The Cheaters of San Ramiro

So finally, one Thursday afternoon, he had decided to follow up on this San Ramiro thing, to see if this mythical sex island really did in fact exist, or whether it really was just an abandoned monastery. He had taken the day off from the office to "Go Golfing" but instead, he went down to the marina to inquire about a boat rental. It would be expensive, and you needed a license and waiver and this and that, but with a little extra cash, you could grease the wheels.

The boat he had rented had cost him a pretty penny but money was no object to George. He had plenty of it. All he wanted to do was get a closer look at this San Ramiro Island place. The boat- it was a 28 foot power boat- was pretty sea worthy, and it had a GPS. George was no experienced sailor, but he did know vaguely where this island was located, and the GPS and the map came in handy here. According to the geodatabase map he had consulted again that morning, San Ramiro Island was located just a few miles north of a stretch of jagged rocky outcrops known as the Anacapa Islands that protruded out of the ocean. These were little more than windswept, barren rocky crags. San Ramiro, by all rights, should be about the same- the satellite maps and the aerial photo made it look like it was barely a half of a mile from end to end, if even that. Except, the imagery he had seen had shown it to be clearly inhabited- and unnaturally lush. Clearly there was SOMETHING odd about the place. Whether his wife had anything to do with the place or not, George had finally resolved to take a look and see for himself.

So, that morning, while his wife was presumably at work, he had left the office and stopped off at home. He had grabbed a pair of high powered binoculars, a camera, and other equipment, then made his way down to the marina and rented a boat.

The ocean was fairly smooth, but yet the boat still bounced around on the waves a bit more than George would have liked. He was certainly no seasoned sailor, but he trusted the thing wouldn't capsize. As he made his way across the water, he could eventually see the rocky outcrops of what he assumed to be Anacapa rising out of the water to his left, and dead ahead, the tall, brushy crags of what he figured was the eastern tip of Santa Cruz Island. But then, off in the distance to the right, just to the northwest, he spotted a small, low speck of land barely rising above the water. And he could see, even at this distance, a large structure rising above the low cliffs, and a small fleet of masts- a decent fleet of boats, no doubt- parked in front of it, on what he assumed must be some kind of small wharf. So that must be it! He thought. He turned the boat and began sailing towards the small island off his front starboard bow.

As he got closer to the island he began to make out a few more details. Yes, there was a wharf there and a fleet of boats tied to it. He could even see a couple small craft cruising around in the distance, roughly a mile away, closer to the island itself. And the large structure he could see was a fairly impressive mansion, gleaming white, and highly unlikely to be a monastery. One other thing that struck him was the whole island looked lush and green, in stark contrast to the drab, scrubby headlands of Santa Cruz Island in the distance. Like somebody took great care to maintain the place with a source of fresh water for what must be impressively large lawns and gardens. He put the boat in neutral and let it idle, and grabbed his binoculars for a closer look. If the island was inhabited, and it clearly looked to be, they could obviously see him, so he didn't want to get TOO close.

As the boat drifted past a bright orange buoy, George was focused on scanning the island carefully. Through the binoculars, he could see a rather ornate set of stairs in gleaming white marble with a sculpted railing, leading upwards from a series of piers at the waterfront to the mansion which sat atop a rocky plateau. At the piers, he counted eight or nine yachts, all of them large and luxurious. However the piers looked long enough, and large enough, to accommodate at least three or four times that many. He spotted a jet ski cruising around, just circling, in the area of the docks. Right at that point, it veered off its course toward the dock and turned toward him, but he paid it no mind.

He turned his gaze up to the mansion itself. It was stately and ornate, what they would call Spanish colonial architecture- gleaming white with arched windows and red tiled roofs. It had large arched columns in front of the entryway facing the docks, a large round turret, and it stood three stories tall. There were acres of green grass on the plateau, and a grove of trees on the southwestern end on which he could see a small secluded beach. Some of the trees, instead of the typical palms, looked to be imported and non-native; obviously planted. He thought he saw basketball and volleyball courts, and a few other smaller out-buildings, all of them ornate and luxurious like the main house, gleaming white with the same matching red tiled roofs. He looked closer and realized there were a pair of scantily clad women in bikinis lying out on the small beach, and a pair of well-oiled muscular looking men standing nearby, obviously and openly ogling them. He also thought he saw several people, men and women, frolicking around the grounds, all of them in shorts and swimsuits.

