Some fun, some frustration, some awesome sex as I continue to chase my BDSM beauty.
HOW WE MET
Chapter 13:
THE REGATTA
Miami, here we come! I’ve been there on my Love Boat several times. It’s always an adventure. On one passage, I anchored in the lee of Fisher Island. It looked sheltered and was marked as an “anchorage area” on the charts. There were several other boats at anchor when I arrived mid-afternoon. The charts show an area of deeper water, mostly surrounded my shoals. I dropped hook a safe distance from the shallows and relaxed. About midnight, a raucous storm blew in off the Atlantic Ocean. Little Fisher Island proved no match for this dust up and I was worried about dragging anchor into the shoals. The storm raged and somehow, I survived and did not end up on the bottom. The next morning when assessing the damage, I discovered that the forces of wind and water had bent my anchor snubber, a ¼ inch thick stainless steel plate, rendering it useless. This put considerable pressure on my windlass, which, fortunately, stayed in place.
I made reservations at a large marina in Coconut Grove, just to the south of Miami proper. The marina has several hundred slips and dozens of mooring balls. I chose to pay the high price for a slip at the docks. This affords me the luxury of shore power, water, and easy access to walk or taxi anywhere. Once secured in my slip, I relaxed with my dram in the cockpit. It had been a rigorous sail, three full days at sea, and I was tired. I woke up in the cockpit at 3 a.m. from a deep sleep. I found my way below and collapsed on my soft queen size bed in the Captain’s quarters.
I had been so exhausted from my race to get to Miami, to catch up to Heather, that I slept until noon. Groggy, I brewed coffee and cooked up some sausage patties and eggs for brunch. With my belly full and my head clearing, I pondered my next move. Heather had said that she was headed to Miami and possibly the Islands in either the Bahamas or the Caribbean. This encompassed a whole lot of territory to cover, looking for my Dame Harmony. I hardly knew where to begin.
I walked to the marina office. This was a huge marina, adjacent to a large city, so everything was the opposite of the “mom and pop” marinas so prevalent elsewhere. The office staff was brusque, official, business-like and of absolutely no help whatsoever. Strike one. I wandered across the street to a café and set up my laptop at a corner table. I scoured the ‘net for anything I could find. I called every marina listed in the area to repeatedly hear “Nope, never heard of such a boat, or the lady you describe.” Strike two. I finished my Cuban coffee and ambled, dejected, back to my Love Boat.
After a late afternoon nap, I rose in a funk. It was all seeming hopeless. She had outsmarted me, disappeared, and put too much distance between us. I was losing hope that I would ever be able to find my true love, my soulmate. Her vibe had been so strong, so overpowering, and it had seemed as if it was directed at me. How could I have been so wrong? Had I missed something basic that caused the whole thing to collapse? I was fraught with depression, uncertainty, and loss of direction. I was feeling as if this was strike three. “You’rrrreee OUT!!”
Feeling the need for some company, I wandered up to the marina headquarters. There was a captain’s lounge, but it did not seem well used. This was apparently not a highly social marina. I guess most boaters were just passing through on their way to or from. The room was good sized with the obligatory televisions, tables and chairs, whatnot, but sparse and basic. What you’d expect from a city owned facility. There were a few boaters, mostly couples, either watching insipid television, reading books or huddled over charts and laptops planning their next passage. There was one older couple sitting at a cocktail table enjoying each other’s company, not otherwise engaged. I approached.
“Greetings! I’m Sailor on Blow Me. I just got in yesterday. How are you folks doing?”
“We’re fine, thank you. I’m Jerry and my first mate Matilda. We’re on the trawler Fading Away.”
I engaged them in conversation, talking about the usual boating issues: weather, calamities, breakdowns. The boating life is certainly not dull. Eventually, I turned the conversation to my quest: information about Heather and Q. My God, they knew of the boat. Holy Jesus. They had seen it in these waters just days prior. Apparently, they were returning from an outing and saw Q leaving this very marina.
“Quite the vessel, isn’t she? Both my wife and I commented. It’s not often you see boats crafted like that any longer. Matilda, honey, you even snapped a photo, didn’t you?”
Matilda reached for her cellphone. “I think so. It really was a beautiful boat. Let’s see. Yes, here it is. The picture’s not very clear, the sun was behind it, and the waves were making me unsteady.”
The picture was in fact Q, but it was blurry and you couldn’t see who was at the helm. But it had been here. Nearby, just days ago.
I peppered them with questions to which they had little to offer. The only other thing they relayed was that they had mentioned the unique boat to the office staff in passing. The staff had said that there was some sort of annual gathering of unique, antique boats that either had just happened or was about to happen, they weren’t certain.
