Puppy Girl: The Stray

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A broken man, an innocent injured girl, a time for healing.

A twisted story of loss, control, humiliation, healing and strangely enough, romance.

This is an entry for the 2015 Summer Lovin' Contest. It's been in my unfinished pile since 2012, and I finally manage to complete it. I hope you enjoy the story. It's another one of my 'unusual' tales, dealing with what in other situations might be a fetish, with elements of non-consent, although it comes about in a round-about way.

It could be categorized many ways, but because of the principal activity, I've gone ahead and listed it as fetish.

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"I should have let him fuck me," Amy thought, the last of her strength fading. She was on her back, struggling to stay afloat, her throat parched, the fierce Caribbean sun scalding her exposed face.

She thought about the events of the night before. Getting drunk for the first time, trying to fit in, necking on the diving platform with Rafe, their feet splashing in the water.

It had been exciting. Even now she could feel his hands on her bare breasts, his mouth pressed against hers. When Rafe grabbed her hand and pressed it against his hardness, she'd felt fear, excitement, disgust, desire. He'd pulled her down, laying on the teak platform at the back of the boat, tugging at her bikini bottoms.

YOLO. She wanted to be cool. Be included. But she wasn't ready for what he wanted. She was a virgin, a good girl, finally ready to stretch her boundaries. Be kissed, touched. Feel like a woman. The last summer before college on a barefoot cruise with a couple of dozen of her exclusive private school friends seemed like the time to spread her wings. Just not that far.

Rafe had held her down, climbing on top of her. "No, Rafe," she moaned, trying to make herself heard over the loud party music and the rumble of the engines. "No!"

"Don't be such a fuckin' tease," he'd growled, pulling the tie on the side of her bikini bottom, and yanking it free, leaving her naked. He'd reached between her legs, touching her. She'd shuddered, embarrassed that she was wet and excited.

"Stop! Don't do this, please," she begged. "I ... I'll scream."

He pushed the top of her body over the edge of the platform, her hair dragging in the water as they motored through the night. The wake splashed over her face, his hand around her neck, squeezing.

"Lie still and enjoy it, Ames. You'll thank me afterward." He shifted, straddling her thighs, trying to press his hard meat against her. She twisted, fighting, her mouth and nose sprayed with the salty water, choking her.

Rafe forced his leg between her thighs, using his free hand to press her knee outward. She clawed at the hand holding her throat, working her other leg free. Amy kicked out, connecting, proud for a moment, before she slipped under the water, tumbling in the dark murkiness, struggling for the surface. After an eternity, she broke free of the water's warm embrace, gasping. She tried to yell, but the boat's wake dunked her, her mouth filling with water. She coughed it up, panicking.

Surrounded by nothing but disorienting darkness. Fear surged within her as she searched for the boat. She kicked upward, turning jerkily. Behind her to the left, the lights of the boat were fading in the distance. She screamed for help. Screamed and screamed, shouting, yelling, praying someone would hear her, anyone. The sounds of Bob Marley singing about love, echoing across the surface, destroyed her.

She had no idea how long she'd been swimming, mostly floating, desperately straining to keep her head up. She knew she wouldn't be able to last much longer.

What if she'd handled it differently? Not struggled. She wouldn't be a virgin forever. She could have let Rafe be her first. She'd be on the boat now, in his arms, laughing, joking along with all the others. No longer the last virgin on the trip. One of the gang.

I should have let him fuck me.

* * *

Amy let the water carry her along, on her back, no longer swimming, all of her energy spent keeping her head up, breathing. Her vision was a blur, lips cracked and painful. She was dizzy. She wanted to take a mouthful of water and swallow, anything to stop the agonizing thirst. Amy knew that one sip could be the end. Would that be so bad? She was so tired, aching, hungry, thirsty. It would be so easy to slip under the surface. She felt something bump against her foot, and kicked away hard, terrified of what was in the water with her. She wasn't ready to give up yet.

Another hard bump and she turned on her side, kicking fearfully. Water swept over her face. She gasped, struggling to stay upright and another wave of water buried her. She rolled with it, scraping her knee. She fought to the surface, taking a huge desperate breath, and felt sand underneath her feet.