Monastery my ass, he thought. This was clearly someone's private estate, but the real question was, did his wife really come here, and if so, why? And more importantly, how often?

"Hey Mister! This is a private area! No Trespassing!"

George had been so focused on peering through the binoculars that he had failed to notice that the jet ski had pulled up right alongside him. He must have circled around behind him, and the sound of his own idling boat engine had muffled it.

"What!?" He shouted back.

"These waters are privately owned! Turn that boat around and get out of here!"

The man on the jet ski looked like some kind of typical jarhead: Well-muscled and oiled bare chest, aviator shades, and a military crewcut. Total bodybuilder type steroid asshole, he thought to himself.

"Nobody owns the fucking ocean! I got a right to be here!" George shouted back.

"Yeah? Well, everything within five hundred yards of the island is private property! You can't be this close. You have to turn around."

"Whose island is this? I thought it was just an old monastery!" George replied.

"Well, it ain't. Who told you that? This is a private island. Owner doesn't want nobody even getting close unless they're invited. And if you were invited, I'd know. So turn that boat around and get the fuck out of here!"

"Do you know who I am?"

"I really DON'T GIVE A FUCK who you are!"

"I'm George Rathmann! I'm friends with the head of the local coast guard! I know my rights! The high seas are open to all traffic!" He was bluffing, of course, but if his wife was involved with this guy and his fucking private island getaway, he had every right to be confrontational.

"I don't GIVE A FUCK who you are!! If you don't get that boat out of here I'll straight up sink it!" And with that, he reached down and pulled out a pistol.

"Is there a Lynnette over there? On the island?" He had to ask.

"Who? No! No idea! None of your damn business anyway. So go on then! Report me to your buddies, see if they care. We don't allow visitors here without permission. Which you ain't got. So turn that boat around... and get away from our island."

Finally, without saying anything (because George certainly did not want to be punked out by this guy) he simply threw the boat into reverse, and quickly sped back to the mainland. Despite being chased off, George realized that had learned a few things from this excursion. First, his wife was clearly lying, that island was clearly not a monastery, and secondly, whatever it was, they clearly didn't want the public just rolling up and visiting it. And thirdly, judging by the number of boats at the docks, people obviously DID go there to party. Was his wife one of them though? This was the real question. As his rented boat sped back to the mainland, he resolved to find the answer to that, as well.

-12-

George arrived home from his boating excursion at around five that afternoon, right when he would have gotten home from work. Perhaps to his relief, his wife was there waiting for him. He asked her how her day went, made the usual small talk and pretended to listen (she had stayed home to do some household chores and some gardening, she said) while he told her about how those damn environmentalists are trying to stop one of his large development projects, just because it would encroach on some trails. "These fucking hippie environmentalists and their damn trails!" He said. "What's wrong with just sticking to the sidewalk! If they can't afford to buy my land anyway, then fuck em! Who are they to say what I can do on it!" He exclaimed.

Lynnette didn't respond, but merely smiled and said, "I folded your laundry for you, it's upstairs. And I guess I better start dinner, what would you like?"

"Ah man, your mom's pork chops recipe- I'm kinda in the mood for that. That would be great! You want I should get you a glass of wine?"

That evening was, to George, one of his last perfect evenings with his wife. She was so sweet, and she didn't argue with him at all, as she had seemed to do more and more lately. She actually seemed to be in an unusually good mood, in fact. He soon decided not to bring up the San Ramiro thing at all with her that night, because why ruin a good thing?

And that night, as he was getting ready for bed, he emerged from the bathroom to see her lying on top of the bed in her trademark red bikini. All those old feelings returned to him, that old lust, as he looked at her, that perfect tan body, gorgeous blue eyes and long blonde hair, and fell in love all over again. George quickly stripped out of his boxers, his now-rising penis protruding below his flaccid, sagging white belly. Wanting to take her right then and there on the bed, he climbed on top of her, but she pushed him away with her legs.

"No, George, let me. Let me take care of YOU!" she said. "Lie back. On your back."

