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Just past midnight, on a pitch black, moonless night, six eighteen-year-old girls from across the country arrived in a black Suburban and filed anxiously into the marina’s business center, following signs to Gethsemane Academy’s reserved conference room. They had few clues to where in the world they were or what to expect next. A tray of pastries rested on a long hardwood conference table, but none dared touch it. Instead, they milled about the room, confused and anxious. From the adjacent parking lot, I observed the girls through the plate glass windows, pacing and nervously smoking a cigarette.

After spending the better part of a year planning for this moment, I couldn’t believe they were finally here. The culmination of a year’s work, I stood at the very threshold of my greatest adventure. And yet there I was, in what should have been my finest hour, skulking about in the dark and second guessing myself.

It wasn’t just that I was nervous. I was scared shitless.

The list of felonies I’d committed to get them here was extensive. Wire fraud, bank fraud, computer fraud, money laundering, hacking, and forgery just off the top of my head. If things went badly, any competent prosecutor would probably tack on false imprisonment, kidnapping, trafficking, and racketeering charges to that list as well. Half of me expected armed FBI agents to swarm the marina at any moment.

Arguably the most audacious part of my plan had already succeeded when I’d somehow convinced six sets of parents to send their hypersexual teenage daughters to me, a person they’d never met, knowing they wouldn’t see them again for thirteen weeks. And for that privilege, they’d paid me over a million dollars. One point two million, to be exact. And for no other reason than their daughters enjoyed sex too much.

Gethsemane Academy came into the world fully formed as a highly esteemed religious academy that catered to elite, ultra-high net worth, fundamentalist Christian families. The selection process was rigorous and tuition exorbitant. The academy had garnered endorsement from dozens of high-ranking church officials across the nation, eager to be affiliated with such an august institution. All despite never having met its administrators in person or anyone who’d ever participated in any of its programs.

That Gethsemane Academy was a fiction, created entirely from whole cloth, was known only to me.

A religious educational institution, Gethsemane Academy was operated by a complicated network of charitable trusts, donor-advised funds, and shell corporations, all of which traced back to a single individual. A fictional person who didn’t exist. Creating the Academy’s eighty-year backstory had been aided by copious amounts of plagiarism from several now-defunct and obscure religious organizations and institutions.

Once the academy’s pedigree and credentials had been firmly established, marketing began. Cross-referencing church membership lists with IRS records, I compiled a list of just over one hundred million congregants. Filtering for tithings in excess of one million per year yielded sixty thousand initial prospects. One slick website later, the segment was micro-targeted in a social marketing blitz.

On the surface, Gethsemane Academy was a religious finishing school, preparing young Christian women for marriage, but between the lines the real value proposition was hinted—a super-strict fundamentalist indoctrination program called Forbidden Fruit, targeting the unrepentantly wicked. A repression therapy camp for high-libido, hypersexual girls.

Forbidden Fruit would bend even the most degenerate, ungodly girls to the Divine Will of the Lord. With verbiage lifted directly from gay conversion therapy, the program would use any and all means necessary, a firm but loving hand, to bring these lost lambs back to God, and promised to restore her faith and spiritual virginity. Pure, obedient, demure, and ready to take her place at her future husband’s feet.

Applications for Forbidden Fruit poured in immediately.

In the first week, nearly five thousand requests for information arrived, and families received full-gloss printed packets. The two hundred thousand dollar tuition fee included room and board and instruction at a secluded, undisclosed facility. The program would run for three months, during which time she would be shielded from the temptations of the ungodly world. No access to phones, internet, friends, or family. Like the time Jesus spent alone in the wilderness, this isolation was an integral and necessary part of her spiritual purification.

Of the original five thousand applicants, rejection letters were sent to ninety-five percent, whittling the applicant pool to just two hundred fifty top prospects.

Each candidate was subjected to a battery of psychological and behavioral evaluations that pried deeply into her life. A condition of acceptance required parents to turn over pertinent records to the academy: financial, school, sex hikayeleri medical, and psychological. Parents were provided tools to hack their daughters’ phones and computers and turn full control over to the academy. Keylogging software provided access to each girl’s social media accounts and those databases were scraped for analysis. The level of access and control was immense. There was nothing they wouldn’t do to save their daughters’ eternal souls.

