The Christmas in July Luau

He dressed me up in all kinds of slutty lingerie and tied my body up and fucked me in positions requiring the supreme dexterity of a gymnast all over his huge Cape May estate. I found out from him later that he was on Viagra, though he did not in any way need it to get hard, but he might as well have been on rabies.

I could write a book about Keith, and if I was a psychologist I'm sure I could write a fucking textbook. Maybe after this is submitted I'll mess around with a more in-depth piece about him. Then again, maybe you should just watch American Psycho.

For five hours he used my body for sexual entertainment, and I did not feel like a human being. He never looked into my eyes, we exchanged no dirty talk or much communication at all except for his cold commands, and there was zero personal connection. That night, at 19 years old, I experienced the completely undiluted objectification of my own body by a man for the very first time in my life.

Damn.

Pretty early in the evening Keith instructed me to 'guzzle' his piss. When I declined (I hadn't crossed that line yet) he sort of took it out on me, I think. He savagely brutalized my body with his meticulously groomed beer can dick, an arsenal of expensive sex toys, and a terrifying kind of hateful look on his face. At one point I had to tap out and break away to gobble down some energy bars, drink Gatorade and take a power nap on the rug in the dining room so I wouldn't just pass out in a coma from the toll it took.

That was my 20 minutes, and Keith made sure that time didn't count towards the five hours he had paid for. He came and found me on the floor, gulped down some of the Gatorade himself, then dragged me back into his fucking evil maelstrom by my legs.

I can't possibly calculate how many calories I burned with Keith that first time, but I hadn't been anywhere near prepared for that kind of exhaustion, and I had not been warned by a blessed soul. Fortunately, he used a literal gallon of silicone lube through his five fucking hours of female body rental. If he hadn't, I probably would have been forced to leave prostitution from permanent vaginal and anal injury requiring experimental surgery.

Leaving his house, I questioned what I was doing. I thought about the warmth and classiness of chill Jules, and then I thought about Keith. He hadn't even said goodbye, or thanks, or anything. He came several times, I swallowed most of it down my sore throat, and I didn't come once. When the timer went off, he came inside my pussy as if pushing a button, clicked off a last bunch of pictures of me with his old-fashioned film camera, took an additional $500 out of a drawer and tossed it on my damp gasping chest, then got in his fancy shower and ignored me. I picked up an oversize SpongeBob SquarePants t-shirt he had made me wear from off of the floor where he had pulled it off of me, put it on as fast as humanly possible, then took off—escaped?—down the stairs and out the front door.

On the way back to my house, if you had seen me you might have assumed that I was either A) homeless, B) recently returned to Earth after a messy alien abduction, or more accurately C) the victim of some crime. The shirt had a large wet stain all down the front. I stumbled and staggered in fits and starts down the sidewalk. I was covered in greasy filth from all the time I had spent on the damp cement floor of his basement and his muddy backyard.

One of my knees ached badly. I walked like someone who had just gotten fucked for five hours, and my hair was a disgusting nest of body oil, dirt, grass and thick saliva. My poor lips were cracked and swollen from being wrapped around a thick flesh cylinder for too long and repeatedly slammed without the concept of mercy against a man's pelvis. If you had talked to me you would have found that my voice was alarmingly scratched and destroyed from the cock that had been endlessly rammed down into my trachea for who knows how long.

He took so many pictures of me that whole night. I wish I could see those pictures, but that's not the kind of thing you ask Keith about. Trust me.

I had clearly shed a ton of tears—though I swear I hadn't been actually crying—and my eyes were bloodshot. Everything hurt. My pussy and especially my asshole were throbbing, and my nipples screamed at me. I'm sure I did a cumwalk for a few blocks on my way back to my Aunt's and Uncle's place in my ruined, dirt-stained Keds, and I'm lucky I didn't get picked up by the cops. I luckily snuck into the house by my private entrance up a fucking two-story flight of stairs, and I slept for almost 12 hours straight.