George was not used to letting his wife top him and wasn't sure how he liked it, but this time, this night... She straddled him, took his cock inside her, and rode him hard, bouncing up and down on him until he let go into her belly just a short time later. This was AWESOME! He thought. She had made him feel just like a horny and over-eager teenager again. She moaned quietly and, hopefully, seemed satisfied. But that did not matter to George- all he knew was that he had just had the best sex in ages. A short time later, still lying on his back, he was soundly snoring.

The next morning, she greeted him warmly and made him his favorite breakfast. As he was getting ready to head for work, he asked her what her plans were for that day.

"Oh, I got this substitute teaching gig for the next couple days. They just called me yesterday. Teaching fifth graders."

"Well that's okay, do you want to go out for supper afterwards, if you don't get home too late? What time do you get out of there?"

"Uh... maybe. But I have another leadership meeting after that, so I might have to dash off right away after I get home. I don't know if I'll have time to even grab something here."

George frowned. "Well, when you get home from school, you can't have at least a drink before the meeting?"

"Well, maybe after the meeting would be better. Afterwards, we can. I just don't know, sweetie."

"I was just thinking, you have been awfully busy with all these meetings, and school, and stuff- it's like I never see you anymore. When can we spend time together?"

"Well you are always busy with your golfing and your business deals..."

"Yeah, you're right, I guess I have been kind of distant. But look, tomorrow is Saturday. Let's just go somewhere, for a getaway. Up to Carmel, you love Carmel, right? We'll just stay the weekend, I have nothing going on. Because I do miss you."

She sighed, "Well, maybe...how bout let's do this. I don't know if this weekend will work, Tomorrow isn't really good, but we'll go on a day trip on Sunday. Sound good? Up to the wineries. Wanna do that?"

"Sure". He replied. "It's a date then! Husband wife date night, just like old times. By the way, where are you substituting at, which school?"

He studied her face carefully as she answered. "Eucalyptus Elementary, that's where the summer school is. Why?" she replied.

"Just curious. That's up by Los Passos, near the golf courses! I know that area. Maybe we can meet for lunch?"

"Well, I wish you'd mentioned that before, but I got stuck supervising the kids during their cafeteria lunch, so I can't really get away."

"Oh, okay. Well maybe some other time we can make it work then." He replied.

So, smiling, she kissed him goodbye and he had passionately embraced her, the warmth of the previous night still lingering. She left for her long busy day of tutoring kids, and leadership meetings, and he left for his day of real estate deal making. And at eleven o'clock that morning, George had a phone call to make.

He didn't really want to do it, he was almost dreading it in fact, but he had to nonetheless.

"Eucalyptus Elementary, this is Suzette" the voice said, in a thick Hispanic accent. ("Geez, why can't they just hire some damn native English speakers! You guys come here and can't speak the language..." George thought to himself.)

"Listen, I know it's almost lunch, but could you have my wife call me? This is George Rathmann."

"Who?"

"George Rathmann. Lynnette Rathmann's wife. Could I speak to her please?"

"Aaaah, there is no Lynnette Rathmann here, sir"

"LYN-NETTE RATH-MAN!" he shouted. "She is a Substitute Teacher, and yes, she is there today."

"No I'm sorry sir, there are actually no substitute teachers here today. Are you sure she is at this school?"

"Yes I'm fucking sure. She said Eucalyptus Elementary. This is Eucalyptus elementary school, right?"

"Yes this is, but there is no substitute teacher named Lynnette Rathmann here today, sir, I'm sorry sir. There are not any substitute teachers here. Nobody has called in sick."

"No, YOU are sorry Bitch!" George screamed at her, before slamming the phone down.

George's staff assistant, a young dumb chubby college girl not attractive enough to really pique his romantic interest (but who was otherwise pretty useful) stuck her head in the office door and said, "Everything okay sir?"

"I can't get a hold of my wife, she's not at the school she told me she was going to be teaching at, and I don't know what the fuck's going on. So NO!"

"Well, calm down, maybe she just..."

"Maybe she fucking lied to me!" he said. "Excuse me, I'm going to take an early lunch, if anyone asks, I'll be back later."

George thought he knew exactly where his wife was, but he was still hoping that maybe his suspicions were unfounded, maybe his wife had just been confused and told him the wrong school, or maybe the lady at the school was just being dumb. But there was only one way to find out for sure. He hopped into his Bentley and sped down to the harbor.

