Chapter 1

I live on one of the many islands off the Carolinas surrounded by a long stretch of very white, sandy beach. From the middle of June to the end of September, the hundred or so homes on the island are occupied by all sorts of the vacationers or party goers.

By the beginning of October, the population on the island dwindles to less than ten and soon thereafter, to just one, me, as I am the only full timer living here.

My house is a weathered sprawling mix of a house. Part Colonial, part Cape Cod, part Ranch. I have no idea how to describe it other than, "Unique!" The best feature of my house is the surrounding wide porch, about one third is screened for the summer and has a spacious heated atrium for the cooler months.

Now that atrium was well thought out. The house is more or less nearly a square and the southern corner points due south. Hence, in the winter, I can sit in the atrium, warm as toast and enjoy being warmed by the sunrise to my left, get sun beaming in all day until it sets on my right.

You guessed it. The glass atrium hugs the corner of the house with it going about 15 feet each side of the corner of the house. Usually the sun keeps it warm during the day and at night, I can toss a log on the fire, well, into the Pot Bellied Stove, which spews out enough heat to keep it toasty at night.

Thankfully, I'm on the lee side of the island. When hurricanes and other visiting storms, invariable toss their wrath at the island, houses that you have all seen fall into the surf here have not been anywhere near me.

When this house was built fifty or so years ago, way before they thought of raising houses on stilts, mine was built fifteen feet in the air. Storm surges do reach my part of the island occasionally, but so far, that extra height has saved the house, and me, from disaster.

I do book editing so all I need is a solid Internet connection and stable electricity. My Acer computer and high speed Tally printer give me all the power I need to earn a nice living. The underground electrical distribution system on the island gives me ample and uninterrupted electricity to drive my computer and printer needs. That has not failed me, even when the hugest storms do battle here.

I chose the island because I do like my privacy. I also like being nude. Living in a Federally controlled Parks and Recreation area, has its perks. Right by my choice of residence is about a two mile stretch of nude beach.

Of course, that is in the summer months when the masses are here. Off season, who cares. I can trod around in my all- together, anywhere on the island, beach or not.

Me, my name is Guy Thomasin. My parents were real inventive when I was born. They had desperately wanted a girl and had about a dozen names selected. But they couldn't seem to choose a name for the boy they got. So when they figured out I was a boy by the evident "Bumpage Out" in my crotch, rather than "Bumpage In" they had wanted, they settled on the generic: "Guy."

Like any fortyish guy not wanting to be anywhere near the "Go" age of Fifty, I've had my bouts with Paunch and he won the battle. Well, copious, out of ring rounds, wrestling with handfuls of Budweiser, helped there too.

There is nothing like a moderately toned and tanned veteran of the Sun, carrying a little extra on his bones and a slightly rounded belly to just turn off all those nude nymphs frolicking in the summer Sun on the beach.

Hence, I limit my nude jaunts mostly to the late evening or early morning during the warmer months and savor being able to be free of it all when the hoards give back the beach to me after Labor Day.

So that's who I am and my propensity for not wearing clothes, except by necessity.

Last fall it was just about the same as every year that my island habitat returned to my hands. The summer one's were gone. My island to myself midweek and just a few visitors on weekends until the cold closed in.

I was having a nice Wednesday morning jaunt when I spied a beige lump on the beach, at the water's edge, about a mile from my home. I'm just like every other cat and curiosity caught me up and I wandered over toward it.

My first thought was a Porpoise had washed up on the beach. From a distance it appeared as a sandy covered, bluish colored object.

My mind rang out "Wrong!" as I got a little closer and "Dead Girl!" replaced that.

She was lying face down. Her body tinged blue and must have rolled in the sand when she washed ashore. All she had on was a torn thong. The string that went down, holding front to back together, which had previously gone down behind and under her, ended in fragments about an inch below her waistband.

When I touched her she was very cold. "Dead," was the first thought that steamrolled through my head. That was followed by, "What a waste."

She could not have been more than sixteen and might have been as young as twelve. Girls in that age range can look just about any of those ages or more. After all, many of the sexy looking magazine models are only 14. With makeup and some Photo-Shopping, they appear to be in their early twenties. Deception at it's finest.

Well, I rolled over this sea creature and started to admire her other side. Of course being of the male persuasion, my eyes were drawn first to that triangle of flesh just above where her legs joined together.

Sand covered her attributes there pretty well and I noticed bruises about her hips. They sort of looked like someone, quite strong, had held her from behind. The bruises looked like hand prints, fingers forward.

I brushed some of the sand away to see more closely and I could see broken blood vessels around the bruises sort of confirming she had struggled and been restrained.

On the center of her stomach there was another bruise and given it's shape it was obvious, someone had given her a wicked punch with a closed fist. Her breasts likewise had plenty of bruises and both had teeth marks all over them.

This girl had been tortured. Her face displayed two swollen shut, purple toned black eyes. The dried blood on her upper lip confirmed she had been beaten quite severely.

Bruises around her neck gave the same impression as those on her hips that she had been constrained with force and my guess was that she most likely had been strangled.

Such a beautiful girl. So dead. What a waste.

As I squatted there next to her, even though there was no movement or sound from her when I turned her over, I thought, after watching the myriad of detective shows on TV, to touch her neck to see if there was even a hint of pulse. Cold, clammy skin, met my finger tips. I moved the tip of my fingers around to find some sort of a pulse, not really knowing what I was doing.

Nothing. Wherever it might be, I couldn't find a pulse.

Her arms were stretched over her head so I thought I'd try a wrist pulse too. I have to admit, that is what probably saved her life because as I lifted her arm to try for a pulse, she groaned. Not loudly, but just as soft as a light breeze wafting through the cattails. And that was enough to let me know, she was not completely dead, but nearly so.

