"Well, I'll be damned! Voluptua Luscious!"
Everyone turned to me and stared. Except for Blondie, who positively glared. I giggled.
"Oops! Hey, this ratatouille is really rather good. Dig in before it gets cold!"
Harry excised his peepers from the thrusting orbs. His mouth worked furiously:
"Rocket thrusters?"
We really had to take a lip reading course.
"I'll tell you later!"
I returned to the veggies and a trip down mammary, sorry, memory lane. Voluptua Luscious was a former porn star and exotic dancer, once upon a time, way back in the shady mists of antiquity (the mid-1980s, to be precise). It was an era of big hair, big tits and big tips, and for one brief but heady season, Lush, (as the other girls affectionately called her for various reasons), was the veritable Queen of the Pink Pussy Lounge. What she couldn't do with a brass pole and a gallon of baby oil wasn't worth knowing. Why, it was there that I learned the infamous pussy dance. My own XXX career was brief but fascinating. A quick dip in the retro section of an adult video store should unearth at least one Titty Boomboom erotica classic.
"Nympho Vixen Sluts Do Miami" was my personal favorite, especially the lesbian gang bang scene in the car wash. Happy days.
I finished my ratty and beamed at my husband, suddenly feeling more at one with the world. After all, he almost looked like a rather well upholstered and mature version of James Bond in his debonair outfit. I was just pursing my mouth to blow him a fond little wifely kiss when I spotted the creeping hand. It was an artful little technique which my nearest and dearest had oft used to give me a frisson in a public place. Although, to the other guests at the table, it would simply appear as if H was politely hanging on Ms. Flyswat's every murmured word, I could clearly picture the furtive maneuvers taking place beneath the napkin draped across her lap. My dearly beloved had worked his hand up her long tanned thigh and inside her flimsy knickers. If she was wearing any. Somehow, I doubted it. Lush's eyes were slightly glazed, the pupils dilated. Harry knows where to find a clitoris. Just at that moment, the band struck up a ruckus with a Latin-American beat. I stood up and threw down my own napkin as if it were a gauntlet.
"Right! That's it! Come on, Harry – let's dance!"
My freshly betrothed stared at me as if I'd gone completely bananas.
"Jay, sweetheart, you know I was born with two left feet. I'd only crush your lovely little tootsies with my great plates of meat."
This was true, not an avoidance device. I groaned, inwardly. No way I was tripping the light with Boner or that greasy, sozzled doc. That left the Captain and instinct told me he'd stay close to his table in case it went down (the strained remnant of Lush's bodice, that is).
I lifted my chin and marched onto the small spotlit square of parquet which formed the dance floor. There was no one there, it being mid dinner, but the band played a mellow background medley. A sign on their glitzy podium read "Escabeche."
Mm, hot sauce. They certainly were a rather tasty quartet. Four hunky young Latinos in gaudy ruffled shirts and cock caressing pants jiggled their snake hips to a lively beat. One played the maracas and sang, one beat on his bongos, the third strummed a bass guitar and the fourth tootled a trumpet. The resulting din sounded a bit like Herb Alpert grafted to Santana, which more or less summed up the average age of the diners. I'd rather have had Carmen Miranda myself, but I've always been a retro kind of gal.
Seizing the spotlight, I surreptitiously undid the top two buttons of my slinky gown and began to sway sensuously to the sultry rhythm. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime. I'd show that has-been old Lush that Titty Boomboom still had the power to drive men wild with desire.
Harry would not be unimpressed.
* * * *
Jay had obviously gone bananas. Everyone from the Falklands to Oslo knows Harry Neptune can't put one foot in front of the other on the dance floor unless it's a strict 3/4 waltz. The Gay Gordons may be performed under extraordinary pressure, but the tango and suchlike modern gyrations are definitely where Harry happily sits it out. I have never even attempted the Twist.
Miss Lawrence, on the other hand, is something of a whiz on the dance floor. Not to mention the brass pole and the lap. Early ballet training had found an application that would have scandalized old Miss Prodworthy with her cardigan and metronome.
