Oilman Jim’s Blog

“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.