Swiftly, Harry unfastened the gag and I spat the plastic ball into his hand. (I actually aimed it at his nose but I just didn't have the puff left for a good shot.) The Flyswat's dulcet drawl issued from the cabin just as my husband unlocked the cuffs.
"Oh, Mistah Neptune! Yuh fishin' for crawfish in there? Ah sure could do with anuthuh round of mah favorite pursuit."
Harry looked sheepish. Without a moment's hesitation, I retrieved my arms and gave him a swift left hook to the right eye. Stunned, he slumped against the towel rail, then slid slowly to the bathroom floor. Briskly, I crouched down and untied my ankles from the legs of the stool. Gingerly, I eased the nipple clamps and clit-torturer from my tender nodes. Stepping over the bulk on the rug, I peered round the door at the flopped-out Lush. She had arranged herself seductively on the bed, all naked and wanton, hair spread out in a wavy cloud upon the pillow. Her eyes were closed, her bronzed thighs parted wide.
"Come an' give it to me, baby," she murmured, hearing the soft creak of the bathroom door. Smiling to myself, I switched off the bathroom light, picked up the dildo and advanced upon the recumbent tramp. She was quite attractive in a teen doll kind of way, all long limbs, Miami tan, silicon boobs and big bleached hair. I suspected she'd been Botoxed and collagened for good measure, but if growing old disgracefully was the Lush's desire, who was Jay Lawrence-Neptune to call her wrong? I may look like Morticia Addams when I hit those awkward years. Hardly daring to breathe in case the trollop opened her eyes and scuppered my game, I grabbed a free pillow and clasped it to my front to replicate a stately male torso. Harry isn't thin and he doesn't have breasts. The fearsome dildo protruded from under the cushiony mass like a pink torpedo. Sensing my proximity, the Flyswat pushed her long fake fingernails through her tumbling locks and writhed voluptuously. Her tongue crept out and wetted her pouty lips. She groaned.
"Fuck me, Harry. Stick that great big beautiful cock of yours right in me to the hilt."
Almost purple with the effort of repressing my breath, I knelt between her legs and obligingly placed the business end of the dildo against her swollen and dripping labia. As soon as it touched her cunt, she began to shriek.
"FUCK ME! Fuck me good, boy!"
Boy, indeed. Harry might be some things but boyish isn't one of them. I pressed my cushioned body against the squirming torso of La Lush and, with a victory flick of the wrist, drove the monster dildo home. There was half a second of stunned silence then all hell broke loose.
"JESUS! Yuh great stallion you! Oh yesss, yesss, YESSS!!!"
I had underestimated the woman. What had taken me several minutes, fifteen squat thrusts and copious lube to insinuate inside my own pussy, slipped inside Ms. Flyswat with effortless ease. The Knockwurst rumors must have been true. Ah well, I'd saved poor Harry from getting lost and having to ask directions. Lush continued to scream and writhe like a snake as I thrust womanfully on, knowing from experience that it wouldn't take long to bring my victim to a peak of delight. Her glistening boobs joggled wildly just under my nose and it was more than I could bear not to give the swollen nipples a tentative lick. Her smooth, tight flesh was warm and moist beneath my tasting lips and I drew the rising nipple into the wet heat of my mouth as she shrieked and clasped a rail above the bed. I pumped the dildo double-time into her cunt, as fast and as hard as my arm would allow. Suddenly, I realized that my own pussy was wet. Very wet. As she screamed her first orgasm, I threw off the pillow and pushed her legs over her head. It all happened so quickly, she still didn't know. She was so turned on, she was almost weeping. Her tight little bronzed buns were perfectly presented, ass and cunt wide open for the next assault. I grasped her cheeks and placed the very tip of my tongue against her ass. She went wild, thrashing around as I rimmed her tight little hole with increasing enthusiasm. Then I traveled north to taste the pleasures of her syrupy cleft, inserting my little finger in her ass to give her double the fun. Now, I could see why the guys flocked to suck on Lush's quim. She was one juicy mouthful. Just as she squawked out her second come, I heard an odd little whimper from beyond the porthole above the bed. Looking up, I realized that the blind wasn't drawn and Frippery Boner was watching the show. Her expression was interesting, a blend of outraged horror and desperate fascination. Her hand strayed furtively towards her crotch. Winking broadly, I blew her a kiss, then threw a blanket over the well-licked blonde, who was limp and incoherent in the aftermath of lust.