She crawled forward on trembling arms, tumbled by a wave, digging her fingers into the rough sand, pushing up and forward, the water impelling her toward the shore. Crawling out of the frothy surf, she managed to escape the tide surge, before she let the weight of her own body force her down. She was alive.

* * *

Amy woke, the sun low on the horizon. Every inch of her body hurt. She rolled onto her back, and almost screamed from the pain. She had to get up. Find water. Find cover. Find help.

Her face was in shade. She squinted, her eyes unable to focus, dry and blinded by the vicious sun. She could make out a shape. Lifting her head, her swollen tongue tried to ask for help, but only a rasping gasp came out. She felt a hard poke in her side.

"Get off my beach," she heard in a deep baritone. The poke became a blow. The man was kicking her. He dug his toes under her side and pushed, flipping her over toward the water edge.

"Leave. You're trespassing," he growled. His voice sounded rough, the words tentative, as if he wasn't used to speaking.

"Please," she cried. Even her ears detected little more than a grunt.

He kicked her harder, and she rolled over twice down the steep beach, catching herself before she slid back in to her certain death.

He stood over her, one leg on each side of her body. "If I see you again, I'll shoot you." She looked up and saw what had to be a rifle barrel pointed at her head.

She closed her eyes and waited for the impact.

* * *

Fucking kids, Hunter thought. No fucking respect.

He hoped he'd put the fear of God into the brat. Skinny-dipping and sunning on his beach. He scanned the sea, trying to spot her boat. Had to be one of those damn rich kid outings. Every other month it seemed he had to chase some damn bunch of punks off his property. Why the fuck were they suddenly showing up? For two years, he saw maybe one boat in a month, always at a distance. Now it was two or three times a week. At least most had the good sense not to come too close, the reefs and submerged atolls a danger for anyone stupid enough to hazard them.

He turned his back on her, avoiding the view of her nakedness. He didn't need that. Fucking immoral little sluts, all of them. Rutting on his property. She'd slink off like the good little skank she was. Probably be opening her legs to some acned teenager, laughing at him before the night was through.

* * *

It was almost dark. Amy was so weak she could only crawl, following the footsteps in the sand. She stopped when she had to, slithering forward when she could. Keep moving, she thought. Water, he has to have water.

There was wood under her fingers. Spaced boards. Some kind of walkway. It hurt her body even worse than the sand, tearing at her sore breasts, grinding the sand into her knees. Nothing like the pain of her parched throat. Amy wriggled forward, and felt moisture. Water. Water! She brought her fingers to her mouth, tasting it. It was hot, but it was sweet. No salt. She struggled forward and felt it against her arm. One last push and her face was laying in it. Shallow, only a couple of inches deep and sandy on the bottom. She didn't care. She sipped carefully, coughing, then drank more. It was the most wonderful thing she'd ever tasted. She drank deeply, accidentally inhaling the water through her nose, gagging. She rolled onto her back so she could breath, ignoring the physical pain, the water caressing the back of her head.

She took several slow breaths, feeling a little strength return to her limbs. She turned back over and drank more carefully, bringing her trembling hands up and washing her face. She had no idea how long she was there, but she felt peaceful. She was going to live. There was fresh water. Food. People. Not everyone had to be as coarse as that first stranger.

Amy noticed she was at the foot of some stairs. She could almost see again, her vision slowly returning. It was still difficult, but no longer impossible. She crawled up the steps, counting them. Six. Six steps and she was on a wooden deck. A building. Lights.

On her hands and knees she approached the door. Blue. It was painted blue. She leaned against it. She reached up and pushed her hair back out of her face. She lifted her fist, and hammered on the door with the last of her fading strength.

* * *

Hunter heard the noise again. He got up from his desk, and walked to the door. Opening it, he found that same damn girl, obviously drunk, falling into his house.

He reached down and grabbed her by her long blonde hair, making a fist and pulling her upright. She was so drunk she barely reacted. Fucking slut. "I warned you," he growled. "Crawl back to your fuck-buddies, you little whore. I'm not buying any of it."

"Help," she whispered.

"Right. Party a little too rough for you? Not my concern. Get off my porch. Get off my island. Next time I see you, you won't like it." He threw her off his doorstep and slammed the door.

Amy didn't know how her desiccated body was able to dredge up enough moisture for tears.