Needless to say, I fell into a sublime, undisturbed deep sleep. I regrouped, and wouldn't you know I have had more encounters with Keith over the past few years than practically anyone except for Jules, who I still see for free when it's convenient. Keith apparently told Vincent that I was satisfactory, which was mythically rare, I was told. In the end, I eventually ended up doing everything Keith wanted me to do, and it still seems that there is always something he wants me to do that I haven't done before. I've done some pretty weird stuff for him, but that's probably a whole other story. There are so many points here where I could just go off into a novel, I fucking swear.

I don't know what happened to Keith to turn him into what he is, but these days it very much works for me. I know what to expect, and I get what's fucking coming to me. Every time after that first time, before I saw him I made sure I got a lot of sleep, I carbloaded, I hydrated, I meditated, I set up an appointment for a full body massage the following afternoon, and I made sure I had that day off to just be a couch potato, text the girls, watch Netflix, and heal. That's still my Keith routine. Maybe Keith and his unbridled ferocity have more to do with the turning point than I realized. I guess that's why I'm writing this all down. Nobody fucks me like Keith.

Well, yeah—almost nobody.

About a year ago, I actually flew out to see Keith in Dallas. He paid me $100,000 and paid my airfare to spend Thursday through Sunday with him—I think he was going through something tough in his personal life, but he sure as fuck didn't talk to me about it.

On that Thursday and Friday during working hours, I sat naked and sweating profusely in handcuffs wearing only a choker in his private high rise office's coat closet without my phone, both horny and bored. Every once in a while Keith would get into the closet, bend me the hell over and fuck me like a maniac in that hot, dark, tiny space with his expensive suit on. That's Keith.

It was a hard fucking weekend—he sexually punished my body past the limit of my tolerance—but I survived, and I loved it. I'm his only worker now, and I take pride in that. A lot of girls used to complain about him to Danielle. My work with Keith proves to me that I have talent, I have ability, and I have the mental invincibility and physical toughness of a United States Marine.

I digress. Hey, it's Keith—there's a lot to say. When I watched the first half or so of Fifty Shades of Grey, like, a year ago or something, I just had to laaaugh and laugh. Har-har.

The encounters after Jules and Keith were definitely closer to Jules. The men were mostly nice, none were bashful or nervous, and I just got totally used to older men's bodies—they didn't phase me at all after a few more clients. I became what I had fantasized for so long that I had wanted to be, a youthful goddess of uninhibited, boundless hardcore sex. These men worshiped me, and I graced their reverence with the use of my young body, my fun companionship and my singular brand of submissive, vocal perversion.

I learned that the older the man, the more likely they were to want to dress me up in clothes they had gotten just for the occasion—pajamas, underwear, schoolgirl ensembles, fishnets, expensive dresses, all kinds of things. Most of them wanted to talk, and most of them only wanted to have sex for a little while, but a few—like Keith—wanted long nights of sex. Only much, much later in the summer did I have sex with more than one man, and I still haven't had sex with more than three.

Sometimes wives joined in—the wives were always stunning products of aggressive personal trainers and strict dietary regimens. I mean, they had to be. Sometimes a few of the other girls would join in, and a lot of the times I would have sex with the man while other girls had sex with the wife or each other. They all respected my boundary. I didn't do anything with them, and nobody asked me to.

Look. I enjoy lesbian porn, I do, but it's this thing where I only like to watch. The idea of homosexual sex is hot to me, totally, but for some reason there's just nothing in it for me actually doing it. I don't know. Maybe one of these days I'll try playing with some tits, but I need dick, and that's just the plain truth. I need a lot of dick, and I need that dick to mercilessly hammer me into the fucking stone age.

I got close with some of the girls there, and friendly with all of them. Five girls were closest to me: Alinya, Sevina, 'Yella' (Yelyzaveta), 'Sandy' (Oleksandra) and 'Kris' (Khrystyna). We were all 19, and we pocketed $300 an hour as teenage sex workers, but really, I wasn't doing it for the money. I was doing it because there was money involved, and I was doing it because I got to fuck a lot of men, without attachment. Men who for the most part seriously knew what they were doing. It should have been a warning sign for me, right? I still don't know.