The candidate pool was whittled again to forty individuals and videoconference interviews began. A highly pixelated and stuttered video of an unidentifiable group in a board room was used for the academy’s end of the conference call—a video lifted from somewhere on the internet—and a voice modulator employed to create just the right high-pitched warble of a senior-aged woman. A stern, grandmotherly voice.

Fathers were present as their daughters revealed her sins of the flesh. All aspects of her life were dissected. Every sexual act, thought, and fantasy was recounted in excruciating detail. The information gleaned from her medical and psychological records, as well as her social media posts, text messages, and emails, was used to force full and complete disclosures and catch her out in any lies or evasions. It was a complete and utter violation of her privacy, autonomy, and agency, and every daughter seethed with anger at her father.

She would make him pay dearly.

The true deviants were quickly identified and interrogated relentlessly. Girls who had experimented with or fantasized about unconventional, extreme, and depraved sexual acts and fetishes: gangbangs, orgies, bisexuality, bondage, domination, sadomasochism, incest, and sodomy.

Fathers squirmed when they heard the filth that poured from their daughters’ mouths. Mouths that had sucked cocks and swallowed cum. Mouths that had licked pussies and rimmed assholes. Mouths that had drank piss and eaten shit. Mouths that had tasted classmates, neighbors, teachers, and relatives. By the time the interviews concluded, they begged the academy to take their precious deviant daughters. From the pool of forty remaining candidates, six high-libido, hypersexual girls were accepted.

Each family received an outrageously drafted contract and waiver. They agreed to abide by a strict no-contact policy. Tuition would be paid in full, in advance. They consented to a laundry list of indoctrination methods that included, but was not limited to: corporal punishment including beatings, whippings and other forms of physical pain; deprivation including the withholding of food, clothing and shelter; shaming and humiliation; and varied physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual and sexual therapies. They would do whatever it took to save her soul.

Wire transfers poured into the academy’s offshore bank account and arrangements were made. A Towncar arrived at each girl’s home with instructions to transport her alone and without luggage to her regional airport. There, she boarded a commercial flight to Miami, with instructions to proceed to the private jet terminal. When the last girl arrived, they boarded a chartered Embraer bound for the US Virgin Islands.

Shortly before the plane lifted off, their cell phones were remotely locked and disabled. Upon arrival in St. Croix, the girls were met by a driver in a black Suburban and transported to the marina, with instructions to proceed to a private conference room and await further instructions.

All I had to do now was go into that room and introduce myself. After that, for the next thirteen weeks, they’d be free. Free from shame. Free from judgment. Free to be themselves. Free to explore. Free to fuck.

My heart hammered in my chest. It was time.

I was dressed casually in white shorts and a white polo with the Gethsemane logo embroidered on the chest, and carried a black briefcase. Caribbean business casual. There was nothing of consequence in the briefcase, but I thought it lent an air of authority and professionalism. The corporate equivalent of a clipboard.

The girls stood around the small conference table from which I’d requested the chairs be removed. They had nowhere to sit. It was important they remained off-balance and disoriented for now. This was a critical juncture. Until we were underway, I was exposed and in danger.

Once we were at sea, I’d be safe. Well, safer, at least.

The girls quieted when I entered the room. As I scanned their faces, I saw fear and trepidation and fatigue. But I saw something else too. Something they all shared in common. These girls were deeply pissed off. Exhausted from their long journeys, uncertain about their future, and angrier at their parents than they’d ever been in their lives.

As I stood at the head of the table, looking at the six faces staring back at me, it felt like a reunion of sorts. I’d spent hours interviewing them, learning about them, delving into the most inaccessible recesses of their innermost thoughts, porno hikayeleri feelings, and desires. I knew them, in some ways better than they knew themselves. To them, of course, I was a complete stranger.

“Welcome to the Forbidden Fruit Repression Therapy Camp at Gethsemane Academy,” I began with a wide toothy grin. “Before we begin, please take a moment to introduce yourselves to the rest of the group.” I pointed to the girl on my immediate left. “Please tell everyone your name.

