He slid across the sandy bottom as far to shore as he could go, his belly cutting a furrow. Only the cantaloupe shape of his head with the beady eyes and the blowhole and a bit of a black dorsal fin showed.

The orca's eyes would never have seen that far to shore even without the fog, but once he had a firm grip on the creature's life energy, his eyes penetrated to the dunes. There, right there on the beach up against the foot of one dune in a tangled heap of blankets around the charred remains of fire, there was his enemy.

The dominant woman had found the slave. His eyes narrowed against the slight surface chop. He never considered the two of them as his celestial counterpoints, just obstacles to his welding of nature and sky, obstacles whose heads were obviously at each other's quim in the sand. Bitches.

His outsized cock began to unsheathe even against the gritty sand. His lust began to do what shouldn't have been done and his mind could think of nothing else than fucking both the females.

Bitch! Who does she think she is? She might think she's a goddess. She might think she can demand with the strength of a man, but I know different, he thought with certainty. She's still nothing but a ripe plum ready to dangle on the end of my cock. My cock will stretch her jaws and she'll know just who controls the heavens. Wait until my cock shoots streams down her helpless throat; she will forget that she drowns under my sea.

He heaved his body against the abrasive bottom and relished the irritation of his bare member. He would have them both and cement his ascendant position. They would both serve his lust; his plans for the two women would never know limits. Reluctantly he flicked his tail and slid back in deeper water, then pointed his nose to the north.

 

Sunday Morning

 

I shivered under the army surplus blanket. Rose must have felt it as she snuggled me in closer.

The tide was coming in and the fog swirled at the foot of the bank. Curled up at the edge of the sand was the perfect place to watch a Pacific sunset with fire meeting the water. It was a bitchy place to wake up in; the sun from the east would be hours before it could warm up over the bank.

"You have trouble sleeping, darling?" her lazy voice whispered in my ear. My back arched as she drifted her fingernails under a lock of my hair and over the top of my ear.

"Just thinking."

Every man in my life would have asked me, "Thinking about what?"

She never said a word. I had never known another person, man or woman, who had let me take my time to think anything through. Pressure. Pressure to say exactly what I was thinking and right on cue.

The charred remains of last night's fire smoldered in the sand pit and our heat from last night still smoldered in the blush on my cheeks. She pulled my face onto her breast and I wasn't self-conscious. Modesty and taboo belonged to somebody else now.

She asked a question; I talked and she listened. Over my bare shoulder, she stirred at the coals and threw some more driftwood on. The fire sparked blue-green, catching on embedded salt crystals. I nibbled at her nipple and she boxed my ear, but not too seriously.

Sketchy fog broke enough for me to see the western sky and there, over ocean, I could see the Summer Triangle with Vega, the brightest star of three. See, I learned something in school between boys. Fourteen thousand years ago before the night skies shifted, Vega was the North Star, not Polaris, and it will be again in another twelve thousand. Most of my friends were bored. I thought it was one more useless fact that I couldn't forget.

Rose pulled a wrist behind me and toyed with my throat, squeezing enough to tell me she had control.

"Rose?"

"What, sweet little bitch?"

She had called me "sweet little bitch" almost from the day we had met at that truck stop in Pendleton. My name is Alyssa and I've been called Lyss by everybody but almost never by Rose. She sat in that booth with the red vinyl seats. The woman wore leathers on the hottest day of the year and her white shirt clung to the sweat of her curves. She glanced over the edge of her coffee and said, "My, you are the sweet little bitch, aren't you?"

I tried to tell her that the manager wanted her to move her Harley soft tail out of the handicapped slot. I just stuttered, knowing that the flush spread up my face.