothes are fucking bullshit.” She tugged on a skintight tank top that failed to conceal a pronounced muffin top created by her skirt. “Nothing fits, and there’s no underwear.”

“I think they’re great,” Ronky countered, twirling in a gauzy coverup, revealing a tiny two-piece swimsuit underneath. “Is it okay if I go in the hot tub?”

“I couldn’t find any underwear either,” Sam said, appearing uncomfortable in a pair of small shorts and a tight t-shirt. “Do you have any pants?”

“I don’t have any underwear on either,” Tracy said, smoothing down her sarong. “But it’s okay. I don’t usually wear any anyway.”

“I only found socks,” Tabitha reported to the others, and then quickly added, “but I like them.”

I poured myself a whiskey and joined them at the table. When I lit up a cigarette I’d pulled from a wooden box on the bar top, Sam eyed me enviously. When I blew out a luxurious cloud of smoke, she sighed.

“Bianca, the clothes were purchased months ago, based on your measurements at the time. If they don’t fit, it means you must have gained weight since then. There’s a lot of calories in soda and candy.”

She paused with a half-eaten Snickers bar in one hand and a Coke in the other.

“This is all there is for two weeks. You can try to lose weight, or maybe borrow from someone larger, though that might be difficult since you’re already one of the heaviest girls here. Veronica, not right now, okay? Sam, there are no pants. It’s a boat.”

Bianca’s mouth hung open. “G-gained weight? What the fuck?”

“But why isn’t there underwear?” Sam asked.

“We can discuss that later.” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. “Okay, listen up. I said I’d tell you all what’s going on in time, and that time is right now.”

They all came to immediate attention, and even Bianca seemed willing to put a pin in the wardrobe discussion for the time being. I’d practiced this speech a hundred times and knew it by heart, but I still took a moment to collect my thoughts, because what I said in the next few minutes would set the tone for the next four months.

“Your parents have enrolled you in the Forbidden Fruit program at Gethsemane Academy, and for the next seventeen weeks, you six will be under my close supervision.”

A couple of the girls glowered, including Bianca.

“Your parents paid a lot of money to get you into this program because they’re very concerned about you. They’re concerned about your futures. They’re concerned about your eternal souls. They’re concerned about your fitness to ever be pure, Christian wives. What they are most concerned about, however, are your pussies and your assholes.”

Those last words hung in the air, eliciting hushed gasps and more than a few uncomfortable glances. Tracy clasped her hands defensively in front of her crotch.

“After extensive discussion with your parents, I believe it’s all they ever think about. They want to know what, or whom, you’re stuffing into your pussies and assholes, and they want it to stop before you ruin any chance of finding a good husband, or, you know, end up burning in Hell for all eternity.”

Tabitha cast her eyes down, avoiding my gaze, but Sam smirked.

“If you knew what I knew, Sam, you wouldn’t be smiling.” Her lips straightened. “Do you know why you’re here? Does anyone actually know why you’re all here right now?”

The girls looked among themselves, but no one was willing to speak up. Sam finally raised her hand.

“To learn how to be a godly woman?” she guessed, but she didn’t sound too sure of herself.

I shook my head. “No. You’re here for one reason, and one reason only. Because you’re defiant, hypersexual girls who enjoy sex way too much. Apparently.”

That got everyone’s attention, squelching a whispered side conversation between Ronky and Bianca.

“Your parents want me to fix that. For those of you who don’t know, Forbidden Fruit is a sexual therapy program for promiscuous teenaged girls, and, as the program’s administrator, it’s my job to reeducate you. To turn you from sexual deviants into submissive, pure Christian virgins.”

The mood instantly sobered, and the girls shared concerned looks. I removed a thick, three-ring binder from a nearby bookshelf overflowing with maps and cruising guides, and dropped it onto the table with a thud.

“You know what’s in there? Contracts.” I opened the binder and flipped through several dozen pages. “Signed by your parents, and authorizing me to use any and all means necessary to dominate and crush your will. Utterly and completely. There are no limits to the methods I’m authorized to use.” I paused for dramatic effect. “No limits, whatsoever.”

The six girls stood stone-faced and silent, some with terrified expressions on their faces. Even Bianca’s ever-present contemptuous scowl had been wiped away. They hadn’t known. None of them knew. I closed the binder and slid it to the center of the table.

“These are copies. Feel free to read through them later if you want.”

After a long pause, where no one dared to move or speak, I directed my next comment to Bianca.

“You asked where we are and where we’re going. We are currently twenty-two nautical miles off the southern coast of St. Croix in the Caribbean Sea, headed to a small private island about a thousand miles from here.”

Alarmed voices repeated “Caribbean” and “island” and “one thousand miles” but I held up my hand to hold off their questions.

“It should take us two weeks to get there and two to get back. That means the seven of us will be alone on the island for about three months. During that time, you will have no contact with the outside world, and no one will be able to contact you. In fact, no one but me knows where we are right now, or where we’re going.”

At those words, their faces fell. I watched hands reflexively move to pockets in search of cellphones, only to recall that they’d been confiscated. Their eyes swiveled around the salon, and then turned outward to the vast empty sea beyond, as if to acknowledge the confines of the boat, and their isolation from civilization, for the very first time.

“For the next seventeen weeks, I will be the only other person you will see.”

I took a sip of whiskey while the girls stood and waited for me to say more. After a long, awkward moment passed in silence, Sam raised her hand.

“Is there anything else?”

“Like what?”

She shrugged her shoulders, but Bianca spoke up.