Laughter echoed over the water, and the reflection of brightly colored paper lanterns mingled with moonlight on rippling waves.  A large white yacht sat alone, in the deep water just outside the bay.  It was a tiny island of white in the midst of the black - the lights of the city were so far away.  They seemed farther, and colder, as the laughter turned cruel.<br/><br/>Charity shivered and huddled into her deck chair as the dozen other partygoers mocked her.  Rachel with her oh-so-perfect teeth, Beatrice with her thousand-dollar tennis bracelet, Dean with his Harvard accent and chiseled muscles.  All their friends.  And beautiful, warm-eyed Christopher, who she'd trusted, and thought she was falling for.<br/><br/>"Chris, I want to go home..."  More laughter.<br/><br/>"No, see, we're playing truth or dare.  And you can't go home until we're finished with you.  Now, I dare you to take your shirt off, so do it."  Chris took a drink of whiskey, and passed the bottle on.<br/><br/>Charity kept shaking.  It was cold out, and she didn't like the score and more of eyes on her.  They were all so cold, now, like the chill night breeze.  "It was my turn last time."<br/><br/>Candice piped up, in her nasal valley girl giggle.  "Well, now it's your turn again, you stupid bitch.  You're not one of us, you're the<em>entertainment.</em>"<br/><br/>Christopher again.  "Seriously.  I didn't invite you out here because we hang out with scholarship girls like you.  Now strip, or you swim back home."<br/><br/>Tears streaked mascara down her face as she slowly pulled the sweater over her head.  She wanted an escape, anything, but there was nothing.  The lights were miles away.  There wasn't a lifeboat, even if she could have got to it before they dragged her down.  Sobs wracked her chest.  What were they going to do to her?  Would they risk the fact that she might tell?<br/><br/>Her small, pale breasts shook up and down as she cried, and wrapped her sweater around herself immediately after taking it off.  Dean tore it away casually, ripping it nearly in half and then throwing it overboard.  "Dare.  Take off your pants."  Within minutes, time she'd barely be able to remember later, Charity found herself completely nude, kneeling in the center of a circle of chairs.  Christopher rubbed the crotch of his slacks, slowly stroking the bulge there.<br/><br/>"Dare.  My pants.  Open them."<br/><br/>Charity couldn't look up at him, but someone threw an empty beer can at the back of her head and she started to shuffle forward on her knees.  The smoothly polished wood of the deck rubbed painfully against her, and she was covered in goosebumps.  A voice like raspy thunder rumbled from above them, on the upper deck.  "Bullshit.  Sit your pretty ass down.  No dumbass trust fund baby goes to the front of the blowjob line while I'm around."  The pilot - Charity assumed - was thumping in great big boots down the stairs, with something black and metal in his hand.  She wiped the tears desperately from her eyes, and saw that it was a very, very large revolver.<br/><br/>Christopher's reaction was immediate, "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?  Do we pay you to talk, you fucking ignorant prole?  If you know what's good for you, you'll get back up to the wheel, shut your mouth, and take your paycheck!  Do you have any idea what my family can do to you?"<br/><br/>The pilot's hand moved so fast that Charity didn't realize it until a second later, after Christopher fell scrambling backward with his hands on his mouth.  Blood ran through his fingers along with sharp, high, garbled sounds of pain.  She slowly realized that he must have been pistol-whipped.  Sobs rocked her body, now sobs of relief.  This man, whoever he was, was going to save her.  His voice rumbled again.  "Alright, naked girl.  You're mine for now.  Get up here."  The others were edging back in their seats, speechless.  Something about him exuded power.  Maybe it was the large-bore handgun he was blithely spinning the cylinder on.  He scooped Charity up off the ground and wiped her tears away with a rag.  "Can't have you crying on me.  Buck up, or I'll have to blindfold you."<br/><br/>"Now."  He spun open the cylinder, and dumped five huge bullets into his hand.  One was left in the gun.  He snapped it closed.  "We're going to keep on playing a game.  But it's my rules now.  Charity, you're going to tell me which of these fuckers you hate the most."  He pointed at the bleeding, sobbing Christopher, and chuckled.  "Probably you, you unlucky scumbag."  He wrapped an arm around Charity, holding her tight.  She could feel a huge, hard bulge in his pants.  A massive one.  It was digging into her thigh, and the way he held her made sure her body rubbed over it with every move.  "You can offer to do something to make up for what an asshole you are.  Like maybe give us up some dirt on you, or punch Dean in the balls five times.  If I don't like what I hear, I put this gun to your head and pull the trigger.  You got a five in six chance of coming out just fine.  Then, we just go around the circle."<br/><br/>"You can't pick me, and Charity's mine now, so you can't pick her either."<br/><br/>He grinned.  There was something wrong about his teeth, like they were too long, too white, too sharp.  "We play until you stop being fun to play with."<br/>