Papa’s men delivered her furniture, clothes, and computer on Monday. We put the furniture in the garage until we could figure out what to do with it, the clothes in the closet in the spare room, and the computer on my desk. Marta explained that she did much of her work at home. We sat in the kitchen with some graph paper as we discussed how to make the house bigger. I thought about extending the rear to enlarge the kitchen and bathroom, adding a door directly from our bedroom and almost doubling the bedroom.
Behind the garage on the other side I could add another room where Marta could work. We went back and forth several times before agreeing on a scheme. I thought I could do almost all the work myself during my upcoming summer vacation.
Marta and I were invited to dinner the following Sunday. We shared the plans with Papa and Jimmy. They had some suggestions which we were glad to incorporate. I asked Papa what he knew about getting a permit. He said he would take care of it so a week later his attorney dropped by with the document, reminding me that it had to be posted and that I had to follow the building code. He also gave me the name of one of Papa’s friends who could dig out the crawl space and build the foundation. I needed this in spite of the cost; it would save me weeks of back-breaking labor.
They finished the work in less than a week. I began framing the following day. I’m not the fastest worker, but I do put in long days. It took me two days to frame and install the subfloor and three more to build the walls—exterior and interior. The roof beams were harder. First I had to figure out what angles to cut the lumber. I’m an amateur so I do things by trial and error until I get it right. I use lighter and cheaper lumber. Once I had it angled correctly I used that piece as a template for the real beams; this step took me three days. I used exterior plywood for the roof and walls—I hate that particle board a lot of builders use. That took another week. By July fourth I had the structure enclosed and the roof in place.
Of course, I didn’t work every day. It rained several days and there was fishing. In mid-June I switched from blackfish to fluke, what is known as summer flounder in the south. Unlike blacks which can be fished on any tide, fluke will only feed during the last two hours of the incoming tide and the first two of the outgoing. This means we went out at all different times. Marta and I especially enjoyed evening fishing. The temperature was somewhat cooler, Marta didn’t have to worry about sunburn, and there were many fewer boats on the water then. That’s important because I like to drift for these fish; it also meant that we could get playful—licking and sucking each other and even fucking on those occasions when we were out after dark. We loved going fishing.
I had to explain the differences between the two fish to Marta who always had assumed that fishing was fishing. It took her a while, but within a week or so she had it down pretty well. One of the things about fishing—the fish has no idea who’s on the other end of the line. A rank amateur can out fish a pro on any given day. I caught plenty of fish during our first three trips, but most of them were throw-backs—fish shorter than the legal limit. Marta, on the other hand, caught fewer but bigger fish, her largest topping the scale at four pounds.
Later in the summer the fluke fishery dried up so we changed again to porgy, or scup. These are smaller in the Sound—a pounder being big—but extremely plentiful. They’re good eating, but bony as they’re really too small to fillet. On the positive side they are easily caught and a lot of fun. We also tried trolling and chumming for bluefish, a fish I never eat. They’re much too strong tasting and oily for my taste. It was during one of these trolling sessions that Marta asked if we could visit her parents. Of course, I agreed. Marta had spoken to her parents several times and every conversation ended in tears. I was about to find out why. I knew her parents were old fashioned in the extreme so I was nervous—how would they feel about our living arrangements?
We took the train into Brooklyn on a Saturday. Their apartment was only a few blocks from the station. Brooklyn has a bad reputation, mostly unearned, as a dangerous place, but I wasn’t worried. Tony had been appointed as Marta’s bodyguard—a position he took most seriously since the Marco fiasco. Tony was armed and he was a Karate black belt. Moreover, he looked tough, even though Marta and I found him to be a genuinely nice guy.
Marta knocked on the door; it was answered by her father. I didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t his daughter and two men. He invited us in—reluctantly, I thought—and Marta introduced us, “Tata (daddy), Matka (mother) this is Peter—I owe my life to him and this is Tony, my bodyguard.” They made some unpleasant faces and the visit went downhill from there. Tony excused himself, taking station outside the door.
