Parting Shot

"Yeah, Marcy," Brad agreed, "look on the bright side. You might find out what it's like to be with a real man for a change."

Marcy's jaw hung agape in utter disbelief. She looked on as Joe and Brad debated the minor bylaws of their little contest, utterly oblivious to how mortified she was by the way they were treating her; utterly oblivious to the fact that, regardless of their own private agreement, neither of them had a snowball's chance in hell of getting laid tonight. Not by her, anyway.

"Un-fucking-believable..." she quietly seethed, as she turned to walk away.

Only then did she notice Paul, reluctantly watching the unfolding catastrophe with a scowl of disgust.

Out of all the people present, he alone seemed to appreciate how obscene Brad and Joe's treatment of her was. Naturally, he wasn't half as infuriated as she was; after all, he wasn't the one being raffled off like a ham at a school fair. But at least he was sensitive enough to empathize with her sense of degradation. At least he was human enough to know that what Brad and Joe were doing wasn't okay. Paul had more decency in his little toe than those other two assholes combined had in their whole bodies.

It was cold comfort to know that she had a friend of sorts at a time like this, but it was a comfort nonetheless.

At that moment, she was a woman torn. On one hand she just wanted to storm off into the night and get as far away from those two drunken pricks as she could. But at the same time, that didn't feel like it was anywhere near enough. She wanted to kick their asses; wanted to hurt them as much as they'd hurt her. But even half-drunk, Marcy was no thug.

It seemed like her wounded pride would go unavenged and she was about to just walk away when watching Paul gave her an idea.

She sauntered over to his side and whispered in his ear, "How many have you had?"

"Hm?" Paul reacted, surprised by her presence. He saw her looking at the bottle in his hand and he understood. "Oh. Two... not counting this." The bottle in his hand was open, but otherwise seemed practically untouched. "Why?"

"Could you do me a favor?" Marcy pleaded, still whispering.

"Sure," Paul blindly agreed. He took his cue from her and lowered his volume to match hers.

"Take a shot at those bottles," she told him.

"What?" Paul responded in confusion.

"You're practically sober. You can totally out-shoot those assholes," she assured him.

"But... why?" he asked.

"I want these guys to get some humble pie, y'know? Get their asses kicked and realize what a couple of losers they are," she explained.

They were so wrapped up in their little macho contest right now, outshooting them both would be about the biggest blow someone could do to their egos. It would pale in comparison to being treated like a cheap sex trophy, but for Marcy, getting the last laugh would still feel mighty good.

"But..." Paul uttered, as he wrapped his head around the surprising request. "I've never fired a gun in my life."

"Those guys can barely stand up! You've got the advantage," Marcy pointed out. "Just give it your best shot. If you're 0 for 5, well... whatever."

He looked into her pained eyes and saw how badly she needed this minor victory right now. He gave her a silent nod, then stood up and approached the two rambling drunkards.

"Well, hey, what about me?" he chimed in, silencing both of them.

"What? You want a shot, too?" Joe asked.

"Sure. You guys get to show how good you are, why can't I?" Paul argued. Brad and Joe looked at each other.

"Bring it," Brad stoically agreed.

"Okay. Wow," Joe said, suddenly seeming a bit disoriented by the surprise addition. "So three players... Winner fucks Marcy; second place... shit!"

"Winner fucks Marcy; other two losers don't get shit, man!" Brad declared. His arrogant manner betrayed just how certain he was that he already had first place in the bag. It made both Paul and Marcy's blood boil. Marcy couldn't wait to see Paul beat him.

"How... How 'bout, first and second place each get a turn with Marcy, and the loser just gets nothing?" Joe bargained. It seemed that with the addition of a third player, Joe suddenly wasn't so confident about his odds of getting to sleep with his own girlfriend tonight. "You cool with that, babe?" he asked Marcy, as if okaying such a disgusting arrangement with her was some kind of courtesy.

Marcy simply sneered at him. As unbelievable as it was, it seemed Joe would not stop digging the massive hole he was in until he popped out in China.

"How 'bout: Winner fucks Marcy; second place gets to *watch*; loser gets squat," Brad proposed. Joe found the idea agreeable.

"Babe?" he checked with Marcy.