Sure enough, my research skills from being an attorney for decades prior came in handy. A simple visit to the internet disclosed that a local boat club had sponsored and organized a Regatta of unique or antique boats just the week prior. It had involved a flotilla, of sorts, in Biscayne Bay, just south of Miami. A few dozen boats had drifted around, showing off, and streamed in a parade past several marinas in the area. I contacted the leader of the boat club. He was a liveaboard in the marina that I was currently in. I made arrangements to meet with him in the Captain’s Lounge early the next day.
Over coffee and some doughnuts, I organized my questions for Ed, it turns out. I decided to come in the back door, so to speak. My gambit was to act as if I had just seen the boat in their wonderful regatta, and wanted to purchase it. Surely, he would have some contact information for my ephemeral Ms. Harmony.
Ed did not look like the typical boater. Mid 50 yr. old, he looked more like a jock from the ‘70s. Crew cut, erect posture, muscular, tight shirt stretched at the biceps. The whole nine yards. His handshake nearly broke my fingers.
“Don’t know a whole lot about that boat. Sure was a beauty, though, wasn’t she? And that cute little captain lady. If I wasn’t married, oh, boy. Nooo… she didn’t give us much, and we discovered later that what she did give us didn’t match up.”
“I’m more interested in the boat itself, Ed. I’m not looking to buy a captained vessel. This is more of an investment for me. You see, Ed, I collect vintage and unique boats. I have a half dozen vintage Chris Craft woodens up in Cedarville, Michigan, I’ve got a few unique ones scattered about. There’s a 55 foot Hunter I have in the Keys. Most unusual boat. It’s neither deck stepped nor keel stepped. The fucking mast stops about 2 inches above the deck. Supported by 3 angled rods. 7 foot draft. Built for racing. Fucking boat feels like it gets up on a plane. 23 knots. It’s quite a ride, Ed.”
“Interesting, Mr. Sailor. Sounds like a fun boat.”
“So, Ed, what else can you tell me about this boat? Where was it headed? Maybe I can track it down elsewhere.”
“To be honest, Mr. Sailor, the captain was very vague in our dealings. And, I’m ashamed to say, her fine looks were very distracting. She certainly was a looker. She did ask a few novice questions about going through customs in the Bahamas. But she also talked about sailing around the Gulf of Trump, just to get to know her boat better. I met her as she was coming into the dock to register for the Regatta. She missed the dock entirely and had to do a go around. I didn’t judge, though. That’s an awful big boat for such a tiny lady to single hand.”
“Ed, I’m still interested in buying that boat. Money is not an object. I’ll even wager a sizeable finder’s fee if you can locate her, Ed. Maybe I could get a peek at the papers she filed with you. I might see something in there that could prove helpful in finding that boat. And if you could call some of your boater network friends maybe we can find her together. Many thanks, Ed.”
Chapter 14:
THE BOAT’S NOT FOR SALE
The papers that Ed shared with me were of no help at all. Nothing matched up with anything else, neither internally among the forms nor externally on various websites. They were mostly useless pieces of paper with no validity, and I had spent nearly a whole day chasing another dead end clue. But I had heard that she was looking at either the Bahamas or the Gulf of Trump. Either was fine but the Gulf was my stomping grounds. I knew almost every port, every marina from the Keys all the way to the panhandle and around to Mexico. I had also engaged Ed and his cronies to search for Q. Something was bound to surface sooner or later.
That night I sat in the cockpit, drowning my sorrows in yet another English cut glass double old fashioned glass filled with expensive single malt scotch. I studied the stars, I clenched my fists pounding on the deck, I howled at the moon, trying to get a bead on Heather’s whereabouts. I still felt her presence, but the signal seemed to be fading away, getting weaker by the day. I poured yet another tumblerful and slumped in the cockpit, desperate for any sign, any shred of information that would lead me to her. The scotch worked, sending me into a fantasy slumber. My brain was trying to locate her, and it was roaming endlessly, amorphously through the fog.
Out of the clear blue, my phone shrieked at me, jolting me. With clouds in my head, I found it and looked. Oh, goodness. My BFF. “Private number – Restricted.” I tapped answer and before I could even say “Hello,” I heard Heather’s voice “The boat’s not for sale.” Click. Dropped call.
All my brain would allow was “…but deliver me from evil, For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She knew. She knew that I was searching for her. She knew that I was close. Her intellect had told her that I was persistent, I was thorough, and I had my sights set on something. Was that off-putting to her? Was this some sort of “catch me if you can” game she was playing? Hide and seek? Tag, you’re it? Was she simply toying with me to test my faith, my resolve, my desire, to see if I passed the test and was worthy? My mind shut down, every circuit on overload, unable to process anything more.
