Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I had no idea why he knew something was wrong. I had tried my best not to show it, and I certainly hadn't told anyone what had happened to me the previous night. This was my problem, something I had to work through. Although Oilman Jim's tool had been huge and his embraces had left me breathless, he hadn't been as cruel to me as Mr. LaFleur routinely had been. And now that I knew who Oilman Jim was, perhaps I could avoid him for the short time I'd be working on the rig—before I could escape and look for other work.

"No, everything's fine. I'm fine," I said, and before Pete could respond, I picked up a platter of fried eggs rimmed with thick slices of bacon and entered the dining room.

All talk was reduced to whispers when I entered the room, and the eyes of all of the men seemed to be riveted to me. It was very disconcerting. They hadn't eyed me like this at the previous evening's meal. They were smiling—some almost sniggering—and several giving me a look of speculation that I couldn't interpret but that sent chills up my spine.

I looked across the room and saw a beaming Oilman Jim, sitting there as if he were the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and looking very pleased with himself. A blond giant of a Scandinavian was sitting next to him, and as I moved around the room, dispensing eggs and bacon, Oilman Jim and the Scandinavian had their heads together in a quiet discussion, although both had their eyes on me while they talked.

Platter empty, I turned and headed toward the kitchen. Out of the periphery of my vision, I saw the Scandinavian rise and move at an angle toward the door as well. He was right behind me when I pushed on the swinging door into the kitchen. I dropped the empty platter on the steel counter, setting off a ringing tone, over which I could hear Pete call out in a strangled voice, "Bjorn . . . No."

I kept on walking through the swinging door into the pantry area, the Scandinavian still hot on my tail and Pete calling out "Borjn" again.

The Scandinavian hulk—who presumably was Borjn—pushed me belly down on the top of a closed heavy rubber garbage bin, pulled down my pants from behind, and was fucking me hard before I barely was able to take a breath. He wasn't as thick as Oilman Jim had been, but he had a way of rotating his cock inside me while he fucked that made me feel that he stretched me more.

When he was finished, he simply rezipped his pants and turned and walked back through the swinging door into the kitchen.

Pete gave me time to stop sobbing and to pull my pants up, before he came in and told me to go to my room until I could collect myself. He also told me how sorry he was but that the oil operations crew reigned on this rig and that there wasn't a thing he could do about what was happening to me. And then he once again cursed the company personnel department for sending small guys with pretty faces into this hell hole.

I was just as confused as anything else. There was no problem at lunch, if only because the oil crew had a limited time to eat and get back on the job. But after dinner, when I was working in the linen room, the lights went off, and I was sexually assaulted by two men together who pushed me down on my back in a low laundry cart, with one holding my shoulders down while the other was holding my legs open wide and fucking down into me. And then they changed position.

And that evening as I was moving down the hall, on my way to my own room, a door off the corridor opened, and another of the oil crew hulks pulled me into his quarters and fucked me standing up in the center of his quarters, handling me just like I was a floppy rag doll, and pulling me up and down on his cock as he held me suspended in air above the floor.

That night, when I'd finally been able to get to my room, Pete found me. He was carrying his laptop computer.

"You didn't check out Oilman Jim's blog and Web site, did you?" Pete asked, and he held me in his arms and rocked me back and forth as we sat on the edge of my bed.

"No, I haven't had time," I answered. "I was on my way to do that when Oilman Jim got me into his room and assaulted me."

"Ah, yes. In his room. Well, I think you'd best see this," Pete said. And then he put his laptop on the top of my dresser, turned it on and tapped out a URL. "Living and working on an oil rig like this is lonely work—and there are no women out here," Pete said. "Here. Here's Oilman Jim's Web site. This is what all of the men on this rig tuned into last night."

I looked into the computer screen with horror. That's why the lights were so bright in Oilman Jim's quarters. He was taping his taking of me from several different angles and had put it right up on his Web site. That's why I had been grabbed and fucked several times today already. I was identified at the oil rig poke of the day.

"Oh, god, when will it stop?" I moaned.

"When someone new and as pretty as you comes along, I suppose," Pete answered in a low voice. "And the supply ship doesn't arrive again for three weeks and even then I doubt anyone will be coming who will appeal to the men as much as you do. Three weeks and then you can leave even if no one new and appropriate arrives."

"Oh, god," I moaned again. And then I froze. Pete had been holding me close and rocking me back and forth—mothering me in my time of distress, or so I thought. But now I realized that he held me firmly with one arm around my shoulder, but that his other hand had been palming my basket. Now I shuddered as he unbuckled my belt and slowly lowered my zipper. He was kissing me in the hollow of my neck and whispering sweet nothings to me.

The graphic scene of Oilman Jim fucking me in his room continued to loop around on the laptop screen that both Pete and I were staring at.

"Pete," I said.

"Sorry, but I can't resist, son," Pete was murmuring. "You are going to know so many dicks in the next three weeks, that what's the harm of one more? And we can go months out here without a woman to fuck."

He stripped off my pants and had done so with his own trousers without me realizing it. He pulled me over into his lap, my buttocks nestled into his crotch, and I groaned and writhed as he pulled my channel down onto his hard cock and began to raise and lower my pelvis in a deep fuck. His arms encircled my waist and a hand went to my nipple. And he resumed kissing the hollow of my neck and telling me how arousing I was. And the scene of Oilman Jim taking me continued to loop around on the flickering laptop.

At least Pete was making love to me. With a sigh of resignation, I took over the rhythm of the fuck, and Pete responded with appreciative sighs and moans that told me that I could count on preferred status in the housekeeping department as long as I put out for him like this.

Later as I lay there in the dark in his arms, almost asleep, I heard Peter mutter, "Whoever sent you here was malicious. Anyone who knows these rigs, knows that this is no place for a pretty boy like you."

And that's when it hit me. Mr. LaFleur had arranged this on purpose. He hadn't let me go easily and with good will. He was having his revenge on me. Three weeks of fucking hell. But what was three weeks anyway? Once the thickness and length of Oilman Jim's cock had rebored my hole, all of the other men were just another furtive fuck in the dark. After this I would be so used that I might as well go to that male brothel in New Orleans. Oh, well, if they paid well . . . . Hadn't I already turned into a prostitute here with Pete, exchanging sexual favors for preferential treatment?

I turned and pushed Pete gently down on his back on my bed, my knees straddling his hips, and started giving him a proper "I am yours" fuck with my undulating pelvis. Pete gazed up into my face with a look of awe and love and deep appreciation. And I began at that moment to learn how to manipulate men to do what I wanted them to do.