The six of us spent a lot of time together, and while I watched every single one of them fuck other men and each other that summer, on our off time we were just goofy, fun girls who used our new money to have all kinds of adventures and do all kinds of fun stuff (and occasionally smoke good weed).

I made a lot of money that summer. I mean a lot. I worked almost every night that summer, though we were encouraged to take Mondays and Tuesdays off. I didn't usually do that. I had waited a long time to do this, and I was going to do it as often as I could. I worked overtime, you might say.

Vincent and Danielle took a lot of precautions and paid a lot of money to keep us in business, and to keep us in business with the right kinds of people. I'm pretty sure they only made between $100 and $150 an hour from us, but it could have been less.

Like I said, they were great. To us.

There is so much I could write about the time between my training with Vincent and the end of July that year. There was so much wild sex, so many new experiences, and so many hilarious, awesome times with those five beauties and the other girls, not to mention the fun hijinks that went on in the shop—which I tragically just had to completely leave out of this whole thing—but I want to fast forward here.

I want to tell the story of the luau.

*****

Part 2: The 10th Annual D&V Christmas in July Luau

I heard about Danielle and Vincent's annual luau from some of the older girls.

Every summer on July 25th they threw a big luau-themed party at their beachfront mansion to celebrate Christmas in July. All of the regular clients apparently came (Keith did not come—go figure). The party started in the late afternoon, and it went all night—yes, that kind of 'all night.' Towards the middle of this party, they told me, there was a show on a kind of stage between the patio and their private beach section, a patio enclosed with vinyl fencing. It was a show just for the clients, and we would be there too. It was a special show.

A sex show.

From what I could tell, this show featured hired performers, and it was supposed to be very, very taboo. The girls told me about some of the things they'd seen, and some of the things they'd heard about older girls seeing, but I just didn't believe that it could possibly be real.

It had to be actors, and it had to be professionally arranged.

The word the girls used to describe these shows was 'intsest'—the Ukrainian pronunciation of (obviously) the word 'incest.'

I just brushed it off. There was no way. On a stage? Where could you possibly get people who did that with each other to do that in front of a group of strangers? It couldn't be real, and so I grew curious in a way you're curious about a junk call trying to get you to buy something. You might briefly want to see where it goes, but then you hang up and forget about it.

Then, the day before the luau, I didn't have any clients and we were closing up the shop. An older girl, Olya, told me with some difficulty that she wanted to convince me that it was all very real with a story she had, but she couldn't accurately tell it in English. I had to hear this.

After work, she and I and another girl—the obscenely cute and exceptionally tiny Dasha—got together at the house where Olya was boarding. At 18, Dasha was seriously nowhere near 5 feet tall. She looked like she was 13 years old, but she acted like she was, I don't know, 30. She was tough, and quick-witted, and holy-shit-smart. I wish I had kept in touch with her. We drank some black ass tea, and set to work transcribing Olya's story with an assist from Google Translate.

It took a little while, but with Dasha's help we got it all out, and it sent a chill up my spine.

Two years ago, she said, the show had involved a man and woman in their early 20s—twins. When the show started, they made out for a while, nervously took each others' clothes off, and laid down on the giant bed on the stage. According to Olya, the brother had sex with the sister for a while from behind, then they switched to missionary but couldn't look at each other. When—at Vincent's request—they tried to sixty-nine, after a minute or two the sister stood up, they had a quick emotional, whispered conversation, and then they left the stage. They came back out a little later, and the girl was wiping away some tears. She sat on the edge of the mattress with her eyes shut tight, he jerked off onto her face and chest, and then they left for good.

Could it be? Why at a party? What could possibly be in it for them to do this?

That night and the next morning, the idea swirled and swirled in my head, how crazy that would be to watch. Could I watch that if it was real? I didn't know, but I doubted it.

I guessed that I would find out that night.

The luau party was only for the male clients—Danielle was around, but only as a host. We were provided matching red-and-white Christmas-looking bikinis, red-and-white sun hats, and red-and-green lays. We were told that under no circumstances were we to do anything sexual with anyone until the show began, and we were told to keep our bikinis on until a certain time. Each of us were paid $10,000 for that day, regardless of age.

