Chapter 1

"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.