When Marta and her mother went to make some refreshments I took the opportunity to speak with her father, but before I could say a word he told me what he thought, “I do not approve of how you two are living. It is sinful.”
“I understand how you feel, sir and that’s one of the things I wanted to speak with you about. I’m planning on changing those arrangements…and soon.”
“So, you are just like all the others—take your pleasure and run.”
“Well, actually, sir I was going to ask for your blessing. I plan to ask Marta to marry me. I’d like for your approval, but I’m going to ask her with or without it. I love Marta and she loves me. We want to be together…always.”
“I think you are rushing things. A suitable engagement of two to three years is appropriate and, of course, you could not possibly live together during that period.”
“I was thinking more about two or three MONTHS at most, and probably less. I accept that you don’t like our living together, but we are and we have no intention of changing. As I said, I hope for your approval, because when I ask for her hand I will also ask her to remove her contraceptive implant. I hope you would want to see your grandchild.”
“Hmmm. I also do not approve of this gangster you have been associating with.”
“Mr. Vanek, that “gangster” as you refer to him has been a huge supporter of Marta. He considers her a part of his family. When she was threatened by David Cartwright’s friends he had four of his best security men guarding her day and night. Tony works for him, as well. He has never asked to be paid and if I offered he would be highly insulted. He is like a father to me—he has been my father since mine passed away almost twenty years ago. He has invited us to dinner this evening so you will have the chance to meet him and make up your own mind.”
“I liked David.”
“Sure, so did Marta, right up until the moment he tried to kill her and later sent his buddies to finish the job. Last I heard from the FBI he was crying about getting a deal by squealing on the loan sharks he was dealing with. Face it, Mr. Vanek, all Cartwright wanted was to trade Marta’s life for a million bucks.”
“I suppose what you say is true. Can you support my daughter and a family?”
“I think so, sir. I’m a teacher and you probably know we earn pretty good money on Long Island. I have a Masters Degree and I’m also a Veteran of the U.S. Marines. I earn more than $80,000 a year. I also have considerable savings and investments because I didn’t run around like an idiot when I was alone, either in the service or later.” That’s the way it went—sparring back and forth. I couldn’t believe he said he liked David after everything he’d done to Marta. He never even thanked me for saving his daughter’s life three times. Things got a bit better when Marta returned with her mother, but not much.
Around five Tony knocked on the door informing us that the limo had arrived to take us to dinner. Mr. Vanek scowled, Mrs. Vanek beamed, apparently impressed by Papa’s affluence. I took the jump seat, allowing Marta to sit with her parents; Tony sat up front. Even in the limo he was ever vigilant. We drove across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. The driver took the West Side Drive—it was faster—with spectacular views of the Hudson and the Palisades—the vertical cliffs—on the Jersey side. He exited at West 57th Street toward Madison Avenue, turning right and stopping on East 63rd Street at the Post House Restaurant. We walked in to meet Mama and Papa in the lobby.
Marta handled the introductions and I could have sworn the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Marta’s father was being a total ass. Even Marta noticed and was upset. I was revolted by his reaction when she called the Pellegrini’s Mama and Papa. We were escorted to a private room where we sat at a round table for six—Tony would eat, but he was still working. The Post House is an expensive steak house, even by Manhattan standards, and Mr. Vanek commented repeatedly about the wastefulness of spending so much for a simple meal. I would have thought he was paying. Papa took Mr. Vanek by the elbow and left the room with him in tow. They returned ten minutes later, sat down smiling, and we all experienced a major thaw. There was actual casual conversation and laughter. I would never ask Papa what he said or did, but it was magic.
Later during the meal Mrs. Vanek asked Marta how she could eat so much. We all laughed crazily until Marta described some of Mama’s meals. Even the Vanek’s laughed then. The rest of the meal went well, although everyone gasped when they saw the lobster I had ordered—it was a huge three-pounder. I shared some with Marta and I could see her mom approve of how I treated her. Maybe she could thaw her father.