"Fire! FIRE!! Go to your station!" I cried, bundling the befuddled Flyswat out into the corridor and locking the door. A second form joined Frippery's at the porthole to pleasure and I heard a muttered "any more of this and I'm going to spank your bare bottom." I grabbed the tassel and drew down the blind with a decisive flourish. It had been quite a night. I stripped off the fishnet and made myself comfy in a thick toweling robe. I was just about to check whether there was a late night film worth watching on the little TV, when the bathroom door swung open and a large panda staggered into the cabin.
"Oh, darling!" was all I could gasp.
CHAPTER FIVE: "WHAT MORE COULD HAPPEN?"
I had been married less than twenty-four hours.
In that time I had been socked in the eye and raped by my new wife, been donated a dream honeymoon by a decidedly iffy Vegas vicar who apparently performed the wedding ceremony, rushed half way across America to be hustled up a gangplank, encountered as fellow shipmates my ex-wife and her new husband who happened to be the ex-lover of my new wife, fingered a blonde weather lady and celebrity chef to orgasm at the Captain's table, fought off the ministrations of a Black Widow, witnessed my wife's debauched and accomplished impression of Mata Hari dancing the fandango, witnessed the murder of a singing Spanish gigolo (they are all gigolos), discovered that said Spaniard was an awfully unpopular chap to judge by the bilateral assault on his probably worthless life, licked the blonde weather lady and celebrity chef to another screaming climax, inserted the Neptune seed into the lady's willing mouth by main assault, pee'd on my wife, been socked once more by her in the other eye and knocked myself unconscious on bathroom furniture as I took a dive, and recovered from at least one hangover.
I think I managed to remember everything.
Under such circumstances a chap can do one of two things. Either is best accomplished with fortification, so I popped the remaining bottle of champagne and took a healthy slug.
"Oh darling!"
Mrs. Neptune dragged her eyes away from the TV long enough to examine her handiwork. I took a look in the mirror and wondered where my sunglasses had got to. I hadn't had such a pair of shiners since being ejected from the B-52 in sixty-nine (the bar in Guam, not the aeroplane).
"Why don't you bust my nose while you're at it, seeing as you're in the mood?"
"Poor Harry!"
She clicked off the TV and pulled my head down to give me a kiss.
"You've been up Swat's cunt! I can smell her! And taste her!"
"Harry darling, don't get uppity. You were there before me. Share and share alike and all that."
"Bloody hell, you didn't even wait for me. Just left me at death's door on the bathroom floor (hey, that rhymes!). That does it. Next time it's the double titty rub with two-tongue orchestration. I'll drown the pair of you."
"Speaking of drowning, next time you can pee on her! I'll have to wash the fishnet out and hang it up to dry."
"It'll be my pleasure," I said savagely.
I sat on the bed and glugged some more Brut.
Miss Lawrence recalled her incarceration in the bathroom and opened up a line of attack.
"Where the hell were you, anyway? I was strapped up there up for ages waiting for my beloved to come back and do his honeymoon duty. My nipples and clit are sore as..."
I cut her off.
"While you were playing single-handed BDSM I was investigating the murder of our late not-lamented Dago friend. After expert investigation and interrogation I discovered that non modo was he shot by some unknown marksman sed etiam anothe
r assassin stuck him at the same time with a deadly poisoned dart."
"How did you work that out, Sherlock?"
"The Doctor told me."
"That sozzled old wreck! He couldn't diagnose a cause of death if it was beheading."
"Not at this time of night certainly, but he was compos mentis enough earlier to conclude that it was death by lead poisoning. It took one of the matelots to prove it was also death by curare poisoning."
"How?"
"He stuck his finger with the dart when it fell out. He'll live."
* * * *
I stared at my husband in ghoulish delight.
"Good heavens! We appear to have stumbled into an Agatha Christie novel. Guess that makes us Tommy and Tuppence. Or Dashiell Hammett's Nick and Nora Charles, more like. How exciting! We must sniff out the motive and find our man. Or woman..."
Harry nodded.