With a clear head in the morning, I assessed what to do with this alien contact. Being able to access cellphone records or satellite phone records would be dispositive. But those records would only be available if there was an on-going legal action. They would be produced pursuant to a discovery motion and a court issued subpoena. There was no active litigation, no possibility of court involvement. I guess, theoretically, I could file a Summons and Complaint against Heather or Q, but I had no grounds. I had no legitimate claim against either her or the boat. Once again, my non-existent Captain’s License was a losing card.
Despondent, withdrawn, I crawled into my laptop, trying search term after search term. I was steadfast in my efforts. I realized that Heather was more than smart enough to latch onto a satellite phone and ditch any land based cellular service. And sat phones worked anywhere on the planet. My gut told me that she was nearby, and recent sightings confirmed it. I could roll the dice, guessing which way she had gone: Bahamas or into the Gulf. Then, I could bat off and just sail aimlessly around the bottom end of Florida or to the Islands, hoping against hope that I would find that elusive needle in the haystack. Or I could wait a day or so and see if anything came up. I couldn’t find my dice easily, so I poured a drink and settled in to ponder and plan.
Once again, joy rained on me. My “restricted” friend lit up my phone screen. “Hello? Heather?”
“Look, Dr. Sailor. I see your tricks, your stalking, your pursuit. I’m not worth it, Sailor. Give up. Just let it go. Let me disappear. I’ve been through trials and tribulations that you wouldn’t believe. I need to be alone for now. I have a lot to process, and you showed me the way to handle it. Boating is hard but it’s soft, too. It was you who gave me this idea and the soft side of it is working. It’s helping me. For that I thank you. But as for the rest of it … please back off. Don’t pursue me. Let it go, Sailor. I’m really not worth it.”
I screamed into the phone “DON’T HANG UP!! PLEASE!! Let me have a say, I beg you.” My phone app showed the call as still connected although there was dead silence. “Heather, I’m genuinely concerned about you. You had zero boating experience before you climbed aboard my boat. You’re not equipped to handle what’s coming your way. Believe me, please, dear Heather. I’ve been doing this most of my life. You’re in danger. Won’t you please allow me to guide you, protect you? Please, Heather. Please.” I hated to grovel and beg, yet nothing else had worked so far. It was all I could do.
The pause was so long, I looked at my phone twice to see if the call was still connected or not. After what seemed like a lifetime, she cleared her throat. It was sort of a tender hiccup, almost as if she was shedding a tear, choked up. I heard her blow her nose into a tissue. “Sailor, you’re a wonderful man. But not now, just not…” As she trailed off, the phone getting farther away from her mouth, I could hear her sobbing before the phone went dead.
No question now. Find those dice, roll them and trust that they’re right. Up into the Gulf or over to the Islands? Which way. I hoped that my earnest warnings to her made her question her ability to successfully traverse the open water to the Bahamas, crossing the Gulf Stream, the inevitable storms passing through. I wanted to cast off, to follow her vibe wherever it took me. Like Captain Jack Sparrow’s compass in the Pirates movie series, my compass was twirling around, filled with strange symbols, stopping here, then moving 270 degrees, then swinging about wildly. The needle wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t give me a direction to follow. I lay awake most of the night with sugarplums dancing in my head.
Early the next morning I jumped back onto my laptop and my phone. Only five calls in and I hit paydirt. Q had taken on fuel at a marina on Marco Island. Not only was Marco very tricky to get into with a very shallow approach amid constantly shifting sandbars, but it was a five day sail provided everything went swimmingly. That’s never a given on a boat. The unexpected this, the overlooked that. Something always went wrong or wiped out an itinerary. She was only a few days sail away, yet it felt like she was on the other side of the planet. I made plans to cast off in the morning.
Being my last chance at the luxuries of landlubbing for one last night, I decided to treat myself to a restaurant meal. I gussied up taking only a sponge bath. I even splashed on some stinky cologne which I rarely wear. It was used only to mask the base boater smell we vagabonds seem to carry with us. I walked through the marina and across the street. A half dozen restaurants begged for my business.
Seated in a snuggery trying to be haute cuisine, I ordered a dirty martini, gin, anchovy stuffed olives. The buxom beauty taking my order raised one eyebrow. “I’m not sure we have those olives, sir. I know we have bleu cheese stuffed ones. Would that work?”
“Sorry, darling. Allergic to bleu cheese. Anchovy stuffed or just plain. No bleu cheese.”
