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.
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.
Miss Lawrence and the Black Widow had struck up a conversation at breakfast and were standing arm in arm with shopping baskets and floppy hats.