"Exactly. I wouldn't put anything past the Goldfinkel dame. That caterwauling at her toy boy's demise was as fake as the Swat's double F bra-busters. But why would she want him dispatched to the great mariachi fiesta in the sky? I could see it the other way round, if Raoul thought he had a way to get to her loot, but why would a middle aged nympho off her twenty-something Latin lover? Hmm. A blackmail angle, perhaps?"
I took a pensive sip of the somewhat tepid champagne. I was rather fond of a good mystery and had oft dreamed of slinking around in a belted raincoat, wise-cracking with jaded policemen as we examined some nastiness dredged from the bay. I ran the tip of one finger around the rim of my glass, eliciting a pleasing hum.
"Jealousy."
My partner raised one eyebrow.
"Oh? You think Gigi's girlish party-time demeanor hides a green-eyed monster with murderous predilections?"
I placed my glass upon the table.
"It's possible. I'd say all things are possible when passions are aroused. Wouldn't you? Why, I could have scratched that Lush's eyes out when you were all over her at dinner and you took your green-eyed monster out on my bare bottom when we returned to the cabin! It's still smarting."
I wriggled pleasurably against the sofa cushions, savoring the residual heat in my well-spanked buttocks. Harry coughed and assumed his "not guilty" expression.
"Jealous? Me? Never! Any excuse for a good bun-warming session, that's all. Now, what is this "lush" business? The Swat doesn't drink to excess, as far as I can see, and you're hardly one to talk!"
At last, I pulled my trump card out.
"Loretta Swat, celebrity weather gal and TV chef, was once a dancer and porn star called Voluptua Luscious. Lush for short. We danced together at the Pink Pussy Lounge in Ballistic. Took me a while to click as she's had some major body work done since '84."
Harry grinned lasciviously.
"I'll say. Why don't you go for a boob job like that? Talk about endless hours of pleasure. And where the hell is Ballistic?"
I loosened my robe and appraised my breasts. They had always been naturally big but not huge, kind of soft and pillowy rather than the bouncy beach balls that the Lush thrust before her. Thoughtfully, I emptied two fruit and goodie bowls and slipped them over my boobs as makeshift falsies.
"What do you think, sweetie? Is it me? Ballistic is in Arizona, by the way. I was working my way west. Or was it east? Those days are a bit of a blur. Anyway, Pink Pussy specialized in the infamous Pussy Dance. That was one wild flesh parlor, I can tell you!"
My husband looked suitably amused.
"Oh, do tell. This all sounds vaguely familiar. What was the Pussy Dance about – naked girls with cute little whiskers and tails?"
It was my turn to smile. I wondered if I could recall the moves. Come to think of it, there weren't too many steps to learn. It was all about positioning. I removed the bowls and slipped out of the robe.
"Put your champagne down, darling. I'm going to give you a little demonstration."
"Now you're talking!"
"Just lie back, relax and let me take care of everything..."
Harry stretched out on the sofa, his head at one end, feet protruding well over the other. He's a big boy. Slowly, sensuously, I began to unbutton his shirt, gradually exposing his hairy chest. His hands reached up to fondle my breasts and I squatted over him, enjoying the feel of his swelling crotch against my naked quim. I was just about to proceed to the nitty-gritty of the Pussy routine when a faint but familiar sound issued from the cabin next door.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!"
SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.
"OW! OW! OW!"
Harry groaned as I paused mid-Pussy. The staccato beat of implement on flesh thwacked on in a brisk duet with a heartfelt female yowl.
"I swear that's Boner with a light oak paddle! I never did care for blunt implements."
"Don't tell me the dynamic duo are right next door! This is getting positively incestuous. What are the odds against this kind of coincidence happening, anyway? Our respective exes meeting and hitching. It's mind blowing."
I dismounted and pressed one ear against the cabin wall.
"I'd know that rhythm anywhere. It's Boner all right. Listen. You can just hear Howard Stern in the background. 'Seven Brides For Seven Brothers.' He can't get the beat right without a yodel in the background."
My partner snorted in mirth.
"Hee! Hee! Well, I just can't believe that old Frip is game for a spank. She always loathed anything other than straight sex in the missionary position. Talk about vanilla. She wouldn't even try fellating me. Said it was absolutely disgusting."
I looked at my friend and couldn't imagine why a woman wouldn't want to savor his toothsome knob. He has a lovely cock, simply perfect for sucking. However, bitter experience had shown me that some prefer a slurp-free path.