She replied only with cold silence and a sour gaze at first, but she soon relented. "Ugh! Fine..." she sighed with a roll of her eyes, purely for the sake of moving things along. Of course, she had no intention of sleeping with either of those clowns. If, by some chance, either of them did claim victory, she would simply refuse to go ahead with the deal. To hell with 'good sportsmanship!'

But with a little luck, it wouldn't come to that. Paul would come out on top, she'd be off the hook and Brad and Joe would feel almost as pathetic as they actually were. After some tediously protracted discussion about what would happen in the event of a tie, a line was drawn in the sand, and Joe took position to begin his round. Brad and Paul stood well back and watched keenly. Brad was still sipping from his beer.

BANG!

BANG! He wasn't hitting anything.

BANG! Not even close!

BANG! Oooh! The fourth bottle actually toppled! The breeze of the bullet must've blown it over.

"Ha ha! Got it!" He cheered.

"Fuck off, man! You got to *hit* the bottle! If it isn't broken, it doesn't count," Brad told him.

"Ah, fuck!" Joe complained, before bracing for his last shot. "How many do I have left?" he asked.

"One," Brad and Paul said in unison.

"One," Joe muttered to himself as he concentrated. The end of the barrel was wobbling all over the place.

BANG! Swing and a miss.

"Shit," Joe quietly grumbled as he lowered the rifle and stepped back from the line. Brad handed Paul his beer without a word, then took the rifle off Joe's hands. He went up to the 'target range' to reset the fallen bottle, then returned to the line.

Marcy smirked at Joe's poor performance. The only downside was that Brad could do no worse. While Joe was far from innocent, it was Brad's vulgar little brain that had come up with the idea of using her body as the prize for this shooting contest. He was the one she was aching to see totally humiliated.

Brad steadied himself and lined up his shot.

BANG! The sand a couple feet behind the first bottle blasted into the air as the bullet hit the beach.

"Shit!" Marcy silently cursed. "He got really close."

BANG! The second bottle exploded in a flash of flying brown shards! One of them must've struck the first bottle and it toppled to the ground, as if in fearful surrender.

"Yeah-eh!" Brad cheered in triumph. Marcy softly groaned at the unwelcome result. In her head, she shouted profanity at his good luck.

BANG! Miss.

BANG! Again, the fourth bottle toppled, but it was intact.

BANG! Nothing but sand.

All his shots had gotten close to the targets, but he'd only gotten one hit. He was sneering and grumbling about his overall score as he stepped back from the line. Marcy, on the other hand bore a tentative smile. Brad's slump in his final three shots gave her renewed hope. Paul only had to do better than '1'. That was doable, she felt.

Brad exchanged the rifle for the beer that Paul had been minding for him. He downed the last few ounces in a single gulp, then lumbered over to the target range to restore the two fallen bottles and replace the busted one with the one he'd just emptied. By some miracle, he managed to stand amidst all those glass shards he'd created without lancing his foot.

He left the targeting area and walked right past the 'spectator zone' from where Joe and Paul had watched him take his shots, to fetch another beer from the cooler several yards away. Once Brad was clear of the targets, Paul took position behind the line. He turned to Marcy with a nervous smile and their eyes met.

"Wish me luck!"

"Good luck!" They silently said to one another at the same time.

He turned and raised the rifle. Marcy put her hands to her mouth. She could barely stand to watch.

He took a second to gauge the trial before him. He was encouraged when he realized that from this position, the bottles were only a few yards away. No doubt the distance would've appeared much further through the eyes of anyone who'd had half a dozen beers.

Paul had seen numerous 'teach the rookie to shoot' scenes in action movies throughout his life. Right now, they were all he had to go on. He quickly recognized the protrusions on top of the barrel as the 'sights' and aligned them as best he could with the dead center of the first bottle. He took three deep breaths, each slower than the last, then finally pulled the trigger...

BANG! Direct hit! The first bottle was vaporized!

Taking only a second to privately celebrate, Paul realigned with the next target, and did his best to suppress the adrenaline rush with some deep, calm breathing.

BANG! Two for two! He blew the neck and half the shoulder clean off! That was it! He'd beaten them!

"Eeee!" Marcy squealed in delight, bobbing on her tippy-toes.

"Fuck, man!" Brad and Joe moaned in unison.

Marcy was ecstatic! Her white knight had won the day and delivered her sweet justice! The competition was, in effect, over. But Marcy continued to watch eagerly as Paul lined up his next shot. The more crushing his defeat of those two jerks was, the sweeter her victory would be.

