by Buzz Harcus
"Don't be sorry," she sobbed, turning her tear-stained face to his. "He vas a terrible man. I vas married to him for tventy years und I tought I knew him, my own husband, but I didn't." She pulled away from him, dabbed at her tears and, in a choking, strained voice, continued. "He vas running around mit a young girl, a whore! A cheap little whore!" The word whore seemed to explode from her lips, and she twisted the handkerchief anxiously in her hands. "Oh, it hurt, it hurt ven I found out about dem. He cheapened our marriage." The tears continued, her body wracked with spasms as
she gasped out her story.
"There, there," Harry whispered consolingly, not knowing what to say, finally deciding saying nothing was the best course of action.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she sobbed, "I vas a good vife. I did my vifely duties. I tought he vas happy. At least he appeared to be happy." Osa pressed the damp, wrinkled handkerchief to her eyes, then wiped at her cheeks and chin. "Dere ver no children. Ve agreed dat our careers ver der most important, dat sex und children ver not dat important in our marriage, dat our luf for each odder vould be all ve needed. I tought he lufed me, only -" She began crying softly again. Tearfully, she spoke. "I asked him how he could say to my face dat he lufed me und den go out und haf sex vis a -" She spat the word "whore!" Her face contorted in sudden anger. "He svore he lufed me, but dat she did tings for him, different tings to him, vulgar tings, tings dat no voman vould do for her husband. He actually told me, vulgar, vulgar, vulgar!" She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing, shaking.
"There, there, let it all out," Harry whispered consolingly, as his hands moved tenderly over her shoulders and back. After a while she seemed calmer, nestling her face against his neck, her warm breath tingling his skin. The headiness of her perfume and erratic, panting gasps of her breath tantalized his thoughts.
Dammit! Here he was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with a beautiful woman in his arms, only she had more problems on her mind than Carter had liver pills, and she sure as hell didn't need one more problem, namely horny Harry Martin.
A cool breeze swept across the deck. Osa shivered. Harry held her closer. "It's getting cooler," he whispered "Do you want to go?"
She didn't make any move to break free, offering only the faintest nod of her head and a whispered, "No."
Harry rubbed his hands vigorously up and down her back.
"This'll warm you," he whispered, continuing the vigorous motions. Her sleeveless cotton blouse and cut-off jeans didn't offer much protection from the cool breeze. She huddled closer to him, her breath warm and tingling against his throat, with tremulous little gasps.
The extent of his rubbing inched lower and lower until his hands slid down across her buttocks, momentarily kneading the firm mounds, then back up the length of her back. Osa made no attempt to stop him or break away as his hands moved down again, this time massaging the mounds. Her breathing came in shorter, faster gasps. Her head tilted upwards and their lips met in a warm, lingering kiss, her hands moving to the back of his head, fingers caressing his neck sending a shiver of excitement through him.
Harry dug his fingers into her buttocks pulling her tightly against his growing hardness, grinding against her, feeling her respond, the firmness of her pelvic bone. Their kiss became more impassioned. His tongue probed at her lips, sensed a momentary hesitation, and then they surrendered, parting, accepting as it drove deeply into her mouth. She moaned, sucking at the invader, then drove her tongue deeply within his mouth. As their tongues dueled in growing passion he ground his solid manhood harder against her, pleased at her response, the undulating thrust of her hips. His hands moved over her blouse encompassing her breasts, fondling, molding the soft resilient flesh. Desire she hadn't known in years swept through her body. A yearning sublimated for so long screamed for release, and yet, it was wrong; she had to stop him before it got out of hand.
She broke free of his kiss, gasping, covering his hands with hers. "No, ve must not," she cried, yet unable to force his hands away as they continued caressing her heaving breasts. "Oh, Harry," she mewled, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Ve must stop; dis is madness."
When his lips sought hers, she responded feverishly, parting to receive his probing tongue, answering in kind, passion raging uncontrollably throughout her responding, wanton body, knowing she didn't have the strength to resist, nor wanting to.
