“A little. Can you play skiffle on a Joanna?”
“Yes, please, brother. A modern guy, I like your style.”
And with that he begins a steady baseline for James to follow.
James’ spirits lift as music fills the room, bringing light and rhythm to the stale atmosphere.
“So what brings you to this dark place on such a beautiful morning?” The pianist manages to make the words part of the music as if he is constructed of musical notes himself. James makes a shrill collection of high notes and the pianist shakes his head, smiling in appreciation.
“Oh, you know,” he replies, pouring himself into another complex riff.
“Girl trouble?”
“You could say that.” He cocks his head, keeping focussed on the keys.
“You surprise me. You looked like you were getting on very well with that girl you were dancing with last night.”
“That’s no girl,” James sighs. “That’s my wife.”
The pianist nudges him in the ribs and chuckles.
“Even better then, eh?”
They fall silently into the music, nodding their heads in time with the beat. At last the all too familiar slowing and final flourish takes place and the two men laugh and fondly shake hands in acknowledgement of this new connection.
“Bill Murphy,” says the pianist, gripping James’ shoulder as he warmly keeps shaking his hand.
“James McCoy.”
“It’s good to meet you, James. Don’t often get to jam on the old ivories in here, you know.” He releases James then his eyes turn shifty as he scans the doorways. “Hey, do me a favour, Jim; you don’t mind me calling you Jim, do you?”
“Not at all,” he says quickly, flattered at the sudden familiarity.
“Go and shut the doors, will ya, buddy.”
James jumps to standing immediately, thrilled at being an accomplice to who knew what. He is even more pleased when he sees Bill dart behind the bar and pour out two whiskies.
“Scotch?”
Chapter Four
Lizzie is furious with herself once again. Why does she have to be so hard on him all the time? She knows he tries his best. Maybe that’s what annoys her the most. His constant care. She knows her behaviour must confuse him—god, she confuses herself.
She is still in her breakfast clothes as she wanders around the deck, finding herself standing at the very spot she shared a cigarette with the sailor last night. Placing her hand delicately onto the wooden banister, she lets it take her weight as she sags her waist into it, tipping slightly over to look at the ship’s hull churning through the water below.
She should be feeling excited. But she is beginning to realise that her cold melancholy seems to tag along no matter where she’s headed. Blood strains into her face and she finds she is on her very tippy toes leaning out quite far, her hair flapping and streaming into her face. Suddenly exhilarated, she lifts her toes and the side of the mighty ship takes her weight. Balancing carefully just at the tipping point, she imagines decadently plunging to her death in the frothing depths below. It is a seductive image and she leans just a little further and her hand slips. Just enough to make her breath catch and adrenaline course, but it feels good to have her heart beating this fast. Coming back to reality, she pushes her body up, but she doesn’t quite have the strength in her arms to right herself. Her first instinct is to giggle, so she does. The pressure of laughing and having her full weight pressing into her bladder makes her pee herself, just the tiniest bit, and she is embarrassed when a gust of ocean breeze lifts her skirt, cooling the moisture gathering in her gusset.
The strain is now making her wobble and she knows she should cry for help, but she is just too embarrassed by her predicament. A shadow crosses her and a deep familiar voice startles her, compounding her mortification.
“What have we got here then?”
The sailor.
Lizzie hopes beyond all hope that her petticoat is still hiding enough of her modesty as she can feel her skirts gathered up over her behind.
“Hello,” she manages meekly, knowing her cheeks are bright red and so she keeps her head turned away.
“Is there something I can help you with, madam?” He is smiling, mocking her; she can hear it in his tone.
“Well, yes.” She decides not to send him away. “I’m stuck.”
“I can see that,” he says and again she can hear in his voice that he is looking up and down her stuck frame, paying particular attention to her behind, she imagines.
There is a long pause and Lizzie begins to feel exasperated at his ungentlemanly behaviour.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“Well, I might,” he says, moving closer to her until they are almost touching. “But I am certainly enjoying the sight.”
