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  Pilgrim Press

  Summer Shorts 3 © October 2013 by Huck Pilgrim

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

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  SUMMER SHORTS 3

  Huck Pilgrim

  Copyright 2013 by Huck Pilgrim

  Smashwords Edition

  First Edition

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

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  Contents

  American Girl

  Five-finger Discount

  A Good Girl is an Easy Sacrifice

  More from Pilgrim Press

  Contact

  Introduction

  Three short stories from the small town of Carnal, where it’s always burning no matter the season. A girl is gang banged by most of the boys in her senior class. A straight boy gets blackmailed into gay sex with the security personnel at a local mall. To thrive, a young man must sacrifice all of his misconceptions about women, starting with his innocent young date.

  Summer Shorts follows the secret sex lives of the residents in a small town named Carnal. This is volume 3, the sacrifice issue. In “American Girl,” Rafia Saad longs to be part of the in-crowd at her new school. She meets Veronica Smith, one of Academy’s most popular seniors, who is only too eager to help Rafia find an appropriate place in the school’s social hierarchy. But the position Veronica has in mind for Rafia involves one of the upstairs guest rooms and most of the boys in her senior class. How much will one girl sacrifice to satisfy her strong desires?

  In “Five-finger Discount,” Jimmy Manley is caught shoplifting by Emil Bogdon, an immigrant security guard who doesn’t speak English terribly well. Jimmy has enjoyed hustling gay men in the past but is quite concerned with maintaining the appearance of an heterosexual all American boy. He thinks he has agreed to let Bogdon take him on a “little trip to heaven” in exchange for his freedom, but Bogdon is not as concerned as Jimmy with the appearance of heterosexuality in American boys. Bogdon cares about only one thing, which thing he makes abundantly clear to Jimmy when he unbuckles his belt, opens his pants, and lowers his fly. Before the afternoon is over, Jimmy will have to make a tough choice: Will he sacrifice the illusions he holds about himself, or will he continue on as he has in the past, a slave to appearances?

  In “A Good Girl is an Easy Sacrifice,” Johnny Manley has a problem. When he loves a girl, he gets too invested. He longs to lose himself in the needs of his mate. But Johnny understands that this is no good for him. He knows he needs to change. He meets Dominique Thomas, a young girl fresh from the Caribbean. Johnny knows he needs to find new ways to relate to women. He hopes sweet Dominique can help him overcome. But if Johnny is to succeed, if he is to flourish and thrive, he will first have to make a sacrifice. Something about him must change. What might it be? Perhaps something to do with his illusions about women, good girls.

  American Girl

  by Huck Pilgrim

  Consider the word sacrifice.

  In modern times, it’s a metaphor. It’s come to mean a good deed, a selfless act. A short-term loss intended to yield some lasting gain.

  Now consider Rafia Saad, a young woman raised by a sexually repressive father, who longs for something just beyond her reach. This is her first night in a small town called Carnal. Tonight, she catches the brass ring. Tonight, she learns about sacrifice.

  Tonight, she becomes . . .

  an American girl.

  Rafia Saad rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer. Looking down the quiet residential street, she felt nervous, awkward. She smoothed the fabric of her new party dress, a festive lime print, the hem of which fell just above her knees. Despite its modest cut, Rafia’s father—a wiry man, with a shiny brown head—had clucked his tongue disapprovingly as she left the house. Rafia didn’t care. There were two things of which she felt certain. One, her father might as well still be living in the Old Country for all his stodgy beliefs. Two, this party was her big debut with all the other students from the prestigious Horton Academy. She needed to look her best. Perfect.

  Rafia rang the bell again.

  She could hear faint music coming from inside the house. Looking at her reflection in the glass of the door, she flicked a tangle of long dark hair from her shoulder, licked her dry lips. Under her dress Rafia wore low-rise black panties. It was the single piece of racy clothing she owned, her one prized possession, an indulgence she hid from her father. She imagined later tonight lifting the hem of her dress ever so slightly so that her date might get a glimpse of what she wore underneath.

  The door suddenly burst open and loud house music spilled onto the front porch along with Veronica Smith.

  One of the most popular girls at Academy, Veronica had invited Rafia to the party, even promising to set her up with one of the local boys from the varsity football team. For a new girl in town, Rafia considered herself very fortunate.

  “Rafia!” Veronica said, her arms outstretched, a large plastic cup in one hand.

  She kissed Rafia delicately on the neck. “You look fabulous.” Leaning back and giving Rafia an appraising look, Veronica pursed her lips and smiled. She had an intensity about her that both intimidated and intrigued Rafia.