"Well, that's obviously one thing they have in common. An oral aversion. Poor dears. They don't know what they're missing. Life without licks is like dried fruit. No juice."
Harry nodded and we exchanged sorrowful glances at the thought of such a Spartan existence. Meanwhile, the spanking session seemed to be reaching an ouchy climax and Frip's squeals were turning me on.
"Get the toothbrush tumblers from the bathroom and we'll listen in! I still don't believe that's my ex in there."
I was just heading off to fetch the water glasses when there was a protracted and somewhat piercing orgasmic shriek accompanied by a veritable taradiddle of paddling and yodeling. Then there was silence and a gruff male voice said:
"Next time, you won't forget that final stomach crunch, will you?"
A soft female voice murmured an unintelligible but contrite-sounding response.
Harry looked incredulous.
"Bloody hell. She never came like that with me! And she'd sooner have had her wisdom teeth extracted without an anesthetic than go over my knee for a spanking session!"
I took my husband's hand and led him back to the sofa. All was quiet on the next cabin front.
"So, why did you marry Frippery, darling? I've heard of the attraction of opposites and all that, but you're such a confirmed bon vivant and she's so prim. Was it that old chestnut about Caesar's wife being beyond reproach? I'll bet she was a virgin when you met her, am I right?"
Glumly, Harry nodded.
"You got it, smart ass. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I really thought I could teach her all the tricks of the trade, mold an innocent girl into the wanton love slave of my dreams, like that wicked chap in 'Dangerous Liaisons'. All I got was six months of dry sex and a very expensive divorce. She found a good lawyer. Now you know why I'm nuptial shy."
I kissed my husband on the forehead.
"It's all right, angel. You just have a bit of a Pygmalion complex. It's every man's dream to create the perfect partner for himself. Now, take Boner, for example. He's a prime exponent of that particular syndrome. You wanted to know why he called me Jaylene? Why, when we were living together, he defined
my whole existence, from the number of laps I swam in the morning, to what I ate for lunch, to my very name itself. To merely call me Jay was to leave me unmarked. I'm lucky I escaped without a B for Boner brand on my bum..."
Harry grunted.
"I thought you liked all that kind of thing."
"Well, yes, my love, I do, but it kind of got like kinky boot camp after a while. Too regimented and somehow lacking in joy. I like a varied diet."
My partner smiled and pinched my well-rounded thigh.
"Talking of food, pass me a banana from that fruit bowl, will you? Dinner was rudely interrupted and the breakfast buffet is still a few hours away. Tomorrow, my dear spouse, we drop anchor at Saint Martin. We'll need to keep our strength up for the tropical treats onshore."
"Aha."
If I knew Harry Neptune, those treats would be both dark and sweet...
CHAPTER SIX: THE JEWEL OF DENIAL
Our first port of call was Saint Martin, or Sint Maarten depending on which side of the French / Dutch border you happened to be at the time. This is where the duty free lives, by the yard. Jewelry, watches, electronics, cameras, booze, you name it. Colombian Emeralds and Diamonds International would disappear without trace were it not for Sint Maarten. More credit card limits have been blasted here than anywhere else in the world, including Hong Kong.
My interest in duty free is limited to the booze. I wear watches until they break, which is quite often considering how often I seem to have to flail my way out of trouble. I don't watch TV or take photographs. Jewelry is only as attractive as the woman wearing it. I remember a girl in Bali who wore bracelets made of Coca Cola cans...
Talking of Coca Cola cans, in the Cayman Islands hermit crabs use them as surrogate shells when they can't find a suitable cast-off. Not a lot of people know that.
Back to the story. The Caribbean Conch tied up on the Dutch side at Philipsburg and we lined up at the top of the gangplank with suitable paraphernalia to sample delights of shore life. In my case suitable paraphernalia was a back pocket of US dollars ready for spicy snapper with rice'n'beans and a refreshing beverage or two. When I extracted the cash from my wallet my credit cards had done a runner, but I didn't panic – or not too much anyway. I really must sign them 'Harry Neptune' instead of 'H. Neptune'. Miss Lawrence finds it too easy to assume the persona and autograph of 'Harriet'. Anyway, the damage was usually not too great.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 21