I thought of Wesley's fate, played by Carey Elwes in the movie The Princes Bride, when Mandy Patinkin and Andre The Giant brought him to Billy Crystal who declares he was not completely dead but "Mostly Dead!" Unfortunately I didn't have a wheelbarrow like they did in the movie to use to move my "Mostly Dead Girl."

I only had one option and that was to carry her back to my place. She groaned more loudly as I dragged her up by the hands to a sitting position. I'm sure it was from the pain caused by the severe beating she must have received from hands unknown.

Man, she was cold as I picked her up in my arms. I shivered from the contact. She could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds and dead weight, no matter how slight, is not easy to carry.

The atrium was the warmest part of the house so I took her in there and put her, sand and all, on the lounge there. Now I'm not any type of a Para-Medic. I had no idea what to do. All I knew was that I had to warm her up.

I remember seeing a movie where someone suffered hypothermia and it was best solved by body to body, slow warming. Oh yeah. It was "The Day After Tomorrow," right after Jake Gyllenhaal had tried to make a pay-phone call in frigid flood-water. Nice girlfriend he had.

Anyway. I thought I'd get some lukewarm water and at least get off the dirt and sand first. Also that would provide me some semblance comfort. As I would soon be flesh to flesh with her, sand was just not my cup of tea in that situation.

After dusting her off and a quick wash to the worst spots, I grabbed the comforter off the end of my bed and put it over her. Then I crawled in with her. Man, she was cold. Any erection I could have had, bedding next to anyone her age, shriveled away from her temperature.

I had placed her on her right side with her back to the lounge and I wrapped my arms around her pulling her to me, with her arms down between us. Sheesh, she was C.O.L.D! I started to shiver.

I wished I'd done a better job of getting the sand off of her because there were still some and it was brutal as I tried to move any part of my body, specially my arms and hands to move the warming effects around.

After about an hour, lying like that, she groaned a little and stretched a little but never opening her eyes. The only problem was that well, my pecker was right there near her hands and in the stretch, she straightened her fingers from a fist and then cupped them again. That action let them wrap right over, under, around and through my balls.

At any other time, that would have been nice. But having your balls dipped in ice water is not nice and that's what it felt like. They tried to withdraw up inside of me for warmth but her grip prevented that. After a few minutes they went numb and like the rest of me that touched her, that sensation of discomfort ebbed away.

It must have been we stayed like that for several more hours when her breathing was more noticeable and approaching being regular. Also, I was starting to feel warmer and even though she was still cool to the touch, my numbness was receding.

Of course that was when she started to shiver. That was not so bad, but she still had her hands wrapped around me and seeing I was no longer numb, things down there reacted like men will. I felt an erection building and the shaking of her hands sent me toward places I hadn't been for a while, except by my own hands.

There is nothing like a cute young thing masturbating you. Lot's of guys would die for that. But here, with this unknown water sprite, my mind was saying to itself, in great conflict, "Should I or Shouldn't I?"

Well, guy's balls and pricks do have a mind of their own and they won the dispute. I held her tight as I orgasmed, spurting between her arms and our bellies as she shivered, stimulating me to keep squirting.

Oh, well. Now what was I do to, except to clean things up. I left her on the lounge, warmed up the basin and cloth with fresh water and went about cleaning me and her up.

She was getting warmer to the touch, even though her skin was still fairly cool. As I moved her arms to clean them, through the fog she must have been in, she groaned lightly. Then I went back over her, trying to remove the last vestiges of sand.

As I cleaned her up more, the abuse she had undergone became more evident. The bite marks on her breast had been violent enough to break skin. The bruises around her neck and hips got larger as the broken blood vessels from severity of the attack turned from crimson to black.

She didn't stir much as I moved her onto her back and bent her legs and spread her knees so I could do the inside of her legs and get the sand from her vulva. It was obvious she had been forcefully entered there from the bruising between her legs and a little dried blood around the entrance to her vagina.

Another bruise that showed up was another fist shaped one, right on her pubis. She must have been given a couple samples of the "Falcon Punch" that teens often talk about as punishment to errant females.

She was clean shaven so I didn't have to deal with matted hair there. But the hair on her head would be another matter though. There was no way I could easily get the sand out of it or get out the vicious tangles. That would take a bath or shower so I could give her hair a proper shampooing.

I figured that she had warmed up sufficiently so I could give her a bath and get her all cleaned up. I moved her so she was sitting up and then knelt before her and put her arms around my neck and hefted her forward.

Her arms locked around my neck and I lifted her legs over my knees and they locked around me too. There was still not any evidence of consciousness but her body was cooperating. It made the job of moving her easier than the carry from the beach to home had been.

When I stood up, there was a problem with the way I was carrying her. My prick, having a mind of it's own, wanted a home. One being so close, and him poking at it only made my job harder. Well, yes, that only made him harder too.

I had no intention of entering her but poking her in the right spot made it difficult not to. Specially when I tried to settle her down in the tub. As I bent my knees, well, trying not to hurt her went out the window. I guess pre-cum and that ole' boy having a mind of its own didn't help.

I slid into her. All the way. She groaned and her body tensed, only helping to seal me inside of her. So, I just stayed there, me inside of her, letting "Andy," that's what I named my dick, just enjoy the pleasures of this sweet unknown thing wrapped around me and him.

This was accidental, because of a kindness gone awry. I only hoped it would not be called rape by the owner of the house Andy decided to visit.

I didn't want "Andy" planting any seeds in this girl's garden but like most things that were happening, that went out the proverbial window as she started her motor going at slow speed.