I found her to be appealing. Buxom, pretty face, body looking like it could last all night getting fucked non-stop. When she delivered my drink, I commenced operation “fuck the waitress tonight.” As we bantered back and forth discussing my dinner choices, her demeanor went from apathetic to “he seems interesting.” When she cleared my dirty dishes away, I ordered a Rusty Nail. I used the name of the drink to double entendre and cajole myself into a date with her for later.
When the restaurant closed at 10 p.m., I was waiting outside. She was the penultimate one to leave, only the manager behind her. After he locked up he called to her “You be careful, now, Taryn. Want me to walk you to your car?”
“I’ll be alright, Ted. Thanks for the offer. See you tomorrow for the lunch bunch, OK?”
Even though Ted was watching, she slipped her arm into mine and we headed to the crosswalk. “We never got officially introduced before. My name’s Sailor. Pleased to meet you, Taryn.”
“Graced, Sailor. Now just where are you taking me? Is your car nearby?”
“Just follow me, darling. I have a surprise for you.”
As we walked through the marina and down the dock, her head was swiveling this way and that, looking at all the boats. She kept making unintelligible sounds “Wha … Look … Wher … Whoa … Huh …. Sailor, are you really a pirate and you’re going to kidnap me? Remember, I work at noon tomorrow. Ted will call out the National Guard if I don’t show up.”
“No worries, Taryn. Trust me. I’ll move heaven and earth to get you to the restaurant before the lunch bunch arrives. Isn’t that what you called your paycheck? The lunch bunch?”
She chuckled at my lame attempt at humor just as we arrived at my Love Boat. Once aboard I suggested that we go below to make ourselves a nightcap and then return to the cockpit to enjoy the cool evening breeze and the stars above. She followed me below and looked around as I gathered the ingredients for our cocktail. As I began to pour, she slithered up to me, draping her arm over my shoulder and pressing her body against mine.
“Looks like you’ve worked as a bartender before, Sailor.”
“Been tending bar down here for too long. If you’re interested in some illicit smoke, there are some rolled joints in that wooden box on the nav station.” Realizing that, as a landlubber, she wouldn’t know what a “nav station” was, I pointed. She extricated a couple of them and stepped back toward me. Space on a boat is, well, let’s just say it’s cozy. As I turned around toward her, we came face-to-face, inches from each other. My hands were full with our drinks, but she wrapped hers around my neck and planted a full mouth kiss on me. A wet one, given with her full lips. No tongue, just a prelude kiss to warm things up.
We settled into the cockpit, and she lit a joint. As we passed it between us, she kept inching closer to me. Eventually, we were touching, the joint was finished, and we crushed into each other, kissing passionately, sucking air, moaning, and copping feels of each other’s privates. I felt like a teenager, having my first real makeout session with the girl of my dreams. Our heads flopped side-to-side, our tongues played tag, our hands kept busy.
When we came up for air and to wet our whistle, she put her hand in my crotch, covering the outline of my extra appendage. “He seems ready to be unleashed. Am I right, Sailor?”
“Follow me.”
And unleash him we did. Knowing that I was leaving on a minimum five day passage, I took full advantage. I had been right earlier. Taryn’s pussy was perfect for my purposes. Robust, almost industrial, built to take cock. I gave and she took. She gave and I took. All of it for hours on end. Every half hour or so we’d take a break, have a drink or a smoke, and change position. It didn’t seem to matter what position we were in. Our bodies fit together seamlessly, my cock fit her pussy like a key in a lock. I was able to unlock a half dozen orgasms and she succeeded at least four times with me.
At 2 a.m., I walked her to her car. Standing next to her open door in the dimly lit parking lot, no one around, she strapped in, reached out, and slid my zipper down. “A bit closer, Sailor. I want one last taste. Something we can each remember the other by.” She fished him out of my pants and gave me an abbreviated blowjob. Just enough to remember each other by.
Chapter 15:
I GET SPANKED
Casting off in the morning, I had a navigation decision to make. Of course, rounding the piss hole of the Florida Peninsula required either going all the way around the Dry Tortugas or cutting through the Keys at the famed Seven Mile bridge in Marathon. That was a no-brainer. Marathon is a boater’s haven. The crown jewel is Boot Key Harbor, a very large, protected harbor containing nearly 300 mooring balls and a few open areas for boats to anchor. Boot Key Harbor has a steady turn-over of boaters on their way from here to there. It also has a sizable number of boaters who have taken up permanent residence there. It is a prime stopping point to reprovision, take on fuel and water, and enjoy a shower and a restaurant meal.