His hands moved under the back of her blouse. Osa, in a last futile attempt to stop him, reached behind her but his hands had moved quicker, the bra hooks parted easily and her breasts broke free to the coolness of the night. His hands caressed the soft, pliant flesh, fingers toying with turgid nipples. "Harry," she moaned as he pinched the hard tips. Her hips arched forward of their own volition grinding hungrily against his erection, a wetness in her aching loins. She resigned herself, almost anticipating his urgent, forceful touch.
Her hand moved between them over the hard bulge in his pants, running the length of it, then jerked away as though she had touched fire.
Harry peeled her blouse back exposing the two ivory globes, nipples jutting starkly against the dark horizon and then he was sucking, moving from one to the other, her moans encouraging, thrusting her breasts upwards for his enjoyment, gasping as his teeth nipped gently on the sensitive buds.
Yet, her mind reeled in confusion. What was happening was lustful, sinful, her body being used for his sexual pleasure. Her mind may have sent frantic danger signals but her wanton flesh responded, enjoying. It had been such a long time since she had felt this way, so very long.
Rudy had paid the price for adultery; no sex for over a year. But it hadn't stopped him or his wayward ways. Who was the victim of frustration, not him, but her, alone, every night for over a year until that fateful day. Divorce had been out of the question. Her parents had been married fifty-five years. No one in her family had divorced; it was a subject not discussed. Rudy would have come around; it was just a matter of time.
Still, it was wrong what they were doing. It was sinful. They had to stop. Her argument was lost as her flesh succumbed to Harry's tender sucking. As his hand moved down over her stomach, she squeezed her legs together. "No, Harry," she whispered plaintively, and then his fingers popped the snap of the waistband of her jeans, the zipper sliding downwards. "No, Harry, please, no," she pleaded but his hands were already inside her panties easing behind, clutching at the pliant orbs, kneading the soft resilient flesh. In spite of her trepidations her body writhed to the tempo of his firm hands. "Harry," she groaned, suddenly arching upwards, grinding her pelvis against his hardness, her breath hot against his neck.
"Let's lay down," he gasped trying to ease her down to the deck.
"Noooo, Harry," she cried out, her pelvis grinding faster, harder against his erection, and then she emitted a long gratifying moan, shuddering as she collapsed against him.
She orgasmed! It struck him like a hammer blow. She'd orgasmed! In a complete state of frustration, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his swollen member wrapping her fingers around it. "Do me," he commanded. Osa, drained at her sudden emotional release, mechanically jerked at his rigid organ.
Just as quickly, Harry grabbed her wrist stopping her, the painful jerking motion so reminiscent of his wife. "Let's lay down, on the deck," he whispered kissing her fervently as he hurriedly shucked loose of his pants and shorts exposing himself to her. "C'mon," he pleaded. "Down on the deck."
The response was not there, not the passion they had shared only moments ago. She looked at him, hesitant, unsure, then at her hand, which she quickly jerked away. "No, please."
"C'mon," he said, and pulled her to him, kissing her, mashing his lips to hers, tongue darting feverishly inside. "I'm almost there, just a few seconds," he pleaded. His hands clutched the sides of her head, and then he was forcing her downwards. "On the deck," he hissed, "ohh, yeah, this will do the trick!"
Osa looked up into his lust-contorted face as he forced her downwards. Suddenly she realized what he wanted of her, what a whore
would do. "No!" Her hands slapped upwards knocking his hands free from her head. "No!" she snapped, rising unsteadily to her feet, eyes blazing with anger as she faced him. "Dat is not nice vat you vant me to do. I don't do tings like dat."
Harry looked at her not believing what he heard. "Christ!" he roared. "One minute you're hot to trot and the next minute you're back to being an iceberg!" He shook his head in disbelief. "What the hell's with you, lady?"
"My husband vanted me to do tings like dat. I tell him no. I tell you der same ting. Whores may do dat. I don't! I don't need sex dat bad dat I got to do tings like dat."