I settled down to see what La Lawrence would deliver, and kept up a deft rhythm under cover of the napkin.
"Oh, my, Mistah Neptune! Ah do declare I may at any moment experience some deep satisfaction!"
Good. That was the idea. Then maybe this luscious Luscious would come back for more under the ministrations of the well-known tag team of Lawrence and Neptune. The name Voluptua Luscious rang a faint bell. Something to do with the X-rated Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Ah well, I would find out later when I presented my bride with her honeymoon gift and ripped off the wrapping.
Speaking of my bride – by golly, she was on form tonight!
"Good heavens!" Even the squiffy doctor raised his head at the entertainment.
Jay's dress was hiked up nearly to the top of her thighs. Her feet were wide apart, her arms raised high in the air, her hair flew in a dizzying circle as she tossed her head wildly. At least three buttons had come undone on the top of her dress and her ample breasts thrust rhythmically against the expensive material as her body grated to and fro.
My fingers increased their pace inside Loretta's thin and sodden panties and I circumspectly eased the growing pressure on my trousers.
"Ooh la la!" squealed Mrs. Goldfinkel as the tempo of the music increased. "Just like the Crazy Horse in Paris before my second husband passed away!"
The Captain took another sip of mineral water and smiled quietly to himself. This was beginning to look like a memorable evening.
Jay slowed to an offbeat rhythm. She ran her hands lasciviously over her breasts, over her stomach and along her thighs. She was moving very slowly now though the music was becoming even more frenetic. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was moaning quietly to herself.
Her hands ran back up her thighs and for a moment took her dress to waist level. The glimpse of knickers disappeared as the dress fell back and she massaged her ribs. She started moving quicker again, eyes still closed. She squeezed her breasts.
Miss Swat's breathing quickened and I felt the warmth of approaching orgasm. My fingers slowed and she convulsively grasped my thigh. Harry knows when to prolong the pleasure.
Jay opened her eyes and in a sudden movement pointed at the maraca-wielding chanteur. He needed no second bidding. As he leapt from the low stage I saw it was Raoul, Mrs. Goldfinkel's quoits companion. He had all the usual greasy Dago attributes.
The band launched into what I think is called the Lambada. Whatever it was, Jay was into it. She slithered all over Raoul without touching him. He obviously knew the score because he matched her move for move with arms outstretched.
"The view's much better beside you, Harree!"
Mrs. Goldfinkel had tripped round to my side of the table and now gripped my arm tightly as she watched the dance with what I thought might have been a touch of nostalgia.
Loretta dug her nails in and I slowed the pace yet more. I felt a faint shudder pass through her body.
I saw that Jay was dancing a few inches further away from the Latin male bimbo, and the reason was evident for all to see. He needed more space to keep to the no-touching rule. Jay ran her hands down her breasts and thighs again and I knew he was willing her to grab his meat and two veg. She licked her lips.
It occurred to me that this was hardly the way a lady was supposed to behave on the first evening of her honeymoon. Dash it, her eyes were supposed to be on me. Never mind her hands. I began to wonder if she would be quite as appreciative of my gift of Miss Swat as I anticipated. She seemed to be in a hetero mood tonight, which is not at all the kind of threesome I had in mind.
All of a sudden Jay stopped danci
ng in mid-movement. Still in dance pose she fixed her eyes on Lothario's. He stopped too, mere millimeters away from Jay's sweating body. Her hands slowly traveled down her heaving breasts and glistening thighs. As they moved upward again her dress rose too, slowly this time. One hand caressed her crotch, a finger pushing the wet material into her pussy.
The band played on, on autopilot now. Every eye in the room was on Miss Lawrence. Raoul was mesmerized.
Jay's free hand ran round the inside of her thighs. She opened her mouth wide and ran her tongue over her lips.
Then her hand darted to Raoul's bulging erection. His gasp could be heard over the music as she tugged him to her.
Several things happened at once.
The lights went out.
The music stopped.
Miss Swat had a loud and enthusiastic orgasm.
"Ach, I spilled ma' whusky!"
A champagne cork popped.
Mrs. Goldfinkel grabbed my crown jewels and stuck her tongue in my ear.
