I forced myself to pull away, and move downward to her pussy. My tongue slid over her bellybutton and down along the center of her lower abdomen, to the thick hood over her clit, as I positioned us in true 69. I played around her prominent love button but avoided touching it directly. I circled it with my tongue and sucked on the whole area for a while, then played my tongue lightly over her clit as I concentrated my suction on it, drawing it out from its sheath.
She was sucking on my pussy with her tongue in my slit, lapping at my juices, which were flowing quite freely. I was giving all my attention to her clit and the upper part of her inner labia, which were of modest size and didn’t extend prominently beyond her outers. I could hear her moaning “Mmm, mmm,” in a steady rhythm as my tongue played back and forth across her clit.
Her tongue slid up and down my slit as she sucked on my sensitive inners and my fleshy outers.
I reached behind to her firm bottom and pushed upward to force her pussy tighter against my face. I increased the rate at which I licked at her and her little sounds increased by the same amount. I knew from experience with her that she’d cum every time those moans came at a certain speed. We were quickly approaching that point.
I managed to reach around from under her and bring my fingers to her entrance. She was so wet there that my thumb easily slid inside her. I used her own juices to lubricate her down to her rosebud. I circled it with my fingers, my thumb still in her pussy. Then I inserted my middle finger into her tight rear, and added my index finger a few moments later. Now I was gripping her openings with fingers and thumb inside her, and I returned to rapidly but lightly ministering to her clitoris with my tongue.
In moments she came, shuddering and moaning with the force of her climax. Her contractions squeezed my fingers and thumb inside her. Her hands gripped my bottom, her fingertips pushing fiercely into my firm flesh and forcing my pussy so tight against her face that I thought I might smother her. Then I lost all thought as I came lying in 69 above her, the contractions from my climax causing me to pump my pussy against her face even tighter, over and over.
Finally I stopped and she pushed me off to the side so she could breathe again. I swung around and began kissing her. Immediately, both of her hands were in my freshly-trimmed hair, and I could tell that just feeling the short locks and bristly back were turning her on. With my mouth, breasts and pussy pressing against hers, she came again.
We rolled over and she was on top, partially propped up on her elbows. She looked directly at me, her hands still entwined in my short hair.
“My God, your hair is so sexy! I could cum just touching it.”
“I think you just did.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? It just proves what I said.”
“You really like me like this that much?”
“Oh yeah …”
Dyana started running her fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp at the same time. Her mouth found my nipple and she gave it the gentle attention I preferred. I’ll admit that her fingers felt wonderful, playing with the wisps of hair I had left, running over the very short hairs on the side and back, and the bristles at my neck. Delicious. Absolutely fantastic. No, I admitted to myself, it wouldn’t have been as good if my hair were still long. Probably not even possible to massage me so effectively. Coupled with her attention to my nipples, I was in heaven.
Then one hand reached down to diddle my clit by squeezing and massaging it using my inners and hood and I came within moments. I was stimulated from my pussy to the top of my head, and most everywhere in between. It was scrumptious, consuming.
Dyana pulled my hands above my head and began drawing circles on the inside of my upper arms. That drives me wild with passion! I have no idea why, and I don’t know anyone else who feels that way. But I do and, for me, both upper arms are erogenous zones like many women’s inner thighs, including my own, especially when they’re kissed, which she then started to do.
I was lit up everywhere. My scalp was still tingling and she continued to run her fingers through my short locks every few minutes. Her lips on mine seemed especially soft, warm and moist. Our tongues sought each other and I tasted her sweetness, ran my tongue along the inside of her teeth and tickled the inside of her mouth. Our kiss became more passionate, fiercer. Her hand reached down and her fingers entered my cunt – I don’t know how many but I was filled. She sought my G-spot and tapped along it. That was enough and I came again, my screams of pleasure swallowed by her mouth.
And so it went. The days were filled with both fascinating work and delicious play, and for Dyana and me, the nights were always hot and intimate.