* * *

Hunter looked out, and she was laying there. Shaking. So God damn stupid. She was badly sunburned, not even enough brains to wear sunscreen. Her friends would probably find her soon.

As he was turning off his lights, he opened the blinds and she was still there. Naked. On his porch. No effort to cover herself. How much did the little slut drink? Drugs maybe. Probably. Little ecstasy for the high. She'd pay for it in the morning.

He couldn't believe his own actions when he went to his kitchen. He threw some fruit and bread on a plate. A tall glass of water. Tylenol. He went outside and put it by her head. He went back in and returned with an old blanket and tossed it over her.

Fuck. I'm getting soft. Whore will probably steal the blanket.

He closed the door and locked it. Didn't need her breaking in and stealing anything else.

* * *

Amy woke, surprised she was still alive. She turned, the rough blanket like sandpaper against her hyper-sensitive flesh. She heard an odd clanking sound, and saw a plate shaking where she'd bumped into it. Pineapple? Melon? Bread? She struggled to sit up, pushing the irritating cloth off of her. The sun wasn't up, but it was bright enough to see the tall glass of water, and the plate of food. She clasped the glass in her trembling hands, sipping carefully. She reached for a chunk of melon and put it in her mouth, feeling it, sucking on it before she carefully chewed and swallowed. More water. She noticed the small white pills, and hesitated. It could be anything. Then again, if he really wanted her dead or incapacitated, she wouldn't be there now.

She took the pills, and washed them down. Bite by delicious bite, she ate the drying fruit and stale bread. She didn't know if she'd ever eaten anything better in her life. When the food was gone and glass was empty, she surveyed her surroundings. There was a lounge chair a few feet away. She climbed onto it, dragging her blanket with her. She sighed. She was going to live. She pulled the blanket over herself and went to sleep.

* * *

Amy woke suddenly. Someone was leaning over her.

"Are you stupid? Still drunk? I told you to leave."

She licked her lips, "Please, I can't." She didn't recognize her own raspy voice.

"Where are your friends?"

She realized he was holding the rifle again.

"No friends. I'm lost. Swam all night." Her voice was a little stronger.

"You can't stay here." He sounded angry.

"Thank you for ... food and blanket. Do you have more water?" she asked.

He grunted. She watched him turn to the wall, grabbing her glass and filling it from a faucet. All the water she could drink, and only a few feet away. She laughed, her sides aching until she was crying again.

"Funny. Ha-ha. Here's your fucking water. You can keep the blanket. Just leave."

She took the glass in her hand, drinking it, all of it, gasping for air between gulps. She reached out to put it on the deck, her hand trembling wildly. The man took it from her. "You're still here."

She looked up, getting used to the glare. She lifted her hand to her brow, shading her eyes. He was tall, gaunt. No beard, but several days of unshaven growth. His dark, almost black eyes burned into hers. "Where can I go?" she asked.

"Not my problem. You can't stay here."

"Can you point me to town?" she asked.

He laughed, a vicious, cruel sound. He pointed across the water. "Maybe a dozen miles. Start swimming."

She felt her eyes tear up. "Why do you hate me?"

"I don't hate you. I detest you. You and your friends. Spoiled, immoral, irresponsible brats. Living off Daddy's money. No responsibilities, no respect for others. This is private property. The signs are on the beach. You can't miss 'em. No trespassing."

"Please. Help me. I fell off our boat. I almost died. I need to get home."

"Get a little drunk? High? Go for a late night swim, and your drunken boyfriends left you? Boo-hoo. Time to grow-up."

She didn't want to argue. "Can you help me?"

"No," he said. He picked up the plate and glass. "My charity for the year is all paid up. Now leave before I get angry. You wouldn't like me angry."

She struggled to her feet. She was shaking and dizzy, but she knew she'd get no aid from this bastard. Not everyone was an asshole. She'd find help. She shuffled toward the stairs. "Thank you for the water and blanket," she said.

* * *

Hunter watched her walk away. Was any of it true? She was probably on some kind of stupid dare, like those brats six months ago. Most likely there was a boat waiting for her out of view, around the north or south side. He took her plate and glass inside.

Fucking waste of my time. Now I'm behind schedule. He sat at his computer, powering it up, reviewing his notes. If he didn't get this chapter delivered, he'd never hear the end of it.