We said good-bye to Mama and Papa and returned to the limo. We dropped the Vanek’s off at their apartment, commenting on how we both had to be up early to work on the addition. It was almost ten when the limo dropped us at the house. Marta and I went in; Tony was relieved by two evening guards. Marta led me to the bedroom, but I resisted. “There’s something I need to do first. C’mon, I want to show you something.” I sat her on the couch, knelt on the floor, and reached under a cushion. “I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while, but I wanted to speak with your dad first. Now I’ve done that so there’s nothing stopping me…except my own nervousness. So here goes…Marta, I love you more than anything. I can’t conceive of ever being without you. Will…you…,” I took a deep breath, “marry me?” I whipped out the ring and showed it to her.
I can’t say that she saw it, at least not right away. Her face was in her hands. I couldn’t believe she was shocked. When she dropped her hands I could see the huge smile on her face. She held her shaking hand out for me; I put the ring, a one-carat solitaire, on her finger. She leaned down to kiss me. Then she stood, pulled me up, and led me to the bedroom—a perfect ending to an imperfect day.
We made love all night—over and over—in every position imaginable and even in some I couldn’t imagine. We finally stopped around five, so exhausted we couldn’t stay awake. We woke at ten and made love again, Marta rolling me on my back and riding me as she rubbed her clit and her nipples into my body. I grabbed her firm ass and pulled her down, sinking my cock deep into her body. As we moved together I lifted her off the bed with every thrust—over and over, harder and harder until, at last I erupted into her. Marta shivered and shook, coming just as my last fountain of semen drenched her vaginal walls.
I held her close, kissing her cheek, “I have one other thing to ask you.” She lifted her head looking at me questioningly. “Will you please lose that implant thing? I’ll bet Celia can point you to a doctor who can do it.” Marta nodded happily and jumped from the bed. “I need to make some calls,” she shouted from the hall. I was surprised at the order—first, she called Celia then Marianne. Those calls seemed to take forever. Then she phoned Andrea—that was only a trifle shorter. Her next call was to Mama. I knew that would be a long one. She even insisted on talking to me, telling me it was about time. I knew she wanted me to hook up with Marianne or Celia, but that would be like incest—they were more like sisters to me than anything else. Finally, after more than two hours on the phone, she called her mother.
Mama invited us to dinner the next evening and we talked about the wedding. We wanted to marry soon, but we also wanted a proper wedding and reception. I wondered where we could find a suitable hall on such short notice. Papa scowled, “Why not use Casa Pellegrini? Didn’t you ever see ‘The Godfather?’” We discussed it for an hour and agreed—as if there was ever any way we could possibly disagree.
I only had a few friends from work and, of course the entire Pellegrini family. Marta had a few girlfriends however Papa and Mama had tons of friends. Papa arranged for a Cardinal to marry us on their patio. The reception would be in their back yard which was enclosed by a high hedge and totally private. It was set for the last Saturday in August. Marta and I would have a week for a honeymoon before I had to return to work the Tuesday after Labor Day.
Marta’s mother was thrilled but her father refused to participate. Frankly, I was relieved, especially when Papa volunteered to give her away. He also paid for the entire affair. It was a generous and much appreciated gift. I had nothing to do with the dress. With four Pellegrini women and Marta my opinion wasn’t needed. I did learn from Marta though that the shop initially told them that the alterations would take six weeks, however after Mama had a word with the owner in private that was suddenly changed to two, much to the chagrin of the saleswoman.
Several weeks before the wedding, after weeks of legal wrangling, the three would-be assassins made bail. I was worried and told Papa of my concerns. “I don’t think you have any reason for concern” he said, a small smile on his face. He was right. A week later the one I had shot in the arm was killed during a mugging. Four days after that a second was killed in a hit-and-run. The driver was never identified—the car was stolen. Two weeks later the third committed suicide, at least that’s what the coroner’s decision was. David Cartwright was still in custody in Bellevue; he had already been denied bail. Now all I had to worry about was the wedding.
Papa was old school when it came to a wedding. No disc jockey for him; he hired a six piece orchestra along with a locally famous caterer to serve prime rib cooked to order, bartenders, waiters and every other kind of servers imaginable. There would be a cocktail hour immediately following the ceremony. Two open bars would accommodate the 240 guests. Later dinner would be served at tables set up under a huge canopy with sides that could be lowered in the event of rain. If that happened a large portable air conditioning unit would keep the area comfortable. It can be hot and humid in August. Fortunately, it was a clear day with the high around 80 with a mild breeze coming off the Sound.
