It was all his now. He ached all over and thrilled to ecstatic heights as he drew close to his own moment of glory. Pure erotic delight sang up and down his whole body as he panted to plant his manhood deep in her cunt, against her waiting womb. He fucked hotly.
Suddenly the giant fist of orgasm gripped his belly, thighs, cock and balls. He went tight and paralyzed with a wounded grunt.
"Uh, huh, huh!"
He went dizzy. He felt spinning, exalting leaps of pleasure. Virgin cunt deflowered and won!
Spurt, spurt, spurt. Gorgeous shots of jism unlocked his packed, congested sex system. The relief and good feeling were incredible.
"Ahhhhh!"
Spurt, spurt, spurt. So much, a continent of sperm throbbing and, gushing out of his reservoirs. He had climbed straight up to joyous lust heaven.
"Uh, ah, ah, ah!"
She was his passive receptacle, the sexy, dazed woman clinging to him, powerless to stop his hands from holding her cunt glove tight to his belly as he pumped her body full of his manhood and meaning, centering every drop deep, deep into her belly. She jerked a little in surprise as she felt his virile sperm shots.
"Hoooo," she sang. "I think I'm wet. I'm really wet. I think you've got an ocean in me."
Finally he was empty and glowing. It felt so good that he just folded down on her soft yet firm body completely lust-emptied, feeling as if he were no longer the same man who had swum alongside this sexy creature. Those weeks of abstinence had turned him into a wired up crazy man. He felt human, good, open and friendly. Happy beyond description.
"Flair, that was the best I ever had."
"Better than Maddy?" she asked in surprise.
Careful now. "It was incredible," he said.
The door to the bedroom began to reverberate with blows. He heard shouts and, wood smashing as somebody knocked the wooden door in and it splintered and gave way with a crash. A whole horde of men suddenly appeared.
He looked back in astonishment over his shoulder. He was too weak from the sex to move off the taken girl's body.
Actually it was only four men standing there, glaring down at him and Flair, still fuck-locked on the bed.
One of them was George Panther, rescued somehow from the sea. Another was a tall, fierce-looking man with white hair and hard, ominous eyes. He decided in a flash that this had to be George's rich man, the pharmaceutical millionaire, Flair's father. The guards puzzled him. They were two young guys about his age and they looked like real hoodlums, not hired guards from Pinkerton's. They had guns in their hands.
They marched up to the bed. They ripped Phil off Flair's body. For a second everybody in the room saw the fruits of recent lust, a big red stain on the figure "S" and a wet center of sperm and oils where lovers had locked.
Flair gave a scream, jumped up and rushed through a door that had to be the stateroom's bath. That left Phil in the grip of two husky, armed men. They marched him up to the white-haired man. The older man stared down at Phil's lower belly, stained with his daughter's virginal blood.
George Panther tried to make the best of it.
"Mr. Singleton, I'd like you to meet… uh… Phil Griffin. He's just come to Atlantic City."
Those hard eyes drilled Phil with fury. "He came all right."
"Muh-Mr. Singleton, I know in the pharmaceutical business, you people are like doctors, so I would ask you to judge…" Phil didn't know what he was saying. He'd been dragged from utter bliss to utter tragedy in less than a minute.
"Me a druggist?" howled Singleton. "What the shit! I ain't no druggist. I'm New Jersey's biggest and toughest bootlegger. They call me Vicious Vic Singleton, but not to my face. Only I get to call me that to my face."
"Bee-bootlegger?" squeaked Phil. "George didn't say."
"You fucked my daughter," cried Vicious Vic. "I've been saving her virgin state for a bigshot wedding and you got the blood all over my 'S'. You crummy prick, you're dead!"
It was almost a shriek. Phil stared in ultimate horror at the men, at George who was sheet-white and shaking his head.
"I think you made a mistake, Phil. I have to say that, boy. I hope you understand."
One of the hoods raised his gun.
"You prick!" shrieked Vicious Vic. "Who told you to shoot him in here? You'll get blood and brains all over my new rug, you stupid fucker. Outside is where you shoot him!"
"I can explain," said Phil as they dragged him through the door. "I was merely trying to answer the young lady's questions about sex."
But he knew he could never explain and that his life was over. He'd deflowered the precious daughter of a bootleg gangster, the most savage breed of men alive in America.
CHAPTER TWO
Phil had been wounded in the World War, so he knew danger; he even knew the stress of facing immediate death. But this afternoon he'd had a long swim and then delicious but exhausting sex, so he felt weak when Singleton's two thugs dragged him out on deck. He needed a few moments to recover. No man who ever had sex with Vic Singleton's ripe daughter was going to be able to climb into the prize ring right after!
George Panther chatted nervously as he tried to cool the bootlegger down. Vicious Vic had towed George to the yacht in his larger launch shortly before, enthusing that he'd just met a Boston blueblood who'd make a great match for Flair. Vic dreamed of society status now that he had money, so he'd invited the young man to the yacht for dinner.
On the yacht frightened servants told Vic's group that Flair had ordered all the help out of sight and somehow lured this stranger into the main bedroom. It was the worst possible time for Phil to have come along and deflowered Singleton's daughter. But Panther spoke up.
"Remember, Vic, this young guy can help with our water show at the aquarium," he babbled, hanging on to Vic's arm.
The gangster just said, over and over: "You bastard! You've ruined my daughter for a big shot wedding. You've ruined her!" And the two thugs lugged Phil out on deck.
"If we shoot him on the right side of the boat nobody from shore can see," said one thug.
"But we could throw the body over easier from the back of the boat," countered the other.
"It's not the right side of the boat, you punk!" sang Vic. "It's the Goddam starboard side. The left side's your port side."
"The rear of the boat?" asked the second.
"The stern, you asshole."
While this curious instruction went on, Phil felt some of his strength return. His active life made him far stronger than Singleton's hoods. He gave a shove to the left and sent one man reeling. He gave the other a shove to the right, not caring which was port, which was starboard. The second man went down to skitter along the deck. Then Phil bounded toward the rail.
He planned to do a magnificent Doug Fairbanks leap from the high rail down into the water and swim to safety. Flair Singleton stopped him. She glided from nowhere to a place in front of him to shove the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun into his middle.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Unk!" Phil stopped dead with both barrels prodding his belly. At least the girl had covered her essential parts with the big towel.
"He's ruined you, baby!" cried Vic. "He has to die!"
"You're not going to kill my husband-to-be!" she shot back.
"Hub-husband?" said Vic, thunderstruck.
"You always said I had to save my girlhood for my husband. Since he took it, he has to marry me."
Father and daughter glared at each other. Phil broke it up.
"A shotgun wedding with the bride holding the gun?" cried Phil. He jerked the gun from Flair's grasp. He waved it to stop the chagrined hoodlums who'd recovered. "I thought all crazy people went to California. New Jersey's worse."
"My daughter's not marrying any poor, overmuscled California swim tramp. That's final," fumed Vic.