Lizzie is angry now.
“If you were any sort of gentleman you would have discreetly pulled me up and helped me back to my husband by now.”
“Oh, but I’m no gentleman,” he whispers, leaning over so she can just hear him above the waves. “And I told you last night what I thought of your husband letting you out of his sight now, didn’t I?”
Lizzie flushes again and her shame brings with it that rising in the pit of her core. More moisture and heat spreads into her still damp knickers and she squirms hard, trying to rescue herself. It is no use, she is weak from the struggle and from whatever chemical reaction this dreadful sailor is eliciting from her.
“Please?” she asks, fearing he may let her fall overboard; the thought makes her angry. Her fury turns to nervous excitement as he reaches over her back and down under her shoulders, pausing slightly as his hands graze her breasts.
“You ought to be more careful, you know.” He clasps his forearms under her shoulders and hoists her back over the banister.
Her skirts unruffle and fall to their rightful place and she smoothes them self-consciously.
“Thank you,” she says in a tight voice and her arms begin to tingle where the lactic acid drains away.
“You’re welcome,” the sailor says with an edge that makes her feel at once uncomfortable and turned on.
“Well, I ought to get back to my husband.”
“Yes, you ought,” he says.
Lizzie begins to walk past him in what she hopes is a dignified way when he grabs her arm.
“I think you need to be taught a lesson about getting yourself into vulnerable situations. Don’t you?”
Lizzie freezes; a thrill is buzzing and throbbing deep within her and she suddenly wants more than anything to be taught a lesson by this large man.
“Yes,” she says, bowing her head, hoping he hasn’t heard her and will let her on her way—then dreading it.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes,” she says more loudly with her head still bowed.
“I thought that’s what you said.” His grip tightens around her upper arm. “Come with me.” He spins her to face the same direction as him and marches off along the deck. She can’t bring herself to look around to see if there are any witnesses, she is just going to imagine there’s nobody there. Maybe that’s true. Why else would she have been left dangling over the side for so long? Lizzie is amazed at how quickly she is making her mind agree to her imaginings.
At last they stop at a cabin door on the deck below.
It’s the poker room.
He opens the door ahead of her and pushes her inside. The room is in shadows and he doesn’t turn on a light. Instead, he leaves the door open just enough so a sliver of light streaks across the floor and up one wall.
He turns her away from the door and slightly behind a pillar.
“Bend over and grab your ankles,” he states.
She is trembling as she does as she’s bid. Every cell in her body is defying her rational mind. What will he do? She forms the question knowing full well what is intended for her.
Fingers gripping the hem of her dress cause her to inhale sharply and hold it there hig
h in her chest. Her pose almost mirrors the event just outside and she smiles to herself as the blood and pressure fill her face and head. She lets it drop without resistance this time, dangling on her neck like a ragdoll as he slowly lifts her dress up over her backside. She looks through her ankles to see the petticoats still in place—he must enjoy taking his time, she thinks, and she is glad of it.
Coolness breezes up her legs as he carefully, gently pulls up the undergarments, pausing as he reaches the point where her thighs turn to buttocks. She shivers and blushes from her breasts to the roots of her hair. He is about to witness the wet of her panties. She can’t bear it. But she wants it. She wants him to see how bad and dirty she is. She wants to be punished for being wanton. A wet hussy. The words circling in her mind, the filthy words of fuck, make her vulva pout and peak; she feels like she is pouring hot arousal into her knickers. Tell me you want to fuck me. Tell me I’m a filthy bad girl, she implores silently as her rear is finally free from her skirts.
“Peach panties,” he says in a gravelly whisper. “Wet peach panties…”
Lizzie dies with embarrassment again and again as he runs his palm over her buttocks, smoothing her knickers to her flesh and stopping just short of the sticky gusset. She is holding her breath, only allowing the merest intake of air every few seconds, relishing the heightened atmosphere as the stroking continues.