My anticipation peaked around noon, and the party wouldn't start until 5:00. I couldn't take it. What we were supposed to do was walk around and just hang out with the mostly naked men under a big tent roof thing and and in the house.

There was karaoke, lawn games, and a whole bunch of fun stuff to do. There was a pig roasting in a small structure of cinder blocks, and everyone was drinking Mai-Tais. Other than this surface level of cheap Hawaiian stuff, I didn't really think the 'luau' part fit the bill. Tiny white Christmas lights were strung tastefully all over, and there was a giant blue (yuck) artificial Christmas tree with some standard reflective balls and lights all over.

At 8:00, around when the sun would go down, we would hear a gong, and that was when we would take off our bikinis and go to our man—there was one girl for every man, they made sure of it. During the show, we would do whatever our man wanted. I was all about that part, but I hoped that I would get to see what was happening, too. I felt horrible about it, but morbidly fascinated. I still had my doubts.

I got to the party at 4:30 and helped Danielle put some stuff out. Everybody else showed up by five, the music thrummed to life, and we had such a great time. There were an abundance of cocks I had already played with just swinging around, and we weren't allowed to touch any of them. That didn't help. I was on edge, waiting. Every minute seemed to creep ahead in slow motion for me. If I could have fucked, it would have made time go faster.

At 7:30, Danielle showed a few new people into the party without introductions. She brought them out onto the patio and they stood off to the side, against the fence, then she went back into the house. I couldn't believe what I saw. I got close to them and pretended to look to the right of them behind my sunglasses while they talked to each other.

There were five new people, and I had never seen any of them. They were dark-skinned and kind of short, and I guessed they were of either South- or Central American descent. I immediately knew there was a good chance they were a family—a stocky mother and father in their 30s or 40s, a thin son in his young 20s, and stunningly small, lovely twin girls with long, straight black hair down past their asses who couldn't have been older than 20. The twins looked innocent, and they looked very, very nervous.

I could not believe this. It had to be a sham or something.

They spoke Spanish to each other in low voices. I didn't understand Spanish, even after two years of it in high school, so I slyly clicked on my phone (I was carrying it around, that's millennials for you) and opened Google Translate. It worked. As I read their conversation, my heart raced and I began to panic.

Dad: After we do [something], we will not have to worry for the rest of our lives.

Girl: Father, I'm scared. That's where? Oh god.

Dad: Do you want to [something] forever? Do you want to [something] with bad men in young womanhood more? Do you want to go educate at good place or not?

Mom: We cannot leave, you must do [something]. Do not worry. Soon it will be at the end.

Boy: We can forget all of it at the later time. We will have not something to worry about, rest of all time.

Girl: I know. I know. Okay.

Other girl: It's only for a short period of minutes, correct? Oh my god. Oh my god.

I couldn't do it any longer than that. I was terribly, terribly convinced that this actual, literal fucking family was going to get up on that stage and do something extremely wrong, and I didn't know what to do. They certainly didn't sound like they were all for this, whatever they were planning. My imagination spun completely out of control. It didn't turn me on standing there spying on them. I was scared. I don't remember thinking about leaving, but I'm sure the idea crossed my mind.

I hung around everyone at various spots at the party for another 20 minutes, and most of them ignored the group of people that had just come in. At 8:00, like clockwork, the gong sounded. I dropped out of my bikini, picked it up and searched hectically for Jules. He was sitting at a small table in a high-back deck chair pretty close to the stage, and he wore only swim trunks and a simple crown that looked like a Christmas wreath, which he took off when I came to him.

I tossed my bikini on the table, straddled one of his legs and sat back into him. He put his arm around my waist and began caressing my lower stomach and my legs, which was nice and just a little bit sexual. It did calm me down a little. After a minute or so Vincent came out onto the stage looking like what you might call 'Beach Santa,' and I'll just let the readers imagine what that looks like.

Everyone clapped. I fucking clapped. My pulse raced.

Jules whispered in my ear before Vincent spoke:

"You don't have to do anything for me until, you know, later, if you want. Just watch the show, kid."