He swung into the parking lot. And to his horror, there, in the parking lot, was a maroon Mercedes ML430 SUV. He knew that car anywhere, but somehow was not being surprised to see it here. In fact what he actually felt was a moment of "A ha! Caught you!" mixed with horror and disappointment. But he still had some hope; maybe it was just someone else's car that looked just like hers. Until he checked the license plate.

Game on.

He parked nearby and drew out his phone. He had one more phone call to make.

He wasn't sure he expected this guy to actually answer, and didn't know what he would say if it went to voice mail. The number was still in his phone's memory, but enough time had passed since that initial phone call he had to wonder whether this was even worth the risk. But astonishingly, someone picked up on the other end. Maybe SOMETHING will go right with all of this after all. He thought about what he was going to say.

"Hello, this' Jarred" the voice said.

"Um look, uh..." he drew his breath. "This is... George. George Rathmann. You were the guy who told me about my wife and the island..."

"Oh. Yeah. Right." He responded, in the expected "I don't want to deal with you at all." tone of voice.

"Well, look, I'm uh, I'm sorry about losing it with you last time. It's just that, well, when a guy tells you that your wife is cheating..."

"I know. Look man, I understand. I get it. I know, I'd be pissed too, in your shoes." Jarred's voice replied calmly.

"So, I guess, it's pretty much all true, isn't it? That island place you were telling me about is real, and people do go there for, "parties" and uh, whatever else."

"Yeah. Yeah. It's real. I'm sorry man." Jarred replied, in a grave tone of voice.

"So uh, Look, are you there now? On the island?"

"No, actually here's the thing. I'm not even involved with that place anymore. My wife and I were both... well, we were both swingers, we liked to swap partners, so we both got pretty heavily into it. That's how we got into it. But we quit going. Dropped out. It just got too complicated, you know? There was too much drama, too much, well, I really didn't want to drag you into this mess at all, and yet here we are. We should have never been involved with those people. And I'm totally sorry, man. Totally."

"So, my wife, is she out there now? Do you think she could be there on the island right now?"

"Well, like I said, I wouldn't know! I haven't even been there in, like, over a month, because my wife and I both swore off going there. They kind of got mad at us actually, because I think, they found out I talked to you, or something. So I don't know, I honestly haven't seen her. But yeah... I don't know what to tell you."

"My wife said you were a pastor! And the place was a... some kind of monastery! But it isn't no monastery. I know she's lying!"

"Yeah, well like I was saying I actually got in some trouble for even telling you about this. That's partly why we don't go there anymore."

"Okay. Thanks. Thanks for your help. And sorry about, you know, earlier."

"No, really, I should be sorry!"

"Well, her car is here in the yacht harbor. I'm looking right at it. She's out there, I just KNOW she is. You were right! And if she's carrying on with these men on this island, I need to stop it. Because I sure as hell aint' no swinger, and I got a right to put my foot down. Especially if my wife is slutting around without my knowledge!" George said.

"Well look man, okay? I really wouldn't do anything foolish. If you...you aren't thinking of trying to go out there yourself are you?"

"It's my damn wife and I'll deal with her, with or without your help." George said, before hanging up.

So what WOULD he do? He felt his worst suspicion had just been confirmed. The only thing to do was win her back- by force if possible, and teach people not to mess with his wife. He swung the car back toward the house. One more errand to run before showdown.

-13-

Clay Demming was merely a servant of Club Neverland. However, he had a specific duty, which elevated him to a status and privilege far above anyone else with that rank in the club. His role was that of a bouncer, or enforcer- basically the needed muscle whenever muscle was needed, on those rare occasions when things would get out of line. It was a role he shared with Vonsell Robinson, and four other men who as it happened, were not present on the island that night. Like all of the other guests awarded the rank of "Heaven", he had full sexual privileges on the island and suffered none of the unpleasantries that the club thrust on the average "slaveslut" servants. Much like his crewcut appearance and ripped physique would imply, he was a combat trained ex-Marine and was skilled in both weapons and hand to hand combat- basically just what Ostermann had wanted when he hired him for this job. With all the perks that came with it, Clay thought it was the best job he had ever had.