Days in Rodanthe

1

"Dude," one of the guys in my dormitory stairwell said as I returned from breakfast the Friday morning before spring break, "there's a cop in your room! You're busted!" A chorus of laughter and voices echoed down the hallway of the old stone building. "Whatever you did, you're fucked!"

Little did they know how correct they might be. I just might be spending spring break being interrogated by Homeland Security instead of going to Florida with them. As I continued toward my room, I was afraid this was about the beautiful brunette I met last fall. I only knew her for a month. Even still, she changed my life.

That meeting occurred during what would have been the beginning of my second year in college, which had not started as planned. Instead of classes, parties, and chasing girls alongside my fellow male students, I spent that fall sequestered in a seaside house, losing my small town innocence and receiving an education that isn't taught in any classroom.

The detour away from school began about three in the morning one late summer night. Distracted by a cute girl in the back of an open top Jeep and a few beers, I hit the back of a restored '66 Corvette. After the initial threats of an ass kicking, the other driver calmed down. He was drunker than I was, so we kept the cops and the insurance jerks out of the matter. The damage didn't look that bad, but still ran into the thousands. My old F-150 pickup sustained only a few scrapes. The guy had a friend that owned a body shop and would do the Corvette repairs, and I could work off the debt by being a caretaker of sorts for a few months at his grandmother's bed and breakfast down on the outer banks of North Carolina. This meant no dipping into my meager savings. On the surface, a job at the shore sounded great. This, however, was not during the prime season, and far away from the active north end were the bars and parties were. I was to start right after Labor Day.

So, early that morning I packed up, threw some fishing gear in the back and left my Pennsylvania home to head to the beaches of Carolina. I arrived late that afternoon. Down a dead end road and practically hidden by dunes and scrub brush, the building was a typical weather beaten beach house, not frilly like a Victorian B&B in Cape May or a town's historic district. It was a faded, cedar-shingled box on stilts, with creaky porches and balconies on all sides beneath a large pyramidal roof. A small roof top deck had been added on the ocean side, with a rickety stairway leading to it. A dilapidated garage sat adjacent. I met the elderly owner, in a hurry to depart for her three-month cruise. She handed me a set of keys and advised me about house's quirks and the duties, which were essentially to cook breakfast, clean and do some odd jobs. There was but a single guest, a shy, 'foreign' journalist who was working on some important hush-hush investigative story and kept strange hours, sometimes she was gone for days at a time but requested quiet when she was there. Her breakfasts had to be vegetarian, which I could handle since I had worked for a few years at a cousin's diner back home.

The journalist, wherever she came from, couldn't have picked a better place to hide from the world. There were no other houses visible for nearly a quarter mile in either direction up or down the beach , and they were likely empty this time of year. Back down the sand covered street and across the highway was nothing but marsh grass and the Pamlico Sound, which stretched to the western horizon. Of course the eastern horizon was nothing but the sparkling Atlantic Ocean. Luckily, having researched this desolate location, I brought my laptop, stocked up on books to read, and planned a daily run on the shore to keep in shape.

The Bed and Breakfast's guest was not currently there, so after a morning swim I set about my routine chores, vacuuming, buying groceries, prepping and grilling an assortment of vegetables. I ventured into her room to clean the bathroom and check on the sheets and towels. It hardly looked like anyone was staying there. Two aluminum suitcases, the kind used to carry electronics, accompanied some regular luggage. Everything was closed up tightly. The only personal items visible were a few magazines and newspapers, some printed in what I would guess was Arabic. I opened a night table drawer to replace a road map that was sticking partially out. The next sight kind of scared me. A black metal ammo clip, loaded with what looked like nine millimeter shells lurked inside along with some cash, consisting of a few U.S. bills and other currency I didn't recognize. I tried my best to set the map exactly where it had been, and left the room. I had been around guns since I was a kid, but only in the context of hunting, where nothing could shoot back at me. Gradually, I stopped worrying about the discovery in the drawer. It was logical that a woman traveling, apparently alone, would want some protection.