My navigation decision was whether to hug the coastline from Marathon to Marco Island, or to head far offshore, sailing in open water, out of sight of land. It was highly doubtful that Heather and Q had stayed in Marco. So, hugging the coast might not make sense. It might be wiser to head offshore and aim for, say, Tampa Bay, halfway up the west coast of Florida and the next big port north. If Heather had stopped on Marco for fuel, her next major port would be Tampa Bay.
A full day’s sail got me from Miami to Marathon. I merely dropped anchor rather than taking a mooring ball. I knew that my stay would be very temporary. I had arrived in Boot Key Harbor late in the day, so I took the early morning to reposition my anchor spot. In the evening dusk when I dropped hook, it was difficult to see how close I was to the neighboring boats. Turns out that I was too close. I weighed anchor, moved my boat into a better position, and dropped my keeper. Then I dumped the dinghy and zoomed into shore. Because I wasn’t on a mooring ball, there was no rent to pay. But these crafty marina operators had all the angles covered. You must pay to lodge your dinghy at the dinghy dock. This also gave you access to the other amenities, like showers and laundry.
A brief shower, a quick visit to the grocery and liquor stores were my goals ashore. Returning from the shopping, I ran into several boater friends. I had visited Boot Key Harbor several time over the years. The Tiki Hut was the place. There was always something happening there. Whether it was a single boater chatting on the phone or a full blown luau with BBQ grills, unlimited drink, and hot tush. I had made some dear friends in my times in this harbor, and had even had the pleasure of exploring some of those hot tushies.
Headed from the taxi to the dinghy took me right past the Tiki Hut. There were six or eight boaters, tipping some brews with the strong odor of cannabis wafting about. Like a magnet, I wandered over. “Hey, Sailor! When’d you get here? Long time, no see! What up, brother?”
It was Jeremy, kind of a low life, a grifter. No real job, trashy boat, always broke, bumming beer, pot and cigarettes off every person who crossed his path. “Hey, JT. Yes, long time no see. Just got in late yesterday. Not staying, though. Got somewhere to be up the west side, skinny water and all.”
I knew three of the others in the group and exchanged pleasantries with them all. Among the crowd were two hotties, one sitting alone, apart from the rest. Her cute little bottom was resting comfortably on the top of the picnic table, her phone held down in her lap, staring out at the boats in the harbor. I hit the doobie passed my way a couple of times and moved over by her. As is the way with most boaters, I just plopped down on the table bench next to her. She turned her pretty face toward me, a sad, vacant stare, and a few tears running down her cheek.
“Is this not a good time?” I asked plaintively.
She sniffled and wiped her tears away. In a very dejected tone “No, it’s okay. I’m just kind of down. Sorry.”
“Well, what’s got you so down, muffin? I haven’t seen any sunk boats in the harbor. Should I just leave you alone?”
“No, no, nothing like that. And you can stay.”
She reached into her soft sided cooler and extracted a can of some newfangled drink. “Want one?” she offered.
“Sure. Thanks.” It was some god awful brew, couldn’t determine what it was trying to taste like, but it was wretched.
We sat in silence as I did my best to imbibe the can of witch’s potion in my hand. She swilled hers down in no time, burped, and reached for another.
“Something’s got you by the short hairs, sweetie. I’d like to help if I can. Care to share, to unload on me?”
She started talking and crying at the same time. Between those crying gasps and her gulping her poison brew she shared that her boyfriend had broken up with her, kicked her off the boat, and had left the harbor. She was all alone and had nowhere to go. She was distraught, helpless and in need.
“That’s terrible that he would do something so mean, so rude to such a pretty woman. I’m sorry he did that” I said in empathy.
“Yeah, I know. It was pretty heartless and cruel, wasn’t it. I heard he ran off with that skank Rita. Never did like her, you know?”
“Well, I never met either Rita or your boyfriend, I mean EX boyfriend, so I don’t know.” Seeing this pretty waif in distress tugged at my heart. And my penis. She was hot as a deep fryer and needed some comfort and loving. “Look, honey. You’re in distress. I can’t offer you a place to stay, I’m leaving in the morning. But you’re welcome to come stay on my boat for a while, maybe even overnight. I know lots of people in the harbor. Maybe I can rustle up somewhere for you to stay. How about it?”
It was nice to have such eye candy aboard. Especially one who was familiar with boats and knew her way around. She had only brought her small cooler and a mid-sized duffle containing all her worldly possessions. We went below and I suggested that she take a moment to freshen up, wash her face, maybe change into a fresh outfit. Anything to distract her from her woes. The forward Vee berth in the Love Boat has a bed, a hanging closet, and a sink. No toilet, just a sink. She disappeared into the cabin and shut the door. I could hear her as she washed up. Suddenly, the door flew open and there she stood, start naked save for a miniscule thong! She was holding up two tops. “Which one do you think? The red one or the blue one?”