  “The color of that dress looks amazing with your skin,” Veronica said.

  She held the storm door open with her foot, motioned with her head for Rafia to follow. “Come in, come in,” Veronica said.

  Rafia grinned and made her way into the house.

  Part of what intimidated Rafia about Veronica was her incredible beauty: green eyes, creamy skin, high cheekbones. Her dark hair was straight and shiny, unlike Rafia’s own hair which was wild and tangled and always needed some sort of attention. And part of it was Veronica’s abundance of confidence. Her father was wealthy and this probably accounted for much of her self-assurance. She was also this year’s prom queen and—as Veronica herself liked to point out—had been on the varsity cheerleading squad since she was a freshman. Not only did she always get what she wanted, she always seemed to get the best of everything. Veronica was, Rafia thought, a classic American girl—sexy, indulgent and assertive.

  “Rafia’s here!” Veronica announced to the party.

  As she marched Rafia into the kitchen, girls smiled and nodded toward Rafia. The boys were gathered in small groups of their own, off in little clusters of two and three. Rafia knew most of their faces, if not all of their names.

  “Do you want a drink?” Veronica asked.

  Not waiting for an answer, she took an oversize red plastic cup and started to fill it with punch. “Always
make your own drinks,” Veronica said in a low, conspiratorial voice. Rafia nodded, reaching for the drink.

  She sipped the drink, a fruity concoction spiked with hard liquor. Realizing at once that the punch was much too powerful for her, Rafia hid her displeasure. Better to nurse the drink, than to risk offending her host.

  “Excuse me girls,” Rafia heard an adult voice. She felt hands come to rest lightly on her shoulders. Looking behind her, she found a woman with friendly, hazel eyes smiling down at her.

  Veronica said: “This is Mrs. Murphy, our parent chaperone.”

  Mrs. Murphy reached for Rafia’s cup, tilted her head to the side, and then looked right into Rafia’s eyes. “I’ve never met you before,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Do you have your driver’s license or a school ID?”

  Rafia dug for her wallet in her purse.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Murphy,” Veronica said. “This is Rafia, the new girl at Academy this year.”

  Mrs. Murphy let out an audible gasp and reached to pet Rafia’s thick hair. Rafia handed over her driver’s license. Mrs. Murphy had one of the kindest faces imaginable. Her hair was piled up on her head and she had a square chin with a small cleft in the middle. She stroked Rafia’s cheek and gazed into her eyes with such unabashed devotion that Rafia cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  “What a beautiful child you are,” Mrs. Murphy whispered.

  It was an awkward moment and Rafia glanced toward Veronica for help.

  “Mrs. Murphy,” Veronica said. She used a playful, sing-song voice and drew out each syllable in the chaperone’s name to mask her irritation. She reached for Rafia’s drink.

  Mrs. Murphy raised her arm to put the drink out of Veronica’s range.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Murphy said, turning her attention to Rafia’s card. “Sometimes I get carried away with the new girls.”

  Veronica moved closer to Rafia and waited for the parent to finish.

  Mrs. Murphy finally looked Rafia in the eye. “I hope you’ll like Academy,” she said. Her voice was low and private. “I’ve always considered attendance an honor. One of the great highlights of my life.” Mrs. Murphy handed Rafia her card. “But—,” Mrs. Murphy said, raising her voice to a conversational tone and placing both her hands firmly on Rafia’s shoulders. “You mustn’t drink any alcoholic beverages tonight, dear.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Murphy.” Veronica sighed. She rolled her eyes, and looked away in disgust.

  Rafia turned to her friend. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m not a big drinker anyway.”

  Grabbing onto Mrs. Murphy’s arm, Veronica whined: “Please,” she said. “All the girls are going to have at least one drink. We won’t tell.”

  “No.” Mrs. Murphy said. “No drinks.”

  Lowering her head, Mrs. Murphy looked at Veronica over her glasses. “We all have to make our little sacrifices. She’s barely old enough to attend the party.”

  Turning back to Rafia, Mrs. Murphy softened her face. “Happy birthday, dear.”

  Rafia blushed. Her face broke into a grin and she looked at the floor.

  “Oh my god! It’s your birthday?” Veronica asked. “Today?”

  Rafia stuffed her card back into her wallet. Her face felt as if it were on fire. Mrs. Murphy admonished Veronica not to sneak Rafia any more drinks, warning her that at Academy, it was every student’s duty to always behave with principle.

  Mrs. Murphy waited a few seconds and then—looking right at Veronica—added in a low voice that she would be watching the party the entire night like a hawk.