2

The third day in paradise dawned warm but breezy. I woke up in my lower floor bedroom on my back and realized my dick had also risen along with the sun, and had worked its way out the fly of my boxers and out from under the sheet. I had been resisting the urge to masturbate for the last few weeks, hoping to find some local girl to begin the awkward dating process with, but prospects were nonexistent in this tiny village. Before even opening my eyes, I fondled my loose nuts for a few moments and began shifting my average looking, six-inch-plus-a-little cock in different directions, treating it like a video game joystick before starting in earnest. Suddenly I heard a floorboard creak, and opened my eyes.

A woman was standing four feet from my bed, apparently not amused by my activities. She was dressed in a black suit jacket and long black skirt. A light blue, broad shirt collar overlapped that of her jacket. Her exotic face and scarlet headscarf identified her as the B&B's mystery guest.

Flushed with embarrassment, I immediately grabbed the sheet and covered my groin. I would have protested her entry into my room, but the image of the ammo clip squelched my reaction. The slightly angular, Middle Eastern features of the woman's face, surrounded by the headscarf, were beautiful, even with the displeased scowl she currently displayed. She was statuesque, had large, dark eyes, high cheekbones and luscious lips, reminiscent of a 1940's movie star. I always found exotic women intriguingly attractive, but would never admit it around my friends, who mostly pursued blonde white girls with big tits because that was the accepted practice. Before I could say anything, she spoke.

"When you are done playing with your penis, I require breakfast," she quipped indignantly, and turned to walk out. "Please remember to wash." The intruder spoke with an alto voice, and within those two sentences, her accent sounded both French and Russian.

I threw on shorts and a t-shirt and bolted upstairs to the kitchen. Luckily I had most of the ingredients prepped already and a hot omelet and buttered croissants were waiting for her at the table by the time she emerged from her room, apparently fresh out of the shower.

I did a double take as she walked across the kitchen. The headscarf was gone, and her wavy, chin-length raven hair was damp and held off her face by a white elastic headband. I would have guessed she was about thirty years old. She was stunning even without makeup. Over her athletic build she wore a loose tank top that revealed the straps of a sports bra beneath and running shorts, but was barefoot. She said nothing as she sat down and placed her napkin in her lap, then sipped a glass of orange juice.

"Good morning," I said, trying to ease the tension. "Coffee or tea?"

"Tea, please," she replied stoically and stared straight ahead.

I poured hot water into a mug and set it beside her plate. Suddenly she pounded the table once with the side her fist and spoke rapidly.

"Where did they find you? You know nothing of proper serving! How did you get hired for this job? You call this proper attire?" The irate woman gestured toward my camo t-shirt. She was not shy, as I had been told.

"I'm sorry, they didn't... tell me anything about ...I..." I said, shocked and stuttering. Did she really expect uniformed wait staff and five star-service at this veritable shack? She was sitting in an eat-in kitchen with cartoon shark drawings hanging on the wall. This was not the Plaza, and this bitch was starting to tick me off.

"The server is supposed to stand behind me on my left side and refill my beverages. I shouldn't have to ask," she said, staring intently at the wall in front of her. "See, my fucking juice is empty already."

I refilled her juice and stood in the spot she had pointed to, monitoring her fluid intake. This was going to be the longest three months of my life, I thought. At least it was only for breakfasts. I was hoping this foreign psycho would be leaving again very soon, or better yet, departing permanently.

"How long are you going to stand there?" she asked after a minute, and turned partially around, finally making eye contact.

"Until you need something, ma'am."

"I was fucking kidding!" She spun around and smiled a beautiful, sexy smile, laughed, and gestured toward the table. Her teeth were white and perfect, contrasting with her sepia complexion. "Please sit down, bring your coffee. We're going to be living in the same house, we should get to know each other. This omelet is just delicious!" She said pleasantly and extended a long, graceful hand with perfectly polished red nails. "I am Za'ana! Very nice to meet you!"

"Um, I'm Rob, nice to meet you." I said, still recovering from the whole episode.

We made small talk, and she mentioned a male coworker. I asked why the coworker didn't stay here also, as a sideways attempt to begin to learn if she was attached or not. I guess it wouldn't have mattered; this exquisite beauty was way out of my league. The answer came all too quickly.