**********
A few days later the three, six-meter diameter, two-meter high domes were assembled and folded for dropping into the water. We decided to position them over three of the primary five sites so that we could fill them with air and work on the seabed 10 to 15 meters down, without wearing our bulky, heavy breathing gear. The domes had small airlocks and were fed fresh air from hoses from the ship, which would be moored centrally above them, once they’d been lowered and anchored to the sea floor.
The transparent, portable, geodesic domes were a relatively new development that none of the crew or our team had used before. They each weighed about 250 kilos, or 550 pounds, and were dropped into the water and lowered by a crane on the ship. Once they were submerged, several divers would unfold them, and snap the struts in place, umbrella-style, to maintain the dome shape. Once that was done, they’d be lowered over the site.
They had to be anchored to the seabed by harpoons which were screwed into the sandy bottom by what was essentially a giant drill, maneuvered into place and held by two divers, each keeping both hands on two of the four the handlebars; the ones facing that member of the two-person drill team. Once the drill penetrated about six feet into the seabed, the drill automatically reversed and turned the center shaft of the anchor in the opposite direction. That forced an umbrella-like tip to open six feet below the surface, further securing the anchor below the seafloor.
All this heavy-duty equipment was necessary to fasten the domes down. Once inflated, the buoyancy of the dome would push upwards with tremendous force. The six anchors per dome would need to hold tight with over a thousand pounds of upward force on each, trying to pull them out of the seabed.
This whole mounting process was a frightening, and somewhat dangerous undertaking. Tex and I practiced with an anchor and that hugely powerful drill and it scared the shit out of me. I was determined to be overly cautious, even with the big, strong Texan holding the other handlebars of the drill.
Dyana, Sagi, Tex, and I were swimming about in our wetsuits, swim fins, masks and tanks, waiting for the first folded dome to be lowered into the water. Our team of four would mount this first dome, right below where we were swimming. The anchors and drills were already positioned on the sandy bottom.
The site below was the location where we’d found the vulva statue depicting before and after female circumcision. We could position the dome on flat ground, between the debris, though the area was strewn with rough-textured rocks and the remains of cement walls and broken pillars.
The dome, folded like an umbrella, slowly entered the water, suspended by its central eyelet from the ship’s crane hook. We all swam around it to steady it. Once the hook entered the water, we dove down and pulled the dome open enough so Tex could get inside and begin to screw the central hub upward, so the dome would open just like a giant, underwater umbrella. The other three of us each grabbed hold of the folded dome at every other anchor point. We swam outward – hard work in this case – to keep the dome opening evenly as Tex screwed the hub.
Part way through the process, Sagi relieved an exhausted Tex and continued to crank the center support to open the dome. Finally, all the struts snapped in place. Dyana, wearing a bulkier helmet with a microphone and headphones, told the crew above to continue lowering the dome.
As the dome approached the sea floor, we ha
d to carefully center it where we wanted it. The crew above moved the crane as necessary and, finally, we were a few feet above the bottom. Everyone gave Dyana a thumbs up on the position, and she told the crew to lower away. The dome gently settled to the level bottom, watched over by the four of us and a small school of rare-in-the-Mediterranean, fairly large, bluefin tuna, the first I’d ever seen in the wild.
Now we would anchor it down. The dome would seal pretty well along the flexible rim it rested on, which was buried about a foot, 25 centimeters, into the sand. The buried rim, along with internal air pressure maintained by the ship pumping air through the umbilical hose, would keep most of the water out. That was the theory, at least.
Tex and I swam over to our drill and one anchor, which was near the first anchor position. I saw Dyana and Sagi swim over to the another position on the opposite side. We had all decided to be careful, not fast. The hefty drill, electrically powered by a cable from the ship, still scared me.