I thought I had been nervous my first day in Afghanistan as a sniper and again my first day as a teacher. It was nothing compared to getting married. I was calm as can be when I faced the four attackers, but now I was literally shaking in my shoes. Standing on the patio with Jimmy as my best man I almost hyperventilated and I think I would have had it not been for Jimmy. He cracked a few jokes about how terrible it was being married. Then I remembered that I was hopelessly in love with Marta and that we’d been living together for almost three months—this was just going to make it official. I relaxed right up until the orchestra began the “Wedding March.” Then I almost peed in my pants.
I turned into the house and got the first glimpse of my bride; it was seeing an angel. Marta wore a form-fitting gown—strapless with little baby pearls all around what she later told me was the bodice. A long train flowed behind her along the shiny floor. Papa looked great in his tux, but next to Marta I didn’t think anyone would notice. He led Marta to me, lifted her veil and kissed her gently on the cheek before joining Mama in the first row of guests. We faced the Cardinal who was resplendent in his bright red robes.
The good thing about having the wedding here was that we wouldn’t have a Mass. I hadn’t been to Mass since my mother died. Marta and I would rather go fishing than pray. This would be a straight wedding ceremony—some readings about wives being submissive to their husbands and other wedding related stuff before we exchanged vows. We didn’t really have a lot of time to prepare for the wedding so no personal vows—we stuck to the time honored traditional ones. I remembered nothing of the ceremony other than saying “I do” and exchanging rings. I woke up when I was told I could kiss the bride, something I truly relished. Everyone applauded and I led Marta into the house. Marta’s train was removed and I told her again how beautiful she was and how much I loved her. “I have a special present for you back at the house,” I told her. “I have two special presents for you, too,” she replied. We went out to greet our guests.
We did all the sappy traditional wedding stuff—the first dance and even the dance with the bride and daddy with Papa substituting gladly for Marta’s absent (hopefully forever) father. Later, after we had all feasted, the guests came to congratulate us and drop off their envelopes. Each would contain a congratulatory card and either a check or cash. I was a bit surprised when Jimmy gave us two. I was about to question him, but Jimmy said, “Don’t ask…just take it.” Then I understood—it was from Mama and Papa as if they hadn’t done enough.
The wedding took place at two; we left at seven with a white silk bag filled with cash. We would have extra bodyguards tonight. We changed into T’s and shorts and dumped the bag on the kitchen table. We opened each carefully, noting on each card how much each had given. Our friends gave us $50 each on average; Mama and Papa’s friends averaged $500 which we thought was a lot for total strangers, but then they were trying to please Mama and Papa—we were just the fortunate recipients. Jimmy and Andrea gave us $1,000. Mama and Papa, in addition to spending $25,000 on the dress and wedding reception, gave us $10,000. We called them immediately to thank them for their generosity and for everything they had done for us since I had first plucked Marta from the sea.
I went to the addition and brought back Marta’s gift—it was two wrapped packages, one a long slender one. “I think I know what this is,” she said smiling. She was right—a seven-foot Shimano graphite rod; the other box held a Shimano Stella spinning reel. ”Oh, Peter isn’t this the reel you always wanted but thought you couldn’t afford?”
I nodded with a smile. “Blackfish season will be starting again soon,” I told her, “I want you to be ready.” She stood and kissed me. Her eyes said, “Thank you,” for her. “Now for your gifts; first, I got this—with Celia’s help.” She dropped her shorts. Her neatly trimmed pubic hair was gone, shaved away. In its place was a tattoo—a pink heart with the word “Peter’s” and an arrow pointing down toward her pussy neatly inscribed in the center. I looked at her and laughed, “I love it…almost as much as I love you, but I think your next visit to the gynecologist is going to be really interesting.”
“Now, your extra special gift--I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a while to see it—about seven and a half months. I think I’m pregnant.”