"It wouldn't be proper, in the culture I come from, that a betrothed woman should stay under the same roof with a single man. My fiancé is in Montreal. He won't come down here. He hates the wind and the water and those biting bugs.. 'squitos you call them. I didn't tell him the old lady was being replaced by nice guy Rob from Pennsylvania."

We both laughed, and the tension was lifting. I was slightly relieved she was engaged, although I hated to admit it. Being forced into the 'friend' role took some of the pressure off. We continued to talk about various things. When I asked about her homeland, she said it was a little mountain province no one ever heard of, then changed the subject. To my surprise, Za'ana eventually mentioned walking into my room.

"It seemed no one was here. I was afraid the old lady was dead or something," she remarked, stirring her tea. "I walk in and I realized that you were definitely not Mrs. Cartwright, with that penis sticking up."

I blushed and laughed, stood up and reached for her dirty dishes. She wasn't smiling.

"Oh! You think it's funny? It's a good thing my fiancé doesn't know. He would put you in the hospital for displaying yourself like that in front of me," she said seriously.

"But it was an accident. I didn't know you were there," I replied defensively. "You did just walk into my..."

"Hey!" she interrupted, speaking loudly and rapidly again. "How do I know that? Maybe you saw my coworker drop me off and waited until you knew I was in the room. You thought I was just some helpless girl from another country, and were trying to offend me! I think it was intentional! You're a sick bastard!" Za'ana said angrily, pounding the table, her accent worsening. She then spoke French, calling me a bastard again I think. Her eyes had widened and she gestured wildly.

"No, not at all! I...I swear..I..." I couldn't understand what had incensed her so quickly. Maybe she was a psycho after all.

"You just wanted to get your jolly by degrading yourself in my presence to insult me, didn't you? Does it make your messy orgasm better? Why don't you do it right now in front of me, you pervert?" The beautiful brunette looked me straight in the eyes.

"Yeah, right." I said sarcastically.

"Go on! Take your fucking shorts off and jerk off right here! Get it out of your system!" She gestured toward my crotch. "I bet you would do it for a girl on the internet! What? I'm not good enough to perform for?"

"This has gotta be a joke!" I said with a nervous laugh. I thought for a second I was being 'punked'; however, none of my friends knew where I was.

"No this is not a fucking joke. You want me to see your hardness so badly, pull it out and play with it!" She pounded the table once and then ranted further in another language.

I stood motionless, unsure of what to do next.

"I'm waiting, Robert," she said sternly, reaching for her cell phone. "I will call my fiancé and tell him I caught you going thru my belongings to steal and you punched me in the face and threatened me with a kitchen knife. He has his own fucking Gulfstream. He can fly down here in thirty minutes and you will end up in the hospital. Then you will go to prison because I will cry like a child and tell the police the same story!" She waved the phone around. "You'll do exactly what I say if you're such a nice guy. Take your pants off and jerk your circumcised cock right now until you have your damn dripping orgasm!"

My heart was pounding. I had never been so nervous before, during my limited sexual experiences or otherwise. I felt violated and my stomach twisted into knots. I remembered the ammo clip and told myself I had better comply with psycho bitch's commands. I timidly pushed my shorts and boxers down just enough for my soft dick to appear.

"No!" Za'ana yelled. "All the way off!"

My shorts and boxers fell to the floor.

"Hey, look at those tan lines!" She mumbled. My skin was pale waist to mid-thigh, of course.

I was shaking as I stepped out of my clothes, and started rubbing and pulling on my dick. I felt really humiliated, standing with a shirt but no pants on and choking the chicken in front of someone. I looked at the floor, and tried to climax as quickly as possible to get this ordeal over with. I was thinking of ways to escape as soon as she wasn't around. Unfortunately, my dick had a mind of its own and enjoying the attention after being ignored for three weeks and didn't understand that I was ashamed, and that this was very depraved.

"Oh, I see your cock is nice and hard already!" Her angry tone had suddenly disappeared. "You like doing this in front of me, don't you?" Za'ana even sounded a little flirtatious. Hell, maybe she had multiple personalities.

I looked at her beautiful face, smiling sweetly at me once again. At that moment I felt like I was jerking off for a supermodel. The word 'yes' slipped out before I had time to think about an answer.

"I knew you would! Very good. Keep going!"

