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The story of a big beautiful woman.

It snapped back, stuck up her fragrant crease.

I remembered my coke hard cock stuck like a shiv up her arse while Sean or Jake fucked her pussy from below. The base of my cock was glistening with slime, and I could feel the other cock stretching her inner membrane.

We all lay entangled on the floor, two girls rubbing my feet while a couple of the boys wrestled, sending beers tinkling across the table spraying white foam, cocaine painted on their flared nostrils, breasts bouncing past, red lips, the tangle of pubic hair and more drugs. The fucking bathroom was flooded again.

My girlfriend Patrice had been anxiously neglected for many moons. When she arrived I wanted to introduce her, but I could never remember any of the other girls' names. The boys didn't matter. She knew most of them.

But we stood by the closet of the third white wooded floor, she beside me, nervous, hurt, embarrassed; as I stood swaying, saying, "This is Patrice," to the blonde one I'd fucked up the arse, and waited for her to introduce herself.

The next night the club across the road exploded with thieves, all of them charging through the glass doors, muscles flexing, grabbing a vase or a plate, laughing like fucking maniacs in board shorts and running out the door again.

I lay thrusting into Patrice, juices spilling onto the blonde wooden floors. One of the girls beside us was against the kitchen bench with a dark girl's mouth sucking her cunt. I could see the saliva running down her chin as she slurped, her fingers sliding in and out, her eyes locked on mine.

Patrice cried as people walked past us, stealing things. Sean threw his bodyboard in the corner, smirked toward me and cracked open a beer. He was starting to fuck me off with his 'give-a-shit' attitude. The waves pounded outside.

"What the fucks going on?" I asked one of the girls later as I sat on the toilet floor while she went, tears welling in my eyes. She smiled down at me, a little French girl with her panties bunched up around her knees, and gently stroked my head. Her piss dribbled into the water slowly and I caught the slight aroma of her urine. She stood up and tore off some paper. I pulled her closer and licked away the drips for her, putting my vodka martini aside. I liked to feel a bit James Bondy sometimes. I released her labia with a wet smacking sound and enjoyed her flavours for a moment longer before searing them away with alcohol. She had nothing to say, she just wanted to piss.

At night the house creaked, barely audible over the violent waves beside us. They sounded worse than usual, and I knew the boys would be having a good ride tomorrow. Patrice sighed in her sleep, sounding like she held on to some kind of deep sadness. I wondered what I sounded like, waiting for the Rohypnol to do its work as my mind jiggled a million miles an hour.

It was some time later I woke up to the barrel of a gun. A greasy guy with long hair was looking down on me, his eyes flicking over Patrice's nudity.

"Where's ya fuckin' money cunt!"

I narrowed my eyes hoping he was just a bad acid hallucination. "Money?"

He pointed the gun at Patrice who jerked up, wide eyed.

"Stay put bitch. You know what I'm talking 'bout. Your fuckin' drug money."

"Look, I've got a bit..." I stammered.

He ran the nozzle of the gun over Patrice's blonde pubes while the wind screamed through the cracks in the walls. "Give it to me or I'll fuck ya girlfriend with this fuckin' gun, bitch."

I slid slowly off the bed, glancing at my shrunken cock as it retreated even further, beyond what I could have thought possible. I saw him glance at it. "Probably be the best fuck she ever got. Little fuckin' whore. Aren't you," He waggled his gun at her. "Fuckin' slut. Hurry up cunt!"

I picked up my pants from the night before and fished out my wallet. Images of dancing in firelight at the beach trampled through my mind. I only had sixty bucks. I held it up to him as he roughly grabbed Patrice's thigh. She was a milky statue, her eyes fixed on me, pleading.

"That it, is it.

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