Unfortunately, Marta got her period three days later. We concluded that the stress of the wedding had thrown her cycle off. It just made us more determined. We practiced two or more times a day throughout our honeymoon in Montauk at the end of Long Island’s south fork—the fishing Mecca of the east coast—less than three hours away. We chartered a boat sharing with two men to go deep sea fishing. We agreed we’d take turns in the chair and drew lots. Larry went first, I went second, and Marta third. Ben, Larry’s friend drew the last. We drifted and chummed, lines in the water all the time. Larry and I both got big bluefish over ten pounds—fun to catch, but basically useless for anything other than bait. We chummed some more and cut up the blues for bait. It was Marta’s turn in the chair when one of the reels began to click—a shark was nosing the bait. For vicious killers they can be surprisingly delicate. Marta waited ten seconds before pulling up on the rod and setting the hook. Line flew off the reel as Marta was buckled into the chair and the rod clipped to her harness. Marta used her legs and back, exactly as I had taught her, and reeled in on the down swing of the rod. The fish took a lot of line off the huge deep sea reel, but she had plenty left when the fish began to tire. I stood behind Marta, encouraging her and massaging her shoulders and back. Larry brought her a soda from the cooler, helping her to sip from the can, as she continued to fight the fish. It was almost thirty minutes later that she brought the leader to the boat. One of the mates grabbed it and pulled the fish parallel to the boat. It was an eight foot tiger shark which they estimated at more than four hundred pounds. I took a few photos of Marta standing above the big shark and we released it. Marta almost collapsed in my arms, grinning ear to ear. That was the last fish caught that day.
We took the next day off, going to Montauk’s Hither Hills State Park. We stopped off at a deli for a picnic lunch, parked and headed for the beach. I had brought beach chairs and an umbrella; I’m really careful about being in the sun, especially with Marta’s fair skin. We read the Newsday I had bought, laughing when we saw the headline way back in the local section—“Fisherman weds Mermaid.” There was even a photo taken by the photographer Papa had hired. Marta looked great; I was also in the picture.
The next day we had chartered a guide with a 25-foot center console to go right off Montauk Point for giant striped bass, some of which can reach 70 pounds. We drifted with the current dragging whole live eels about ten to twenty feet down. I got the first strike, set the hook, and eventually pulled in a twenty pounder. I had the mate release it. I got the next two strikes, landing one—a fifteen pounder, also released. Marta was happy for me, but she wanted some action of her own and she got her wish just before noon when the tide turned. Her new rod bent in two and the fish pulled some line against the drag, but the Stella is a premium grade reel. The drag was as smooth as silk—it should be, the reel cost me almost $800. Marta raised the rod tip and cranked on the down swing. Over and over she repeated except when the fish pulled line. Cranking then will only twist the line. Patience was the watchword here. We could all tell this was a big fish, probably a cow which grow much larger than the males.
Every time Marta got the fish close it would see the boat and bolt. I encouraged Marta to be patient. She had the fish out of the rocks so there was little chance of a break-off. Finally, after more than twenty minutes she pulled the exhausted fish to the boat. The mate netted the fish even though he would have preferred the gaff. Gaffing a fish will kill it. Marta and I had agreed to release all the Stripers. Hers weighed in at 46.3 pounds. I took a few photos and we released the fish, watching it swim slowly into the depths.
We emailed Celia, Marianne, Andrea and Mama that afternoon, just as we had done when Marta caught her shark. I was finishing the last message when Marta danced in front of me stark naked, both hands pointing to her new tattoo. I pressed “Send” and followed her to the shower. Marta still had her period, but we had never let that get in our way, except that we had agreed—no oral. We stood in the tiny shower washing each other, kissing and groping. I was a bit surprised when Marta pushed her finger up my ass.
We had never discussed any kind of anal; I was willing to explore, but never if it meant hurting Marta. She fell to her knees, no easy feat in this shower which was barely two feet square, and pushed me against the wall. She licked the tip of my cock and sucked me into her throat. Marta had told me she had limited oral experience before meeting me—she had never been very motivated. I guess love can cause a lot of changes; it sure did change me.