I stepped closer to her. “Let me get a closer look. Uh, I vote for neither!”
She laughed. “I don’t think so, captain. Shit, I don’t even know your name. I’m Savannah but everybody calls me Spanky.”
“Hi, Spanky. I’m Sailor. And I still don’t understand how knowing my name has any effect on which top you wear or don’t wear. I’m enjoying the view with no top. Is that a problem?”
“Not really. I just didn’t want to offend you or act too forward, you know. A girl can’t be too careful these days. If you promise to be good, I’ll save my only clean clothes for later.”
“You hungry, Spanky? Thirsty?”
“Both.”
I mixed some drinks, handing one to her, and commenced throwing together a meal of sorts. I nearly burned dinner to a crisp as I kept stealing glances at her prancing around my cabin in nothing but a tiny thong. She put some workout video on her phone and was doing squats, lunges, whatnot in time to the video. If I could gain her trust, I would be set for some wonderful action after dinner. Her long hair, held in a ponytail, her svelte body, firm breasts, exquisite derriere all came together in a tidy package. Quite pleasing, especially to an old geezer such as myself.
After her workout, she guzzled a bottle of water as I shoved a fresh glass of alcohol in her other hand. By the time she was finished with the double dose of booze I had given her, food was ready. Over our meal, I had difficulty keeping myself from staring at her mounds of joy. After all, they were staring at me. Those dark areolas, the button nipples. They stared at me, causing me unease. I struggled to make conversation. I questioned her about whether she had seen any unusual boats in the harbor lately.
“Yes, now that you mention it. I did see an interesting boat here about a week ago. It was only here overnight but it was the strangest looking thing. Looked like a mini-pirate ship. All glossy varnished wood, lots of shiny brass. I remember my boyfriend, I mean my EX boyfriend, even commented on it. But it was only here a short time. It came in mid-afternoon and was gone before sunup in the morning.”
After dinner, I had her wash the dishes as I relaxed in the cockpit. The sun was going down by the time she called up from below “All done with the dishes, Sailor. Want me to bring anything when I come topside?”
“Bring some drinks and a joint. They’re in the wooden box on the nav station.”
We settled in, passing the joint between us, sipping our drinks, and enjoying the last vestiges of the sinking sun. She was still attired in only her thong and was sitting quite close to me, positioned so that we could pass the smoke between us easily. The weed, the booze, and the situation got the better of me. I casually reached out and cupped her breast in my hand. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t swat it away. Her head slowly turned my way. Levelling a steady contact on my eyes, she quietly said “So is this the only reason you invited me aboard, Sailor? To have sex? Is that what you want?”
I was busted but I couldn’t let her know that. I whipped my hand away. “Absolutely not, Spanky. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until just now, to be honest. But sitting here, seeing your naked beauty, the drink, smoke, and atmosphere. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
She reached over and grabbed my wrist, replacing my hand on her breast as she leaned in for a kiss. Our lips were millimeters apart as she whispered, “I’m not offended.” The gentlest, softest, sweetest brushing of the lips, not kissing, just sliding back and forth barely touching. Rubbing lips together in the softest way. Exotic. Erotic. Very stimulating. My nether region responded immediately.
Down below, we took it slowly. She was a timid lover, not in any hurry. We enjoyed the delights of each other passionately, slowly, tenderly. This was no “wham bam, thank you, ma’am” encounter. This was a sensuous session of love making. Her lips took their time on my cock. My cock took its time stroking her pussy. We were in no hurry, taking our time to bring our partner to the edge, then gently backing off, only to repeat the process time and again. She was prone to multiple, mini orgasms, rather than a few earthquakes. She would moan and suck her breath in between her clenched teeth as her body made a quick jerk. Then it was over and on to the next one. We cavorted for several hours, drifting off only to wake at daybreak with intertwined arms and legs.
Chapter 16:
CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR
Over coffee in the morning, I fired up the VHF radio. In a harbor this size, the VHF radio is the way boaters talk to one another. Every single day, there is the “Cruisers Net,” a ***********ed teleplay delivered over the VHF airwaves. “Good Morning, Boot Key Harbor! We’ll start with new arrivals. Any new arrivals? Come now.” “Goldilocks.” “Go ahead, Goldilocks.” “Yeah, just got in from Cape Canaveral. Planning to stay a week or two, then jump to the islands.” “Welcome, Goldilocks. Any other new arrivals, come now.” “Trust Fund.” “Go ahead, Trust Fund.” “Came in early this morning from Bimini. Here to clear Customs, then on to Chesapeake Bay.” “Welcome, Trust Fund.” The *********** included arrivals, departures, boaters needing help, announcements, trivia and so forth. It was a well-rehearsed narrative, repeated every day. If you wanted to connect with other boaters in the harbor, this was the fastest way.