* * *

Amy pulled the blanket over her head, walking along the beach. Someone would help her. She kept her eyes on the tree line, looking for a break, a house, a path, anything. The broad expanse of tan sand narrowed, until she was wading in the water, following the rocky shore. Long way between houses. She knew she was sick. Probably the sunburn. She was weak, and couldn't stop shaking. But she was alive, and in 100% better shape than yesterday.

She kept moving. Don't sit. Don't stop. You'll find help. Her feet were tortured, the rough sand and half buried shells tearing them up. The salt water burned. She could see what appeared to be other islands in the distance, small, barely rocks, not even as big as the island she was walking around. Not much help there, and they looked distant, but she had no way to estimate the distance.

The beach opened up again, the sun almost directly over head. She'd wandered half the day already. She was able to walk in the cool compact sand just above the tide level. Any higher and the hot sand was too much against the blistered and broken soles of her feet. She saw a path up ahead. Finally. She turned up the beach, staggering along the sandy path until it became a boardwalk. A few more paces, and there was a washing pool where she was able to rinse off and cool her aching feet. Steps. Oh, God. No. Please. She looked up and saw a railing. A small bright yellow bungalow. Blue door.

Shit.

She shuffled up to the entrance, bracing herself. Whatever he said, whatever he called her, she'd take it. She had to have his help. She couldn't spend another day like this. Not another hour.

* * *

Hunter heard the knock at his door. Fuck. The bitch was back. What the hell? Had her friends really left her? That's all he needed. Some whiny, needy spoiled brat. The two-month supply boat wouldn't be back for weeks. Fuck.

He rose to his feet, angry, and went to the door.

"You."

"Please. A phone call. All I need is a phone call," she begged.

"No phone."

She looked puzzled, as if the thought of anyone living without a phone was beyond comprehension. "A boat? Can you just take me to where I can make a call? My family has money. They'll pay you."

He laughed, cruelly. "I'm sure they have money. All you brats are the same. I don't need your filthy money."

"Please, help me. Something, anything," she pleaded. The slut leaned against the wall. His wall. His.

"Why?"

"Kindness? Karma? Because you can?"

He laughed again, and slammed the door in her face.

Like every other bitch. Wants something for nothing. Like Her. His evil conniving wife, raping his life, taking everything he had, while he was overseas, reservist, recruited against his wishes and forced to serve three years in Afghanistan and Iraq. Like that bitch of an attorney, determined to strangle the life out of him, make him work for his unfaithful slut-wife, taking his earnings, grinding his life away while she crawled from bed to bed. The lying cunt of a sister who hung him out to dry, keeping the whore's secrets. He showed them. Let them try to find him now. They'd get nothing from him. Not now. Not ever.

Like this stupid little slut on his doorstep. Useless piece of flesh, a wart on society. Good for nothing but feeding off others. Flash her tits, give up a little ass, bare those bright white teeth in a fake smile, bat those baby blues, and always get her way. Daddy's little princess, leading him on, and he'd give her anything, guilty of his own desires toward the cum-slut living under his roof, giving it up to anyone who wanted. Anyone but him.

Fuck if he'd be used again.

* * *

Amy sank to the ground. Her stomach was cramping from hunger. She crawled to the faucet and drank her fill, leaning against the hot wall. She reached down to her feet, peeling off the dead and peeling skin, blisters under her blisters, bleeding. She rinsed them off under the water.

He couldn't do this to her. No civilized person could. It wasn't her fault she was stuck on his stupid island. It wasn't fair.

She stood, cringing from the pain in her feet. She walked to the door, unsteadily, and tried the handle. Locked. She knocked on the door, over and over, when he didn't answer.

Finally, he threw open the door. "Stop it, you stupid cunt! I'm working."

"I'm hungry. I ... I have to have something to wear. I'm sick. I need more aspirin or something stronger," she told him, bravely, standing tall, looking him in the eye.

"Like I care. Stay out there, on the beach. Boats pass by almost every day. Find a ride. You got yourself here, you can get yourself gone."

She couldn't help but start crying. It didn't have to be like this. She only needed a little help. It would cost him nothing.

"Sorry. That doesn't work on me. I've seen enough crocodile tears from little lying bitches to last a lifetime."

"Why? Why are you treating me like this? I'm a person. I'm helpless. I'm hurting. You wouldn't treat a dog this way!"