I grabbed the heavy anchor and threaded it through the steel catch-loop on the dome’s rim. Fortunately, this part of the dome, at least, had imbedded itself the full one-foot depth of the sharp flange into the sand, so the dome rim itself was resting on the sand, and the catch-loop was flush with the seabed. I twisted the anchor, screwing it in enough to keep it in place if I held onto it, and Tex maneuvered the cumbersome drill up and onto the top of the anchor shaft. Fortunately, the drill was supported from above by a single large, heavy-gauge Mylar balloon, which made it essentially neutral-buoyancy and easy to lift and maneuver under water.
At this point, the handlebars were slightly above my head, if I stood on the bottom. I had to reach up to grab them. Each of us had a dead man’s switch (I preferred to think of it as a dead person’s switch), which had to be held in, like hand brakes on a bicycle, in order for the drill to operate. I squeezed mine and saw Tex squeeze his. He looked at me, I nodded, and he started the drill, very slowly. It took about a minute before the handlebars were at shoulder height for me, and below that for Tex. As we’d rehearsed, he tilted his head to the side, asking me if he could increase the speed. This wasn’t just to get done faster, the additional inertia developed by the faster-spinning drill, would force the anchor past any soft impediments, like pressure-squeezed mud. I nodded and the drill speed doubled. I could hear the higher-pitched whine through the water.
The bit – the anchor – wound all the way down to the metal loop of the rim. This was the most dangerous part. When the drill sensed the anchor tightening enough, it reversed direction to unfurl the anchor tip, about six feet below the surface. Unfurl is too kind a word. It violently drove the anchor panels outward into the surrounding medium - sand, mud, or whatever it was - to provide a much larger, thin steel mooring extending outward under the sand, in order to fix the anchor well below the surface.
The drill gave a mighty jerk and, even knowing what was coming, I almost lost the grip on, and control of, my handlebars.
I held, though, and the whining engine shifted. A few moments later, a green light came on, indicating that the anchor was secure! For our team, one down, two to go.
I saw that Dyana and Sagi had already finished and moved on, clockwise, to their second anchor.
Tex raised up his hands in a WTF gesture, but I just shook my head. I had too much respect for the power of this equipment to have any interest in racing them. This was a dangerous job, not a contest.
We moved clockwise also, and started to repeat the process with the next anchor. We had wound the anchor down to where the handlebars were at my shoulder height. I thought Tex was about to ask me if it were okay to speed up, but instead, he shut down the drill and pointed up to a school of tuna, which had been circling the dome from about 20 feet, 7 meters, beyond the perimeter, and were now circling closer. There was a very large tuna, which looked to be a couple hundred pounds at least, swimming with the school, apparently looking for lunch. Though not prone to attack humans, they are predatory, and can be dangerous if disturbed, just because some of them get so big.
I let go of the now quiescent handlebars and went around the dome to caution Dyana and Sagi.
They were focused on the drilling task at hand, and paying no attention to what was happening with the school of tuna just above them. The anchor was turning and the handlebars were at about Dyana’s head level when everything went wrong. I was swimming up to them, still about 15 feet away, when the large tuna veered to the outside of the school and came right at Sagi, from behind and to his right. It swam directly into his right hand with considerable force, knocking the handlebar out of his grip.
I watched in amazement as the tuna ran into the handlebar itself, smashing its mouth on the grip and apparently bending the dead man switch, preventing it from being released. I saw Sagi fly off to the left, trying to hold onto the left grip of his handlebar, as it began to swing around.
Dyana could neither hold the handlebar which flew out of her grip, nor get out of the way fast enough. Sagi’s handlebars spun toward her with tremendous force, and crashed into her helmet like hitting a watermelon with a sledgehammer. I saw the entire right side of her helmet collapse inward. The force of the blow literally flipped her upside down. If she had simply been wearing a hood and mask like the rest of us, she would have died instantly.
As it was, the drill kept spinning, actually gaining speed. It was only later that we found Dyana’s glove had been ripped off and wedged in her dead man’s switch, keeping it from opening and thereby shutting the drill off. Dyana was upside down, apparently unconscious, and was slowly drifting toward the spinning drill handles. I swam as fast as I could to her but the spinning handlebars sliced across her inner thigh and impacted her groin with enough force to tear into her wetsuit and rip her leg open.