She was shaking with anger, at the same time trying to dress herself. Bending forward, she dropped her breasts back into their respective cups, reached around and snapped her brassiere together. "All you men are alike, all sick, all animals! Sex, sex, sex, dat's all you vant from a voman!" She buttoned her blouse, zipped up and snapped
her jeans. "Animals, sick animals!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" Harry snapped, finally finding his voice, feeling anger welling inside him. Talking to her through gritted, tightly drawn lips, a cynical tone to his voice, he said, "Well, I'll be damned. You sure as hell enjoyed sex a few minutes ago when you were being satisfied. But when it comes to satisfying your partner, to hell with him, and tings like dat ain't so sick and dirty!"
He was jamming his deflated penis back inside his shorts, pulling up his pants, zipping up. "How two people enjoy sex is their business. Sick and dirty are in your mind!"
He pointed at her head. "You remind me of my damned ex- wife. You probably never learned another damned thing about sex after your first week of marriage because you were taught sex was dirty and 'good girls' don't think about sex, nor encourage sex, and only have sex because its, as you said, 'their wifely duty'."
Glaring at him, Osa yanked down her blouse and tucked it in her waistband. "You are sick! All men are sick! You don't know how to treat a lady!"
"Show me a lady and I'll show you how to treat her," he quipped just as nastily as he faced her with equal anger seething inside. Yet, there was a feeling of pity for her, knowing now how she felt about men, how she must have felt about her husband. The poor bastard! No wonder he was looking elsewhere for action.
Still glaring at him, Osa straightened her clothes. She heard him. She ignored him. He was nothing but a filthy pervert. She turned away walking down the deck.
"When you get ready for sex, come see me," he called sarcastically after her.
She stopped, turned, face livid. "You vill be der last person on earth I vill ever turn to for sex. You are a pervert, a sick, sick person. You cannot haf sex visout luf. I don't ever vant to see you again. Ever!" With that she turned and stalked off down the deck.
"To hell with you, bitch!" he shouted after her but his words were lost to the rising winds.
In the solitude of his cabin after having stood under a cold shower and relived the nightmare, he now stood before his reflection in the mirror muttering to himself. "I swear the palm of my hand is going to be covered with hair by the time I get to China and get relief." His eyes narrowed as he faced his image, "but I'll tell you one thing, Martin, one thing is for sure. If I ever get a chance I'm gonna rub her snooty nose in mud. She'll never get me screwed up again, never!"
Chapter 41
PLASTIQUE EXPLOSIVES BELOW DECKS
Coming off watch the next morning, Harry headed straight for his quarters, stripped, showered and hit the sack. It had been a miserable watch. He was still fuming over Osa, his mind in an angry turmoil: Osa the iceberg! One day he'd settle the score with the bitch, her and her damned Victorian attitude.
Rolling on his side, he yanked the covers over his head forcing his mind to think of other things. Yet, sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned for the best part of two hours. Peter's snoring aggravated him. How the hell could he sleep so soundly. It wasn't human.
Finally, in disgust, he slipped from his bunk, dressed and headed for the galley. Hurrying through the line he decided a cup of black coffee and a sweet roll would do the trick. If the bitch sticks her neck out the kitchen door, so what? Who gives a rat's ass! Give her the finger!
He found solitude in a far corner of the galley, yet sitting where he could watch the kitchen door. One moment he was angry with himself for being stupid enough to even touch her; the next moment angry with her for even allowing him to touch her. She'd strung him along, a willing partner to the point of her release. The bitch! Even a cold shower hadn't cooled his anger.
You deviated from your game plan, Martin, he chastized himself. Your jacket's still in the corner of your locker where you threw it. Get back on track. Your time is limited. You've got a hell of a lot of work to do and damned little time, and you don't have time for any thoughts of her. Yes, his day would come; he knew it.
And there she was again in his mind's eye, her face, holding her in his arms. Maybe he had come on a little strong. It hadn't been his intention. He wanted to be friends, to listen, to console. He hadn't planned what happened; it just happened. She had allowed it to happen. She led him to believe she was ready and willing. Her response was encouraging, passionate as any female he'd ever had before, even Sandy.
Goddamn frigid prude! No wonder her husband was out with that young bimbo if that's what he had to come home to every night.