A thump came from the dance floor as of a falling body.
"Lights!" in the Captain's commanding voice.
The lights came on.
Miss Lawrence stood in a theatrical gesture, one palm outstretched where she had evidently thrust away the panting and now frustrated Raoul. Raoul lay motionless face down on the floor.
Miss Lawrence gestured imperiously to the drummer.
"You! Next!"
* * * *
There was a stunned silence followed by a roar of rapturous applause!
"Bravo! Bravo!"
I looked around the large dining room of the Caribbean Conch and witnessed a veritable sea of enthusiastic faces. Some diners whistled and stamped, others clapped as if I were a Broadway star making a final, much hyped farewell performance. I felt just like Ann-Margret. Harry told me afterwards that my most vociferous fans were a group of senior citizens from Cleveland but no matter. It was sublime. The bongo player thumped out a long, dramatic drum roll and I took a deep bow, placing one stiletto-clad foot on my partner's back for effect. Raoul seemed determined to play his role to the hilt. He remained slumped across the parquet, a glazed expression in his one visible eye. Smiling glamorously, I gave him a little kick in the ribs and hissed:
"OK, Fred Astaire, take a bow. Don't even think about stealing the limelight!"
It was years since I'd performed and I realized just how much I'd missed that feeling. Then and there, I vowed to make a comeback. Titty Boomboom would ride again. There was, after all, quite a market for plump and mature.
The applause faded, my Latin lover didn't move an inch. My artistic temperament came into play. I inserted the sharp end of my high-heeled sandals between his tight little spandex painted buns. Not a flicker. I crouched down and muttered in his ear.
"Up, Raoul!"
Then, unfortunately, I started to laugh uncontrollably. Don't ask me why, but for many, many years, the name Raoul has given me the giggles. There's just something about it which taps my funny bone and it can't be uttered without me creasing my sides. I spluttered. I heaved. Finally, I looked up to find myself almost nose to nose with Dr. Dunnett, who was peering officiously at the limp Latino. The whisky vapors almost knocked me out cold. The Scotsman placed two fingers on my partner's neck then shook his head.
"Thir's nae pulse. The laddie's deid."
Mrs. Goldfinkel screamed like an express train entering a tunnel.
"RAOOOOOOUL!!!"
Unfortunately, this set me off again and I clutched my sides. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and they weren't ones of sorrow for the boy's demise. I was helpless.
"I've never actually killed one before!" was all I could gasp, before setting off on another session of mirth.
"Please return to your seat, Mrs. Neptune."
Captain Ahab had materialized, all gold braid and understated mastery. I looked up into his deep brown eyes and a sudden wave of nausea overcame me. Must have been the ratatouille. I swallowed.
"Oo-er, excuse me, I feel a bit Moby Dick."
Of course, when I realized what I'd just said, the hilarity started all over again. The Captain frowned.
"I must remind you that this is a very serious matter. There may be an inquest."
Dr. Dunnett looked up from examining the body, his thin face pinched and grim.
"Ah fear there will be. The laddie's been shot!"
There was a fresh banshee wail from Mrs. Goldfinkel, accompanied by various gasps, shrieks and squawks from the company. It was darned good entertainment, even if Raoul did get the fuzzy end of the lollipop. I rushed into Harry's manly embrace and pressed my face against his crisp white shirtfront. To the gathering ghouls, it would look as if I were weeping my little heart out in horror and fear. In truth, I was desperately attempting to staunch my hysterics. It wasn't easy, as the Goldmine kept crying her toy boy's name, while wringing her multi-carated hands in a credible performance of bereaved histrionics. One got the definite impression she'd perfected the act. I wondered how many husbands she'd buried and whether the Gigi curse extended to Latino playthings. Harry patted my bottom tenderly.
"There, there, darling. It wasn't your fault, really it wasn't. These hot-blooded Latin gigolos are always getting bumped off by jealous husbands, outraged fathers and incensed uncles! It's a fact of life, like fluff in your belly button. I'm just amazed the vengeful party didn't realize that Raoul was doing the male population a major favor, keeping the Black Widow at least partly amused."