“Um, my name’s Tabitha, sir,” she said, pushing her glasses up on her nose with a finger. She flicked her large blue eyes around the table. A tiny blonde with a gymnast’s build, Tabitha was shy and awkward, but beneath the ingénue façade lurked a hellcat. During my interviews with her, she’d admitted to lewd fantasies that involved being gang-banged by large groups of well-hung men. A chronic masturbator, she regularly walked around with objects shoved inside her pussy and asshole.

I nodded and pointed to the next girl. “Go ahead.”

“I’m Julia.”

Julia was the tallest of the girls, nearly the same height as me. A raven-haired, brown-eyed stunner, full-figured and coquettish, she juggled multiple simultaneous affairs with older men, many of them friends of her father, and fantasized about being dominated and humiliated.

Around the room we went.

Veronica, who went by the nickname “Ronky”. A homely strawberry blonde of average height and, superficially, a mediocre exemplar of beauty. Overweight and lacking any muscle tone, she was poorly proportioned and had terrible skin. None of which mattered in the least. Ronky was a sexual dynamo, supremely confident and uninhibited in the extreme. Men or women, it didn’t matter. Ronky lived to fuck, and she did so prodigeously.

Tracy introduced herself next, a very short and chubby girl with short brown hair, a cherubic face, and striking red lips. Insecure and painfully shy, Tracy was a soft-spoken sweetheart who loved to suck cock. Anally fixated, Tracy often experimented with varied and unusual insertions.

Sam was a fiery redheaded tomboy with short-cropped curly hair, intense green eyes, and creamy, freckled skin. Despite her curvy hourglass figure, Sam worked hard to hide it behind boyish clothes. She was the most sexually experienced of the group, having fucked a dozen men, and had a particular fondness for big cocks. She only did anal, hoping to preserve her “virginity” for Mr. Right.

Finally, there was Bianca. Ghostly white skin and long, straight blonde hair, she was plush and well-endowed. Bianca was a bi-curious cock-tease with a deviant sexual imagination but little actual experience. She enjoyed flashing men, showing off her deep cleavage or lifting her short skirts, and she masturbated often to relieve her sexual frustration. Bianca hated her father with a fiery passion and was explosively defiant.

“Tabitha, Julia, Veronica, Tracy, Sam, and Bianca. My name is…not terribly important. But you’ll need to call me something, I suppose, so let’s just go with BD.”

There were blank stares all around.

“It’s what people used to call me way back in my college days. You know, on account of my big…”

Six pairs of eyes immediately fell to my crotch.

“You know what? Never mind. Just call me BD. Now, I’m sure you’re all tired and more than a little confused about what’s going on, but I promise all will be revealed in time. For now, please follow me. Our yacht is waiting at the end of the dock.”

“Yacht?” I heard more than one of them say.

“Where are we?”

“My phone doesn’t work. Can I borrow someone’s?”

“Mine isn’t working either.”

“Follow me, please,” I said and turned to lead the way. After some hesitation, the girls filed out of the conference room and proceeded down the gangway to where a massive, eighty-five foot power catamaran sat moored at the very end of the dock. The triple-decked ship towered over the dock, resplendent in soothing hues of green and blue lights, equal parts luxury yacht and floating mansion. On the stern was stenciled Road Town, BVI and, above that, the ship’s name: Voluptuary.

The dock was empty at this late hour. The previous four days had been spent provisioning the ship and making other arrangements in preparation for the two-week journey ahead. The ship sat fully fueled and idling, ready to get underway. As we approached the gangplank leading to the lower deck, I stopped underneath a dock light and turned to address the girls.

“You may not have any personal items onboard. Please remove everything from your pockets and place all handbags and purses in the sack when I come around. They will be kept in the ship’s safe until it’s time for you to return home. Please do it now.”

The girls exchanged nervous glances and removed items from their pockets, depositing their meager belongings into a sling bag I’d removed from the briefcase.

“Is that everything?” I asked, looking at each girl in turn. sikiş hikayeleri There were nervous shifting eyes and uncomfortable glances to the ground. I removed a metal-detecting wand from the briefcase and a few eyes grew wide.

“One at a time, please step forward and hold your arms out to your side. Tabitha, you first.”