BANG! Miss.

BANG! The fourth bottle toppled, yet again. It must've been in a bad spot.

BANG! Yes! Bottle number five was history! Paul had tripled that asshole Brad's score!

Paul lowered the gun and turned to face the other guys with a well-earned smug smirk. Joe shook his head in defeat while Brad silently drank his beer and gave Paul a brief, frosty glare. It made Paul hesitant to hand the loaded gun back to him, if only for a second.

Marcy concealed her beaming grin well behind the hands cupped over her mouth. That had been fun to watch, but now things were about to get real. The contest was over, and the boys would be expecting to settle up. Her pulse began to quicken as she stifled her smile and prepared herself to deal with the situation.

At the beginning of the contest, she had hoped Paul would win because it was an easy way out of that sick arrangement the other two had made. Of course, she certainly wasn't obligated to sleep with either of them. But she had a feeling that if either of them had won, the victor would've hounded her to give him his "dues", which would've just been another awful trial for her to endure in a night that had already dealt her too many. Paul's victory meant neither of them could claim her as their 'rightful' prize and effectively let her off the hook.

But while the competition played out, her feelings on the matter changed significantly. It began as she watched Paul waiting to take his turn. Here was this sweet guy - no, this sweet *friend*, standing up to two drunken clowns who were, frankly, bigger and tougher than he, simply to support her.

By the time he was lining up his first shot, he'd come to strike a rather heroic stance in her eyes. Between shots, her gaze lingered upon his fit, masculine physique, practically hypnotized by the orange firelight flickering upon his bare skin. A familiar warm tingle began to waft through her body.

However, it wasn't until Paul clinched his victory with that second bottle that she began to change her mind about what she would do after the contest. Brad and Joe had been defeated, humiliated. But she still wasn't satisfied. She still felt wronged, like they hadn't paid heavily enough for the way they'd insulted her.

She knew they both really, *really*, wanted her. So wouldn't it just eat them up alive to know that some other guy was getting off with their "prize", instead of them?

Besides, Paul had been such a great friend, the thought of showing him some serious gratitude was very... agreeable.

Now that the competition was well and truly over, she steeled herself to go ahead with her wild plan.

Wearing a mask of indifference, she strolled up to her champion, swaying her hips like a model on a catwalk. The ends of her knotted bikini strings beat upon her thighs like serpentine drummers. She placed one hand upon Paul's shoulder and with the other, ran her fingers intimately through his curly brown hair.

"Well, that makes you the winner," she decreed. "I guess I know what that means."

Before Paul had a chance to process what was happening, she had already landed her lips upon his and begun fondly caressing his petrified tongue with her own. It was such a tender kiss, but its pants-wettingly hot message could not have been stronger. Somewhere in the midst of that kiss she pressed her crotch hard against his hip, though he seemed so stunned, he mightn't have even noticed.

Many seconds later, when the kiss ended, Marcy finally noticed the look of utter bewilderment on Paul's face. He looked like one of those owls with the gigantic eyes and she had to force herself not to chuckle.

"Seriously?" he asked at a discreet volume.

It was obvious that he'd had no expectation nor intention of leveraging his victory in the shooting contest for sex. He didn't think for one moment that Marcy was under any obligation to sleep with him. That made Marcy feel even happier about what she was about to do with him.

"Those were the rules of the game," she stated in a rather businesslike tone. Just to hammer the point home, she lifted his hand on to her left breast. He wasted no time in fondling it with his firm, talented touch.

She kissed him again, but this time he fully reciprocated. She felt like he was pouring gas on the urges that had, up till then, been merely smoldering in her loins. A wave of heat flushed all the way through to her extremities. She was going to enjoy this.

After the fourth or fifth kiss, a voice off to one side took her out of the moment.

"What are you so happy about?" Joe asked. Marcy had all but forgotten those two morons were there.

"I get to watch," Brad chuckled, in the most oafish voice imaginable.

Marcy pulled herself out of the steamy make-out session to deal Brad a frosty glare. Paul's appetite kept running without her and he took to kissing her cheek and neck while continuing to feel her up.

Brad stared her down defiantly, unwilling to let her longstanding animosity towards him spoil his silver lining.

"That was the deal. Second place gets to watch," he proudly reminded her.