A minute or so later as I pumped away, she told me to stop. I stood there with my throbbing, getting-close-to-exploding meat pointed at her, hands at my sides.

"I have a deal for you. We can have a little fun with this, it's kind of boring around here, no? You jerk it for me when I desire to watch, and maybe I add a little challenge." She gestured toward my dick, smiled and looked me in the eye, then continued in that alluring voice, "If you do good...maybe I wear a sexy outfit around the house, or...if you're really good, maybe no outfit at all!" Za'ana winked, but then her expression changed again to a serious one. "But Robert we will have rules. There will be no cameras, NO touching for any reason, either one of us. I am engaged. You don't do exactly what I say, I make the phone calls. You touch me, game or not, phone calls, hospital, prison. See how it works?"

I stood dumbfounded, my mind in disbelief. Cliché images of a whip-wielding dominatrix pressing a heeled boot into a guy while holding his dog leash flashed through my mind. Apparently she got off on giving orders and watching. Since there would be no touching, I assumed the game would be commands to jerk off all around the house, almost like having a cyber girlfriend with a live webcam.

"But what if someone comes by to stay here?" I asked, picturing a family with kids showing up.

"No more guests. I rent the whole house from the old lady for the rest of the year. Didn't they tell you? Check the website if you don't believe me."

It was true, I had been pretty bored until this morning, and going back home sounded worse. School had already started. The chance to ultimately see this gorgeous woman naked sounded too good to pass up, so, what the hell, I figured, and agreed.

"Good!" She placed an empty ceramic mixing bowl on a chair. "You shoot your mess into this bowl!"

I resumed stroking while she smiled and watched intently. A couple minutes later I grunted loudly and jetted a monster load into the dark blue bowl while she hummed a couple long notes of approval. It felt awesome and just kept flowing and flowing. Finally I had squeezed the last drop out. I was thinking maybe she would scoop it up with her fingers, since that was technically not touching. I imagined my jizz across her lips and tongue. I was very wrong.

"Hold the bowl over your head and look up. Pour the mess all over your face!"

I hesitated, looking out the window, perturbed. This must be the 'little challenge' part I should have gotten more details about.

"Robert, you just fucking agreed to the game!" Za'ana yelled. "And now you don't want to play? Do it or I make the calls!" she harshly threatened, pointing to her cell phone on the table.

Feeling cheated and foolish, but remembering the ammo clip, I raised the bowl over my head, closed my lips tightly, looked at the ceiling and was soon greeted by my smelly, warm, gooey sperm, which ran down my nose, cheeks and neck. More rained down in small drops as I shook the bowl at her prompting. At least I didn't get any in my mouth, I thought as I lowered the bowl and my face, dripping with semen. She would pick the biggest load I've had in months to do this, I thought.

"Scoop up the rest and suck," Za'ana said. "Let me see it on your tongue."

I reached into the bowl and winced as I ingested the salty, silky remnants that coated my fingers. I was ready for a thirty minute shower and half a bottle of mouthwash, but she had other plans, directing me to a chair. I reached for a towel.

"No! Let it drip. Okay, jerk again. Here, get it slippery." She stood and passed me her plate that had some margarine on it, which I transferred to my soft dick.

I sat in the chair and pulled and stroked, gradually getting stiffer. All the sperm that hadn't made a shiny ring around my neck on my shirt, was hardening into a sticky crust on my face. I wondered if this was going to be an all-day event.

"Your face is a mess. Let me help you wash it off. Look at the ceiling"

I realized this was all a major mistake. She leaned forward I watched her lips recoil and then fling a warm blast of saliva across my cheek and the bridge of my nose that would make a tobacco chewer proud. Some of it splashed onto my opposite shoulder.

"Open," she said.

I braced for another deluge, which landed directly in my mouth. I tried not to gag as I could taste the cheese and parsley from the omelet she had just eaten. Nevertheless, I stroked away.

"Don't swallow, swirl it around. Show me my spit! Look at you Rob! You love this! Your dick is rock hard!" Za'ana said happily. "Stand up!"

I stood and felt the saliva run down my cheeks and chin.

"Bend over! Grab your ankles! Show me your asshole and balls!"