He took a sip of coffee, then a bite of roll. It was thick, doughy in his mouth. He washed it down with another sip of coffee. The way she treated sex; what'd she call it, a married woman's "responsibility." Bullshit! What damned Victorian thinking is that? She had to have been a classmate to his ex-wife. He shook his head. He figured they'd broken the mold when his ex-wife was created: cold, frigid, now here was another one.
Except for his honeymoon, he couldn't recall a time when they really enjoyed sex, talked about sex or experimented with sex. The constant arguments about sex had taken the edge off enjoyment, eventually killing any desire for her. The divorce had been a welcome relief, a door opening to a new life, to an attainment of sexuality he had sought, and found, with Sandy.
Sandy was the only one he'd met with a healthy, lusty attitude toward sex, a veritable free spirit. She was emphatic about sex; it made the world ago 'round. They sure had some great times he recalled, the best of times. Why was it so damned many broads over the age of 40 still lived the Victorian syndrome: sex is dirty.
He sipped at his coffee. It was still biting hot. The roll had disappeared. A number of early risers were starting to go through the breakfast line. He held off going through the line not wanting to see her.
For some unexplained reason, he felt edgy today, not just here in the galley and the chance that the bitch would show her face, but something he couldn't place his finger on. It was an inner feeling, a kind of sixth sense warning him. Was it Peter, the way he seemed so aloof last night, so damned testy in his commands, so seemingly wrapped in thought? Was it China? At the rate they were moving, they'd soon be there and he hadn't finished his jacket. Stan? Somehow he knew the bastard was out there somewhere just biding his time. Ernst? Yeah. He'd pulled off a con job on them, he was sure of that. Putty? Putty, my ass! Plastique explosives and putty don't look that much alike. The jerk had been too condescending in his efforts to clear up the misunderstanding.
Harry pulled the piece of putty from his pocket and unrolled it from the piece of paper toweling. The stuff was crumbly, a white residue flaking off on his fingers.
"Hello, Harry. Haf you been doing anymore exploring lately?"
Harry glanced up. Chief Engineer Svenson, a broad smile playing across his ruddy face, was making his way to his table.
"Naw, not lately," Harry shrugged knowing the word about his mistaking putty for plastique explosives was probably the butt of jokes around the ship.
"Veil, I've got some good news und some bad news dat vill probably be of interest to you."
"Oh. What's so important that I'd be interested?"
"You von't haf to be vorried about
Ernst anymore. He fell down a ladder und broke his leg. He is in bad pain. I tink he has internal injuries, too."
"What?" Harry looked at the chief not believing what he had just heard. "Ernst, injured!"
"Yah. He is hurt bad. Peter said he has to be evacuated."
"When did this happen?"
"Just a little vhile ago. A helicopter is already headed dis vay. In der next hour Ernst vill be on his vay to Vake Island. Hopefully dey can fix him up and den he can be returned to der ship ven ve come back dis vay from China."
A cold chill ran down Harry's spine. The remark Karl, the oiler, had made regarding Ernst had stuck in his mind; Ernst had left the sister ship Nuergren because of a serious injury only hours before the ship suddenly and mysteriously sank that night in the deepest part of the Indian Ocean with the loss of all hands.
Nurad was approaching the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean, the Bonin Trench. Now, all of a sudden, Ernst is badly injured and is about to be transferred off the ship to Wake Island!
Excusing himself, Harry jumped to his feet brushing past the chief, bolting for the exit. Now he was certain Ernst had set plastique explosives. He stopped momentarily in his cabin to grab a flashlight, then hurriedly, two steps at a time, descended into the bowels of the ship.
He slipped past the engine room and continued quickly down along the lower passageway to the dimly lit walkway where he first noticed the putty. In moments he was at the spot. Flashing a light beam up the ribbing he saw a big gob of putty had been plastered tightly against the hull. Only now, there was something else, a fuse cap and a timing device implanted in the putty. Plastique explosives.
Carefully easing the timing device and fuse out of the plastique explosive, Harry saw the unit was ticking. It was set for 9 p.m. The ship would go down that night with all hands, just like its sister ship. No warning. Only one survivor.