The idea of Brad leering at her while she was having sex made Marcy's skin crawl. But after thinking about it for a little while, she began to see it less as an ordeal and more as an opportunity. If Brad wanted to watch her, she would be sure to make it a surprisingly sour experience. She knew that there were few things in the world guys despised more than a cocktease. That would be her battle plan: she would leave him more maddeningly unsatisfied than he ever would've believed possible.

That'd teach him to stop pulling his bullshit on her.

Paul's hand dove into her bikini bottom and began massaging her labia. It proved to be a very timely morale boost.

"Fine," Marcy bitterly conceded. "You can *watch*.

"But only from a distance. You can't come anywhere near us. You can't touch us," she instructed. Her firm tone and the fire in her eyes told Brad that her terms were non-negotiable.

"And you can't touch yourself, either," she added.

Brad smirked. It was so subtle, but it was enough to bait her.

"I'm fucking serious, Brad!" she insisted. "If I fucking see your dick, or if I see either of your hands within 10 inches of it, we *will* stop at that'll be the end of your little peep show!"

Paul stopped kissing her and joined her in staring Brad down. Marcy could feel his support and it was delightful! Of course, she wouldn't count on him upholding his resolve while they were in the middle of hot sex. But here and now, at the battle of wills, Paul had her back. She felt like queen of the world!

"Fine," Brad agreed. He sipped his beer as he turned and wandered back to the driftwood log he'd sat on during dinner, putting several yards between Paul & Marcy and himself.

Marcy turned her attention back to Paul and nibbled on his ear. A surge of renewed vigor in Paul's hand brought on waves of heady excitement in her breast.

But Marcy could still feel one more pair of eyes on her skin than there ought to have been. She turned and stared at her pitiable now-ex boyfriend. He couldn't even make eye contact and appeared to be staring at the boob Paul was playing with. He was so wasted, Marcy wondered if he even knew where he was.

"Goodbye, Joe," she said to him in a pretentious, sing-song voice. He had scored lowest. As per the rules of the contest, he wasn't even allowed to watch her in action.

Marcy couldn't have been more pleased that this was the last image he would have of their relationship: another guy with his hand all over her snatch. It was a hell of a parting shot. There was a sweet poetic justice to it. Joe had carelessly given his blessing to the idea of another guy taking his girlfriend and now that was exactly how it would end.

"Pfft... What a gyp!" Joe complained, as if he had just lost a quarter in a claw machine. Marcy gently shook her head as he staggered off towards the dark reaches of the beach. It astounded her how oblivious he was to what had just happened.

Paul's lively fingers soon made her forget her frustrations. The kisses resumed, hungrier, brisker than ever. When Marcy felt the urge to strip, the clammy touch of Brad's perverse eyes upon her skin made her hesitate for a moment. But she powered through, reached back to untie her bra string, pulled the skimpy garment off and dropped it upon the sand.

Paul responded by alternating his hands, giving her right boob some long-overdue attention. Marcy could feel his heightened enthusiasm. Now he was able to mold her breast the way nature had intended, making the act much more enjoyable for both of them. It pleased her to feel bare fingers upon her bare skin, without the synthetic covering to dull the sensations. Paul settled his thumb upon her nipple and pressed it deep in to the pliant tissue. It made for such a teasing sensation, like he was constantly skirting some erogenous pressure point deep inside her tit, but never quite reaching it.

Marcy tried to slip her fingers inside the waistband of Paul's shorts, but the drawstring was so secure, she found it difficult. Undeterred, she simply pulled his pants down and let them drop to his ankles. She easily found his plump, growing maleness and affectionately caressed it for a moment, before ensnaring it in her skilled grasp and gently masturbating him.

In a show of dexterity that she privately lauded herself for, Marcy used her free hand to release both of the hip knots holding her bikini bottom together without interrupting the hand job she was giving Paul. Once again, she felt the seedy gaze watching her pelvic region descend into complete nudity. It made her uncomfortable, but only for an instant.

By now Marcy's nether regions were wetter than the monsoon. Paul's fingers had truly made her feel like a woman; a very hot, horny woman. She had an appetite for some real action and judging by the veritable baseball bat in her hand, Paul most certainly did, as well.

She concluded the make out session with an especially ferocious, lunging kiss, which ended with her sucking his lips almost clean off his face. Then she pushed him down by the shoulders. As he sank, he snuck a wild, sloppy kiss upon her left nipple.