I pulled Marta up, slipped my arms under her thighs and lifted her. I pushed her against the wall and felt her hand guide my cock into her cunt. She looped her arms around my neck, kissed me as I began pounding her pussy. It was too soon to work on getting her pregnant—this was just for fun and love. The big advantage here was that every thrust would rub her G-spot and Marta had an extremely sensitive one. The slightest touch could send her into spasms of ecstasy. She came three times, screaming into my mouth every time until I joined her by cumming hard, sending five big ropes of hot white semen into her. Spent, we collapsed clumsily to the tile floor.
We fished the following day on a party, or head, boat. They were still fishing fluke here at Montauk and we were more than happy to join them. Although we drifted, the fishing was different here—we were drifting in and among rocks in fairly deep water—more than fifty feet deep. We needed to use heavy sinkers to keep our rigs on the bottom. Fortunately, Marta’s new rod and reel was strong enough to handle the load. I used one of the boat’s rods—adequate, but not great. We fished most of the morning getting only the occasional strike until two hours before high tide when things heated up big time. Marta got a heavy strike and she played the fish masterfully, bringing a 5.2 pounder to the rail.
No sooner had the mate rebaited her hook than she had another strike, this time pulling up a barely legal 18-incher. The fishing was hot and heavy for the better part of an hour—Marta had four keepers and I had three. I also had three throwbacks. At the end of the day the mates filleted the fish and held the final weighing for the largest fish pool. Marta’s five-pounder won easily; she collected almost $200. “Now I can take you to dinner tonight,” she told me. This was hardly a revelation—we were on our honeymoon so we went out to eat every night.
We put our fillets in the cooler and filled it with ice from our motel. I was really beat when I returned to our room. Marta led me once again to the shower. The hot water felt great on my tired muscles. I allowed Marta to wash me until I realized that she must have been at least as tired as I was. I took the soap from her and washed her luscious body, kissing her all over, ending with her sweet lips. I dried her lovingly and led her to bed.
We climbed beneath the blankets and held each other, savoring the sensation of each other’s skin. Marta’s skin was so soft and so smooth it was like cuddling with a sheet of velvet. Marta pulled back a few inches, repositioned her mouth over mine and kissed me, her tongue exploring my mouth as she ground her lips against mine. I fell back, pulling Marta onto my left side. “Nap?” I asked her. She nodded her agreement; we closed our eyes and fell asleep.
We slept for almost two hours. I woke when I felt Marta’s fingers playing on my cock which quickly responded by growing to its maximum length and girth. “Ummmm, nice, I love what I’m feeling, my darling,” Marta whispered to me.
“Oh, yeah? I think you’re going to love what happens next even more,” I responded.
“Oh, goody—I really hope so.” She finished as she climbed over me to straddle my hips, maintaining eye contact the entire time. She gripped my hard cock and rubbed it into her slit, moistening and lubricating both of us. Slowly she sank onto me, whispering, “I love you,” as my cock disappeared into her body. Just as slowly as she sank down, now she rocked. I felt as though I could feel every square centimeter of her vaginal linings as she moved up and down on me, teasing me as she did. In time her passion grew and as it did her pace increased to match the level of her emotions. I joined in, driving deep into Marta as we pushed each other toward our orgasms. Faster and faster we went. Marta flexed her muscles, squeezing my cock even tighter. I reached up, rolling her nipples and pinching them slightly with my nails. Marta threw back her head as a massive spasm ran through her body. I could feel her shudder and shake, yet I still drove into her until I could stand it no more—I came hard flooding her with my cream. So much did I cum that it ran out of her and covered my abdomen.
We fell back onto the bed exhausted, but eventually hunger drove us from our comfort. We rose, showered and dressed and I allowed Marta to take me to dinner. The following morning we drove home, driving through Riverhead and miles of former potato and duck farms. We called Papa and Jimmy when we returned. That’s when we learned that the District Attorney had agreed that I had acted in self defense the night I had dealt with the four would-be assassins. There would be no charges against me; I could pick up my rifle at the Fifth Precinct at any time.