“What do you think happens to dirty girls who mess their pretty peach panties?”
Thoughts, images, sounds, and shapes tumble through Lizzie’s consciousness as his hand leaves her and hovers high.
This is it, she thinks. This is it. She clenches everything hard and tight and hears the smack before she feels it. A waft of air precedes the contact and time stills as it swirls endlessly in the dark shadows. Smack! Her body rocks forward and he grabs her hips to steady her. The grip is strong and her flesh is burning. She’s aroused and humiliated and he spanks her again several times in quick succession. Her knickers are wet now—she feels a torrent flow from her intimate space and the smell of his manliness is being obscured by her own feminine musk. It’s a heady combination and she allows her chest to swell with it, taking in huge lungfuls of air this time. The onslaught slows and she steadies. Her eyes are open wide and staring when without warning a thick digit enters her roughly. She squirms but he holds her fast. She is quivering as her pussy sucks at his finger and she pours hot desire out all over his hands.
He withdraws and steps back from her a little—admiring the sight he has created she imagines. She can see herself too—all messy and wanting. The ache in her sex engulfs her body and she is racked with need.
Fuck me, just fuck me, she thinks as his hand breaks the silence once more and her raw buttocks burn in searing pain. She wants to cry stop—but worries he would. She can’t even tell who she is anymore. A shadow obscures the sliver of light from the doorway, just for a second and she freezes. The sailor doesn’t seem to notice and keeps busily spanking her, breathing hard and ragged above.
She is desperate to catch a glimpse of the person at the door, but terrified of who she might see—who might recognise her, so she stays in her pose, taking all the punishment he can administer. The shadow flits again, and she tenses, but it disappears.
She wants to reach up under herself and grip her cunt in her own hands and give herself the relief she craves, but she won’t.
He stops. Daring a peek up at his crotch, she sees it bulging with unspent desire.
“That’s what ladies get for being bad, bad girls,” he says, then carefully pulls her skirts back over her bottom. He helps her upright and even rubs her lower back as she rises. She is confused and touched. “You look flushed. You should go and take a swim or something.”
Her knickers are sodden and her sex is still writhing with expectation. She feels suddenly abandoned by the sailor—abandoned and silly. She stiffens up and makes herself look directly in his eyes.
“Thank you. I will,” she says curtly before stepping out into the sunshine.
A new strange sensation of heat and guilt is raging through her body and she feels she has shed the first layer of her reptilian skin.
In the cabin, she examines her tender red flesh with her hand mirror. Her buttocks are throbbing and she expected to feel shame when she peeled away her wet knickers and threw them under the bed. But she didn’t and doesn’t. She holds the mirror awkwardly trying to pull the flesh round to get a better view. She can’t quite get the right angle and drops the mirror. It lands on the bed and she pauses to look at her own mound in the reflection. A puff of dark hair glistens and her red slit is just visible between.
Lizzie gasps out loud. She has never looked at herself this way before and steals a glance around the room as if someone is watching her guilty act. Slowly, she reaches between her legs and pulls the dark curls apart to reveal a ruby red cavern with juicy petals guarding its entrance. It looks at once terrifying and inviting and she opens herself up further. The shine of moisture has her licking her lips and breathing hard. It is strangely beautiful, this new sight, this part of herself that she’s never seen before—never even wanted to see before. Fascination turns her on. She bends her knees to widen her stance, then with shaking hand slides a tentative finger up into the opening. It is slippery and she rubs the juices around and around before pushing inside. It amazes Lizzie how easily her finger disappears and she adds another. The feelings begin to centre on the budding point just above where she now plays and she takes out a digit, rubbing the juices up toward the building peak.