She looked terrified as she slowly shuffled forward and, when she put her arms out, her hands shook.

“Do you have something else on you?” I asked quietly, so no one else could hear. Tears welled in her eyes and her lip trembled.

“What is it?” I asked, and Tabitha looked down, her face red with embarrassment. “You can tell me now or I can find it myself.”

My tone was firm but understanding. She wore a strapless sundress, so there weren’t too many places she could be hiding something.

“I…I can’t say,” she whispered. “It’s too embarrassing.”

I thought I understood.

“I’m going to ask a question and I just want you to say yes or no, okay? Do you have something in your pussy or asshole?”

She squeezed her eyes shut and said yes so quietly I could barely hear her even though I stood a foot away. Tears ran down her red cheeks.

“It’s fine. Go onboard and wait for the rest of us.”

She opened her eyes, surprised, and when I pointed to the ship, she walked unsteadily across the gangplank to the catamaran’s large open aft deck.


Julia stepped forward and stuck out her arms. She wore formfitting jeggings and a tight red cable-knit sweater with a plunging neckline that fit her contours perfectly. She smirked as I carefully wanded her.

“Sure you don’t want to give me a pat-down, officer?”

“Go onboard and wait for the rest of us,” I said. “Next.”

Ronky stepped forward, dressed provocatively. Tiny cut-off denim shorts that revealed plenty of cheek and a knitted faux bra that exposed her thick midsection and belly ring and showed off the contours of her small bust. Up close, her bad skin was apparent. Pale and pasty and somehow dry and oily at the same time. Acne covered her face, chest, and back. A quick wanding cleared her she stomped across the gangplank in her chunky wedge heels.


Tracy stepped up wearing a tight graphic t-shirt and orange corduroy pants that rode low on her hips and hugged her curves. She smiled demurely as I wanded her.

“You’re good. Head on over and wait with the others. Next.”

“Thank you…BD,” she said in a soft, husky whisper. Her big brown eyes flicked to my crotch before she walked away.

Sam stepped forward, hidden beneath loose denim jeans and a fleece hoodie. I wanded her quickly, an amused smile on her face, and she joined the others.

Bianca was last. She waited in her spot under the light and didn’t move.

“This is bullshit.”

“Step forward, please.”

“Fuck you.” It was said without conviction, more of a reflexive, anti-authoritarian response. I stood, impassive, watching her until she became uncomfortable.

“What are you looking at, you fucking creeper? Mr. ‘call me big dick’?”

Some of the girls laughed nervously while others gasped at her brazen backtalk. I shrugged my shoulders and pointed back the way we came.

“You’re an adult, Bianca. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I’ve instructed the driver to wait until after we’ve departed the marina. If you don’t want to go with us on the yacht, the driver will take you back to the airport and, from there, you can go straight back home. Unfortunately, there are no refunds.”

She stared at me, defiant and indecisive. It was obvious she didn’t want to go with me, but she didn’t want to go back home either. She was conflicted.

“Or, you can hand over whatever it is you’re hiding and come with us. The choice is yours.”

“Where the hell are you taking us? And where the fuck are we, even? And why is some old dude taking six teenage girls on a boat? What the fuck is going on?” she demanded to know.

“As I said, all will be revealed in time, not before. You have all the information you need to make a decision, and there are only two to make. You can stay here, or you can come with us and find out what this is all about. I suggest you decide quickly, though, because once I step aboard, that option will be gone forever.”

She wrestled with indecision, looking between me, the yacht, and the parking lot where the lights of the Suburban shined against the side of the marina. She made her decision. She stepped forward, just out of range of the wand.

“You already took everything I own, so can we just go?”

“Arms out.”

She glared at me and then, unexpectedly, lifted her tank top to reveal her white belly and huge pillowy breasts beneath a black satin bra. She spun around.

“See, I don’t have anything,” she said and then looked at her chest,” except for these.” When she looked back up, she added, “See anything you like, pervert?”

She did have nice tits. “Arms out.”

She huffed and stuck her arms out, keeping her shirt lifted and smirking at my glances. I wanded her carefully and got a light beep when I reached her crotch. I tried to wand closer, but she had her legs together.

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