  As she departed the kitchen, Mrs. Murphy looked at Rafia and said something that Rafia thought might have been Latin. The music was loud and it had been years since Rafia had studied any Latin, but it sounded like Mrs. Murphy had said, “a vigorous body is necessary for a sacrificial mind.” But that made no sense. Maybe it was “sacrificing the body is necessary for a vigorous mind.” Something along those lines.

  Rafia found it confusing. Odd.

  She attributed it to her lack of skill with Latin.

  Meanwhile, Veronica had gathered a small group of a students and was leading them in a rousing chorus of “Eighteen” in honor of Rafia’s birthday. It was a popular, rebellious youth anthem, and Rafia’s classmates held their cups aloft and sang with gusto. The song broke the ice. A few of the girls came into the kitchen to introduce themselves. One the boys played air guitar, swinging his hips and sawing his arm.

  Veronica excused herself. “I’m going to find Logan,” she said. “You’ll like him. He’s nice—and so excited to meet you!”

  Logan Reese was the football player Veronica had promised to introduce Rafia to. An attractive boy, he had a barrel chest and a large head, which rested on his thick shoulders like an upturned pail. Rafia had already decided that—if she had the opportunity—she would sleep with him later tonight. That is, if he’d have her. If he’d want to have sex with her. She imagined he would, and her body tingled with willful anticipation. To Rafia, it seemed as if all the American boys were eager to sleep with most any girl. Likewise, all the girls seemed pretty obliging themselves.

  Veronica appeared in the crowded kitchen, this time towing Logan behind her along with her own boyfriend, Chet Morris.

  “Rafia,” Chet said. Taking Rafia’s hand in both his own, he offered her a disarming, radiant smile. Rafia felt a small hitch of warmth in her chest.

  He was the first-string quarterback for Academy’s championship football team, the Yellow Devils, and he seemed the perfect match for Veronica: strong-jawed, well-muscled, with an outgoing, exuberant personality. He made small talk about the school’s chances on the gridiron this season, refreshed his drink, then stood sipping. Logan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have much to say.

  Rafia chatted with the three of them until finally, Logan, at Veronica’s urging, took Rafia into the living room to dance.

  Gesturing for her to lead the way, he followed her close behind.

  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, guiding her to the middle of a room where other couples were dancing. A curious boy, Logan always seemed to duck his head shyly before meeting Rafia’s eyes with his own.

  Rafia and Logan danced with half a dozen other boys and girls. In the living room, Logan seemed to have even less to say. Rafia wondered if he found her attractive. Wondered if they’d eventually find their way into one another’s arms later tonight. He seemed attentive enough and the volume of the music prevented talk, so Rafia tried not to dwell on it. Better to just be grateful for whatever came her way tonight. She smiled and nodded to the couples Logan introduced her to.

  Logan wore his blonde hair in a clipped crew cut. He had color in his cheeks, perhaps from the heat of all the bodies in the room. His forehead grew moist from the exertion of dancing, and Rafia longed to run her fingers over the short stubble on his head.

  When Logan finally leaned to her ear and suggested they go upstairs, she eagerly nodded her assent.

  Rafia was no shrinking virgin herself. She loved to be petted, especially between her legs. When the time came, she loved to straddle a boy’s thigh, grinding her hips and crotch against him until she came. She knew well how to use her mouth and hands to satisfy a date. She’d managed to obtain a diaphragm and had already had intercourse one time, though it had been a big disappointment. Quick and over before she knew it. She longed for a satisfying sexual experience, a partner with stamina who wouldn’t fade.

  As she ascended the stairs behind Logan, Rafia enjoyed the other girls’ glittering eyes and whispers to one another. Likewise, one or two of the boys slyly popped their chins at Logan or offered a shaking fist of encouragement.

  Rafia enjoyed the attention. Enjoyed the idea that everyone knew she would soon be making out with this popular boy. For Rafia understood what her father did not: This was all part of being an American girl. You had to go upstairs with the boys. Had to be sexy and obliging. A girl had to be willing to give a little.

  In the upstairs roo
m, Logan took Rafia’s purse from her hand and set it aside.

  Holding her tightly, he pressed his tongue into her mouth, his hard cock against her hip. Rafia sighed as she felt his body against her own. He was big between his legs. She grinned up at him, eager to be with someone so self-assured, feeling her own blood quickly rising.

  The easy smile Logan had worn most of the night disappeared, replaced by a look of grim determination. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, his hand sliding down over her hips, then doubling back, slipping up the front of her dress, and deftly cupping her sex.

  Rafia gasped.