The sight is unnerving and her body begins to shudder when she rubs the hard nodule around and around. She plays the scene with the sailor over and over in her mind—especially the bit where he shoved his thick manly finger inside her, only this time she imagines it’s two fingers, three, four, his cock, two cocks rammed up her greedy cunt. Clambering onto the bed, she grabs herself hard with both hands and sits right on the mirror, obscuring the view but getting better purchase with her pussy. She jams as many fingers in as she can while still reaching her clit and quickly—too quickly—the welling and peaking reaches crashing point and she comes hard and wet all over herself.
Chapter Five
James walks along the deck with the casual confidence of a man who’s indulged in one too many. His emotions are somewhere between the sweet, heart-squelching love he feels for his beautiful wife and the fury she elicits with her frosty bite. He would die for her. He knows at this moment if she asked it of him, he’d throw himself off this liner to his death. He imagines her regret and sadness when she watches his tortured corpse float away on the ship’s wake. Finding himself walking on the lower deck toward the card room, the fog of alcohol lifts for a second as he hears a strange noise. It’s like a thump—or not really a thump—a smack? Curiosity piques as he realises it is coming from the card room. Slightly miffed, he goes toward it. The guys made a point of telling him there’d be no game on today. Bloody liars. He’d tell them what he thinks of them if they’re bloody playing. Just as he reaches the slightly open door, he hears another smack and then a yelp, like that of a puppy. Heart racing now, he edges closer knowing for sure this is no secret poker tournament.
It is dark inside the room and the door’s portal window reflects James back at himself. He ducks down quickly, hoping he hasn’t been noticed.
Smack!
The door is ajar and he can hear the hitch and intake of breath just before another smack.
Another yelp has his heart racing for no rational reason. If a dog or animal is being beaten, he would go and rescue it of course—and whip whoever was responsible. And yet, something tells him this is no animal. Something about the static air that hazes around the sliver of the open door has his hairs rising.
Cocking his head, James peeks through.
Facing away from him, a dishevelled woman is bent at the middle with her skirt hitched up over her hips. A sailor stands behind her. James is spellbound, intrigued, aroused, and guilty. He s
hould go in and save this woman but as he watches, the sailor’s huge flat palm smacks against the soft flesh that wobbles beneath peach satin, and he simply cannot move.
He stares at the dip and crease of her crotch where dampness is spreading. He can’t quite believe his eyes and tries blinking to clear them of the dark erotic sight before him. He looks back into the shadowy room where the shaft of light illuminates the action in a perfect stripe.
Four, five, six, maybe more, then the slapping stops. James is ashamed when he realises how hard he has become. He has to shift to accommodate the rising throb. He watches eagerly as the hand rests on the rosy buttocks, smoothing and cooing as if in apology.
I should go, he thinks, guilt mocking him again. Drunk, and stupid and hard, he admonishes his voyeuristic behaviour. He turns to leave, but it is so deliciously deviant that he pauses and peeks once more to see a shock of dark glossy curls where the sailor has pulled the woman’s knickers aside. “Oh, yes,” James murmurs, rubbing his hand on his burdened cock, allowing the sensation of want to wash over him. He can see the red-hot burn, the desire seeping from her, glistening in the light in contrast to the murky darkness beyond. It is crude yet sensual and when he watches the sailor slide a thick digit into the woman’s entrance, he nearly passes out. What the hell? What kind of people are they? He feels almost delirious with lust and wishes he could ball his fist around himself and pump his pleasure all over her peachy wet knickers.
Oh, fuck, he thinks as the unmistakable tightening begins underneath his balls threatening to surge up. Footsteps on the deck above make his blood freeze with shock. Fighting all his carnal urges to stay and wank himself off behind the door, he pulls away and scurries off to the bow of the ship. Nothing like the whip of the sea breeze to sober you up and chase away lustful scenes from your senses… he hopes.
He is trembling by the time he makes it to the front and steps up onto the viewing platform. Wondering how long it will take for him to get back to his normal decent self and blood pressure, he hangs his head over it and watches the ocean spray its white froth all over the bow.
Her Stern Gentleman Page 3