Chapter 1
Ex-marine Sergeant Ace Pines threw the heavy steel bolt on his cabin door. The long bar fell down into place with a metallic thud. He swiveled on his prosthetic left leg, a substitute of wood which replaced that portion of his maimed body lost to shrapnel, gangrene, and a quick scalpel in World War II. He headed for the butcher-block table at the center of the room where his voluptuous virgin daughter fingered a lock of her long, blonde hair.
Lucy Pines watched her father drag the lame leg behind him. It scraped along the roughshod floor, its dragging sound an incessant reminder of her father's suffering. He drew himself up to the chair and stared down at her. "What are you looking at, bitch?"
"Nothing, Daddy. I was just-"
He raised his hand, as if to slap her across the face.
"Please! No!" she begged. It was a fifty-fifty chance that he would follow through. He hit her like that before, often enough and with no real reason, so that she no longer knew what prompted his rage. Sometimes, she suspected, he was just testing his strength, trying to see if he could still keep her in line. "I didn't mean anything. Really..."
He lowered his hand. "Ah, stop your moaning. I'm sick of it." From the side he lowered himself into his chair. Then he used both hands to pull his leg up and around in front of him under the table. "You're like your mother," grumbled Ace Pines. "Always staring. Always wishing for things that can't be." He looked up at her. From behind the lapels of her house coat leaned the supple flesh of two full creamy breasts. "And cover yourself up for the love of God! Where do you think you are?"
Lucy pulled the robe tight around her chest.
"You act like some sort of whore," continued her father. "I saw you eyeing that one today. What's his name? George? The new counselor?"
Lucy blushed and tried to hide it.
"Yeah. George," said Ace Pines. "That's the one alright. You think because you're fifteen you can fuck anything in pants, eh? Well, let me tell you something, Lucy: I catch you looking at one of them boys-I don't care if he's ten years old-I'm gonna whup you worse than you ever got it before." He grabbed his bottle of bourbon and poured a tall glass full of the liquor.
His threat to beat Lucy meant nothing. On countless occasions, especially since puberty, she'd been stripped and thrown over his knees, spanked and thrashed. Sometimes Pines used a razor strap on his daughter. Other times he beat her soft white ass cheeks with his bare hands. Always, however, she was naked.
"Now go on," he said. "Get up stairs and go to bed."
"But it's cold," she protested, eyeing the fire. "I don't-"
"Get out," he said, starting up again.
"Alright," said Lucy quickly. "Alright." She stood up from the table and started upstairs. She felt her father's cold eyes following her, burning through her.
"And be up early," he called after her. "You got plenty of work to be doing now that the camp's open. Don't forget that. You got plenty of work to keep you busy, and to keep your mind off George and all the other men around here." He mumbled something else, but Lucy couldn't hear. She was alone in her tiny room at the top of the cold cabin.
Outside a January snow filtered down to ice over everything in sight. Lucy rubbed a warm spot into one of the panes of the small window next to her bed. She could see two of the campers heading for their cabin. Unlike herself, they had the freedom to. be out at night, to wander the grounds in search of adventure, or just to go for a walk. She found herself wondering what George, the new counselor was doing right then. She wondered if he would like her, and if tomorrow, when she served breakfast at the main hall, if he would see her. She settled down in bed, still with her robe wrapped around her comely teenage body. She pulled up the down quilt, up around her shoulders and tried to keep warm.
She couldn't keep from thinking about George. He was one of three counselors at her father's camp. He'd come up the week before, to prepare for the younger men who would soon descend on the remote mountain retreat, to be left there by their vacationing parents. George was probably nineteen, or twenty, thought Lucy, and he'd probably made love to many women. She imagined what he must look like under his lumberjack jacket, under his flannel shirts and without his heavy corduroy trousers. She thought for sure that he must have big strong muscles in his arms and in his legs.
Lucy slid her hands under her house coat. She pulled on the elastic that kept her flannel underwear close to her body. The bottom garment slid down with her anxious fingers, down below her knees. She spread the robe so that she would have, under the down quilt, easy access to her own supple flesh. She slid her hands along her legs and rubbed at the tops of her slender thighs while she thought about what George must look like. She spread her fingers and kneaded the flesh of her tender loins. Her hands searched for the lips surrounding her vagina. He must have a big cock, she thought to herself as one finger tucked itself neatly away in the folds of her pussy. Her other hand wandered slowly up across her belly and teased her nipple. Chills-and not from the winter cold-climbed her spine and tingled in her neck. "Oh," she moaned softly but aloud. "Oooooh."