I snorted into my husband's armpit. Once at Raoul, then again at his new name for Mrs. Goldfinkel. It suited her perfectly. She was calming down quite nicely, taking a strengthening gulp of Champagne and letting a steward fan her soothingly with a menu card. He'd better watch himself or he'd be the next victim. Tenderly, Harry brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face and I smelled the distinctive musky scent of rampant pussy on his fingers. That was it. The final straw. Several crew members carted off the draped and lifeless form of my dance partner as I thumped furiously on my spouse's chest.
"Adulterer!"
Effortlessly, Harry grasped my wrists and grinned down at me as I wriggled wildly.
"You're just put out because someone shot the poor bugger and you thought you'd sexed him to death!"
I pouted. Harry knows me so well. Nevertheless, we were officially man and wife. Frigging the Lush at our first formal dinner was below the belt. Waaay below the belt...
"And what about the irreproachable Mrs. Neptune?" Harry continued, increasing the vise-like grip on my wrists. "I've seen tamer dance routines at some pretty sordid strip joints! You were all over that grease ball like a nasty little rash. I've a good mind to pull your panties down and give you a damn good thrashing. Teach you who's boss and all that."
My tummy turned over again. This time, in a good way. I love being turned over a strong man's knees for a sound bare bottom spanking.
"Did someone mention spanking?"
Boner had acute hearing when it came to anything buttock related. Harry was spot on when he called my ex "Bummer." While H was a confirmed "tit man", B was an ass. I sighed deeply.
Harry grinned, reading my thoughts.
"Don't worry, dear. You'll get a thorough going over later. No stone will be left unturned, I promise you that much."
A piratical hand grappled its way up my garter belt and broached my drenched panties. I noticed that the other hand had recaptured Ms. Swat, who gave me a "howzabout it?" look. Well, I might and I might not. It depended on the mood of the moment.
A solemn Captain Ahab returned to his table.
"Mrs. Neptune, I'm afraid I must insist that you return to your cabin and do not vacate it until some questions have been answered. A mere formality, I assure you."
I fervently hoped the Captain himself would perform my debriefing. I certainly wouldn't mind going over his knees. I smiled sweetly at Harry.
"Right then, darling. Looks like I'm under house arrest. Time to find the handcuffs."
"Why, hellzapoppin'!"
Harry feasted his eyes on the Grand Canyon.
"Quite."
CHAPTER FOUR: "WHAT GOES UP…"
I was less concerned about the deceased Raoul than about the hopeful look in Boner's eye. Miss Lawrence had told me he carried a sports bag around with him filled with paddles, flails, whips, canes and other implements of botty-beating. She also told me that was all he was interested in in the sex department. A few swipes and he toddled off to change his trousers. Frustrating for someone who likes nothing better than brisk cunnilingus and a doggy style pounding after a good bottom reddening. There was a suspicious damp patch on Boner's pants already.
"Thweetheart, it'th time for pre-beddy-byeth yoga."
The ex Mrs. Neptune hauled on her new hubby's arm. He moved reluctantly away, though surely even that thick-skinned idiot must realize that Miss Lawrence was more likely to line him as the next murder victim than let him anywhere near her rear end. I wondered how he managed his peccadillo with Mrs. Boner. She had as much interest in the finer arts of sexual stimulation as a Brussels sprout. She positively shrank from even the most unadventurous foreplay. If Boner had ever raised the courage to threaten her rear end I have no doubt his ears were still ringing with the cry of horror.
"RAOOOOOOUL!!!"
Mrs. Goldfinkel reminded us that this was a solemn occasion and some mourning was in order. This seemed to me a little rich for someone who moments before had been massaging my pride and joy while reaming out my ear with a sticky tongue. However, I suppose she was entitled to a wail or two.
All the same, a dead Dago is a dead Dago and no doubt there would be alarums and excursions to come. Self-important ship's officers filling in logs and a West Indian policeman or two. Dashed annoying, murders. They encourage all sorts of people to crawl out of the woodwork and make nuisances of themselves.
MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission Page 19