I found a home for Spanky through my connections over the radio. When they heard me chime in, several boats responded with “Hey, Blow Me! Let’s tip a few, it’s been too long.” “Blow Me, damn, thought you’d never come visit again.” Many of my customers were still in the harbor and they wondered if I was still baking. A few years prior, I spent the winter in the harbor and had taken to baking loaded Nestles Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies. I had a dozen clients who would buy a dozen at a pop. It kept me busy and gave me money for my beer and scotch. That stay I was a popular fixture on mooring ball N1 keeping the harbor high as a kite.
Now that Spanky had a new home, she gathered her things. Standing in the main salon, bag in hand, we faced each other. Big crocodile tears welled up in her eyes. She dropped her bag and smashed into me, giving me an extra tight bear hug, her arms thrown tightly around my neck. I pulled her in tight returning the embrace. She loosened her hug and planted a sensuous kiss on my lips. I wiped away the tears draining down her cheeks and initiated another kiss. This one kept going, more than a simple good bye kiss. We were no longer relaxed and taking things slowly. We were charged and our kissing quickly escalated. She ripped her top off and dropped her pants as I did the same. We fell onto the bed, intertwined, kissing passionately.
My hand found her pussy, wet with desire. Two fingers got things started as she throttled my dick in her hand. My fingers got her cunt loosened up, awash in her pussy juices. Instinctively, she rolled onto her back and raised her legs up high. “Come on, Sailor. One last time. Let me have your cock once more.” Before I could properly mount her, she had my dick in her hand, tugging it toward her cunt. It slid in easily and her hands slapped on my ass, pulling me into her forcefully. The opposite of last night, this fuck was wild, fast, and furious. I jacked my dick up her wet hole, my balls slapping on her asshole. Our thighs were spanking against each other. It was hard, it was pounding, it was marvelous. Her back arched, she groaned and her pussy flooded. I was now fucking a gloriously beautiful woman with a sloppy cunt. My good fortune ignited all my senses and I let loose, deep in her pleasure palace. Squirting and jerking, I came forcefully, adding to the sloppy mess already there.
I delivered Spanky to her new “home.” I rushed back to my Love Boat, eager to continue my pursuit, sexually satisfied for the moment, and sorry to leave heaven behind. Before I cast off, I did another check for possible sightings of Q headed north. I had to do this before I left due to an awkward geographical/infrastructure problem. Headed north from the Keys, the first two and a half days are spent getting past the Florida Everglades. There are no cellphone towers in the Everglades so, obviously, cellphones don’t work. They become nothing more than an expensive paperweight. In one sense, it’s kind of nice to be out of range of any cell towers. With no signal, there is no spam, no crank marketing calls, no nothing. But if you’re chasing someone, looking for information, updates, sightings … that’s a different story. For two and a half days I would have no further information about Heather or Q.
The last clue as to Heather’s whereabouts was a sighting of Q on Marco Island. With only a guess that she would continue heading northbound, I set off from the Keys headed north. Marco is roughly 95 miles north of Marathon. The next inlet north beyond Marco is Naples, Florida, an additional 20 to 30 miles. The weather was not helping. The wind was variable and only blowing between 10 – 15 knots. Also, my heading to Marco Island was approximately 300 degrees. The wind was coming from 275 – to 280 degrees. This was not a good mix as even when close hauled, my heading was too tight to the wind. To make any headway, I had to motor sail, that is, have the motor running while sailing. I was not making good time, and I could feel Heather slipping away, getting further ahead of me and farther out of my reach.
Over the next two days of radio silence, no internet, challenging sailing, I went over every detail of my encounters with Heather. From our first bump knocking us both to the ground, to the last view of her, blocks away, me waving at her in what turned out to be a final goodbye, to reading the devastating announcement that she had been terminated at the University. I reviewed, rehashed, relived every encounter. She was perfect in my mind, even with her kinky warts and pimples. The vibe she emitted, her aura, her uncompromised beauty had invaded my soul. I had to find her. There was no other option.