It wasn't the first time that Lucy masturbated herself. The first time had been a year before, when she was fourteen. Her father was away then, on a two day trip for provisions. She would have never have thought to play with her cunt while he was in the cabin. She'd done it automatically, late at night, in front of the fire. She'd just been laying there and her hands had gone wandering in her crotch, between her legs. She'd found some strange erect piece of flesh between the lips of her cunt. It was, she learned later, her clitoris. She tugged on it and it made her feel good. She had had no idea what pleasure she might find if she continued to tweak her clit. But a year later she'd discovered that if she timed things right, a gush would flow from her slit, that she could have a climax, though she hadn't known what to call it. She'd only done it, as she remembered now, because she was alone in the cabin with a strange feeling developing between her legs.
But now she knew exactly what to do in order to get herself all the pleasure she wanted. She slid her one hand to her titty and pulled on the rose colored nipple. She rubbed her palm across the tender flesh of her full heated breasts. She used a finger in her twat to rub the slippery developing erection of her clitoris. And then, when she was ready, she would switch. She would take one hand from her breast and reach under her butt. She would finger her ass-hole, and that would bring on the final throes of orgasm. That would bring the gush that she equated with absolute ecstasy.
Sometimes she masturbated herself while laying on her belly. She leaned back with one hand between her buttocks, and she rubbed her narrow ass crotch. With her other hand she penetrated her pussy. But always, ever since she could remember, it was the combination of a finger-fucking in her anus along with a digit in her twat that made her feel so good.
And so it was on this night. She rolled over on her belly and withdrew her hand from her soft ripe titty. She reached back behind herself and slid her finger along the narrow gap between her shapely flesh loaves. Her finger went to the familiar hole in her butt. She played and fiddled at the sphincter muscle while her other hand continued to work in her crotch. She added to this manipulation of her vagina and her bunghole the thought of George's erect penis, and the three together gave her cause to blush and perspire. The heat in her chest and her head, and in her crotch and in her anus, gave her cause to gasp aloud again: "Ooooh," she moaned. "God!"
She was nearly ready to flow when she heard the thunk and drag of her father's distinctive climb. He was coming upstairs. She couldn't risk being caught like this. She tried to hurry, tried to make herself gush. She wanted to come because to wait would mean waiting a long time. He slept in the same room with her, across from her, and if she moaned in ecstasy, and if Ace Pines were not drunk enough, he would wake up. If he discovered her masturbating, she would be punished brutally.
With this in mind, Lucy quickened her pace. She jammed her finger hard and fast in her anus. She tweaked her clit deliberately and accurately. She was only seconds from juicing herself into relief. She tried to imagine George's big flesh prong, tried to picture it riding up between her buttocks, spearing her bowels. But the clumping from her father's steady approach, the dragging maimed leg, made it hard to concentrate.
"Ooooh," she moaned aloud. "Please, God!" She finger-fucked herself with her agile trained fingers. "Oh, yes, God!" she moaned. "Please, George." Her finger in her anus slid down deep. She kept her eyes sharp on the thin line of light under the door of the bedroom. When a shadow appeared there, when the sound of her father's dragging left leg was close enough to block the light she would have to stop.
She jammed her anus muscle harder, pulled on it, tugged with her digit, and then penetrated all the way. She stuffed her butt full of her middle finger, and stabbed her cunt vigorously with her other hand's middle finger. "Ahhh," she said softly but aloud, "just another second and..."
The thumping was loud and clear. Lucy could hear her heart beat quicken as she neared orgasm, and she could hear her father's wooden leg dragging close to the door. "Just one more stroke," she muttered, slamming her finger into her ass-hole. "Just one more..."
The bedroom door opened. "What's that?" asked Ace Pines. "What's that? You talking to yourself?"
"Oh, Daddy," moaned Lucy, feigning sleep. "I must have been dreaming."
"Talking in your sleep," mumbled drunken Ace Pines. "Silly bitch. like your mother." He made the difficult move into his cot and grumbled: "Bitches. Both the same. Couple of whores." He passed out.
Lucy pulled her hands slowly from between her legs. She lifted her thermal underwear up around her waist. And then she re-wrapped the robe, all of this under the down quilt. She pulled up the heavy blanket, up around her neck and closed her eyes. She was happy to feel the steady warm pulse and flow of fresh gush between her legs. And she wondered what it would have been like with a real penis.