Blood was billowing from her thigh by the time I got to her. I grabbed her and immediately swam away from the drill and upward. Sagi had recovered enough to join us. He reached out to clamp his hands around Dyana’s thigh to try to staunch the bleeding, but pointed to my utility belt first. I got the message, quickly took it off and wrapped it around her upper thigh at her groin. I fastened it slightly loosely, then removed my flashlight and stuck it into the belt and turned it to make a crude tourniquet.
We swam to the surface holding on to an unconscious Dyana, with me trying to keep the tourniquet tight. The crew managed to quickly hoist all of us up at once. Dyana still hadn’t moved at all. I could see through her crushed, fiberglass helmet that her eyes were closed and her head was pushed sideways by the indentation on the right side.
After several minutes, someone brought a massive pair of tin snips and began to cut the helmet away so we could free her head. During all this she didn’t stir, not even a little.
Chapter 6 - Broken
Dyana lay on the deck without her ruined helmet - deathly pale I thought - still unconscious. The water had been about 73o F, so we’d all been wearing 3mm fullsuits, since we’d planned to be underwater for several hours. Dyana and I were both slender, which meant we got cold faster than the typical, male diver. We always erred on the side of being warm. We’d left Dyana’s wetsuit on her, but had cut up the right leg, all the way to her groin, to get to her wound. After applying both a tourniquet and direct pressure, we were able to completely stop the blood loss. A huge ugly, purple bruise was forming across her pussy and her upper leg, above the wound.
As soon as the crew knew of the injury, they called a hospital in El-Agamy, which was very close to the peninsula where we’d been moored when I arrived. They arranged for a helicopter to come to the ship to transport Dyana to the hospital. It arrived about ten minutes after we had her aboard the Barbaros, and landed on the aft deck, in an area that had actually been a helicopter landing pad when the ship was still a frigate in the Turkish navy.
The paramedics checked her out, put her on a stretcher, and hustled her aboard the helicopter. I went to jump aboard, into the last remaining seat, but Sagi held up his hand to quietly stop me. �
�I have her primary, medical power of attorney – that’s the correct term in English, isn't it?” He asked me.
“Oh …,” I said. “Yes, of course.”
“Follow us in the launch,” he said considerately. “Ask for me at the hospital when you arrive.”
“Okay, I will,” I told him. I judged, by his words and the look on his face, that he was sincerely trying to help. For that matter, why wouldn’t he be helping?
I turned around and the captain was right there. “I have a boat ready for you,” he told me.
I rushed to the launch as the helicopter rose into the bright, blue, afternoon sky. In a few minutes, I was on my way to shore.
Each of us had assigned primary and secondary medical powers of attorney to two other team members, in the event we were injured, unresponsive, and needed medical decisions made. Dyana and Sagi, the co-project leaders, were primary assignees for each other, as I was for Tex and he was for me. Dyana and I were secondary for each other. Until she regained consciousness, Sagi was authorized to make decisions and sign papers on her behalf.
I arrived at the hospital about 80 minutes later. I was actually pleased with the speed at which I’d gotten there, though I was insane with worry while on the launch. Once on the shore, I was focused on getting to the hospital as quickly as I could, so that distracted me from dwelling on Dyana’s current condition.
My Arabic was much better than when I’d arrived in Egypt six weeks ago, but still had a long way to go to be comfortably fluent. I was able to get my message across to the emergency room’s receptionist, and about five minutes later, someone came out and told me that they’d checked Dyana’s wounds in emergency, and had sent her directly to the women’s surgery unit to be prepped. The receptionist took me up to the third floor of the five-story hospital. She introduced me to a nurse there, who took me down a long corridor. Dyana was already in a room there at the end of the hall.
Destiny Taken (Destiny Lost Book 1) Page 9