My review of our time together had never really focused on her departure from the University. I toyed with that concept for some time. The cute barmaid at the pub near the University, Zoey, had mentioned that the scuttlebutt was something about improper this or shady that. Gossip had all seemed to indicate that Dir. Harmony had not really done anything illegal or horrendous. Just shades of impropriety or bringing disrepute to the University. My brain tried to remember whether any of our talks about her BDSM kink had been overheard or maybe someone at the University had uncovered her practices. I remembered reading that she had been wooed to the University with an inflated salary to uproot her from her native England. I read that, upon arriving, she had knocked everyone dead with her achievements: teacher of the year her first year, attracting several new projects to her department garnering millions for the University coffers. With a background like that, why would they dismiss her? What had she done that could have precipitated such a reaction? Even Heather herself had said that she had endured, how’d she put it, trials and tribulations that you wouldn’t believe. I wanted to know more. But, more importantly, I needed to be in her presence, to feel her presence, to be absorbed by Dame Harmony.
After two days of slogging along, I emerged from the communication dead zone. My cellphone started dinging and chirping, indicating that I had coverage again. Looking at my phone, I had dozens of emails and text messages to review. As I cruised along, still a half day away from my destination on Marco Island, I tackled my messages. Some were trash, utter spam. Text messages trying to sell me new windows for my house, new gutters for my house, “you have been chosen,” click here. Why can’t we rid ourselves of such nuisances?
Of particular interest was an email from Ed, the leader of the boat club that had sponsored the Regatta. I had dangled a finder’s fee if he could locate Q so that I could purchase her. His email indicated that the owner had reached out to him, advising him that her boat was not for sale and that she planned to head north up the west coast of Florida “until the waters got too shallow.” At least I was on the right track even though I was days, maybe weeks behind her. Travel by sailboat is not for the impatient. Top speed of, maybe, 10 knots (11.5 mph) with average speed of half that. It is slow, giving those aboard a plethora of time to disappear into their thoughts. I was good at that. Maybe that’s why I like sailing so much.
I finally arrived at the marina where Q had taken on fuel. I booked a slip for one night only and checked in at the office. A young man registered me. He was just beyond college age, very pleasant and helpful. It turns out that he was the one who had sold Heather 85 gallons of diesel. “Pretty boat but the captain? Holy fuck, dude, she was a killer. Her sweet little ass made you forget that she needed a refresher course in boat handling. Did some minor damage to our fuel dock on her approach. Nothing serious but I hope she finds a seaworthy captain to help her out. Pretty big boat for a pretty little lady.”
As we were talking, another boater entered the office. She was attractive in her own unique way. Short curly brown hair growing like a helmet from her scalp and an unusual face. Her eyes were kind of slanted, almost Asian looking, but she was Caucasian. Long eyelashes, natural. Very high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her lips were thin and her mouth set in a permanent purse. A very unusual appearance, but one that drew you in to keep looking. “Hey, Bill. Any word on when the mechanics can get to my boat?” Her voice was smooth, rather high pitched, but not obnoxious.
“Not yet, Sylvia. They said it might be another day or so. I’ll let them know that you’re anxious.” As Sylvia turned to leave, she stopped and took me in. Head to toe, she examined me closely, nodded and pushed the door open. My business complete with Bill, I followed her out the door. Although not a “looker” in the usual sense, she had a certain charm, a certain look about her that invited further inquiry.
“Excuse me, Sylvia, is it?”
“Yes. Who’s asking?”
“I’m Sailor. Pleased to meet you. Sounds like you’re living the usual hurry up and wait game with the mechanics. Hope it’s nothing critical.”
“It’s the mixing elbow. Might involve the heat exchanger also. So, yes. It’s critical.”
“Oh, boy. I hope that this delay isn’t causing you to miss some important rendezvous.”
“Sort of, but not really. I’m on my way to connect with an old friend. He can wait. He’s waited a long time already, what’s another couple of weeks? Besides, I’m not overly anxious to see him. Sure, it will be nice to see how he’s doing after all these years, but I moved on ages ago.”
“Speaking of moving on, would you care to join me for some dinner? I’m midstream on a passage chasing my own old friend and have just come from the Keys. What a boring sail that is, passing the Everglades and all. I could use some food and company. You in?”
“Sure, Sailor. Maybe a few cocktails will simmer me down after the news about my mechanic’s delay.”
We fell into a spirited talk during the taxi ride to the restaurant. Over cocktails it continued. So many harrowing tales of life at sea, so many near misses, so many beautiful sunsets. Both being liveaboards, we had much in common, and much to talk about. Her unusual physical appearance somehow kept me riveted, becoming increasingly more attractive as the night wore on. We ended up on her boat, Witch’s Brew, tied only 5 boats down from mine. It was an easy stumble back to my boat after a night filled with some seriously intense sex. I had just known that her unique appearance was a hook for some truly amazing playtime between the sheets.