Chapter 1

Copyright© 2016 by oyster50

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - There are many ways to drop out of society and there are many reasons, as well. Josh is just, well, happy to be by himself. That is, until somebody shows up on his houseboat one day.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Heterosexual   Slow  

“Motor vessel Dorable is going through the lock, headed upstream,” I said into the microphone of the marine VHF radio. I strongly suspected that the only one listening was the lock master, sitting in his little control house, probably watching a video or reading a book or listening to music.

The lock was open, would stay open all day as long as the river was up a little, making sure that salt water didn’t intrude upstream.

I flinched as two powerboats growled past me, pretty much ignoring common sense in the narrow confines of the lock.

M/V Dorable. Forty feet long. Fourteen feet wide. Loaded as she is right now, she draws a whole two feet. Not pretty to look at, but that’s part of her heritage. She started out as a work barge, just a rectangular tub with a blunt bow and a little bow and stern curve in the interests of hydrodynamics. When I bought her she was just that, a metal tub. I had her blasted and epoxied inside and out and I argued and fussed with the shipyard until they installed a Norwegian diesel engine and a rudder and a skeg.

That made her powered. The rectangular hole I cut in her deck and filled with a cabin, that made her home.

And I paid cash for it all. Some of that cash was my receipts from Dad’s life savings. When he passed away, as the sole heir, it was all mine. Well, mine and the government’s. After the government finished looking, Dad’s nest egg still put a bit over three million in the bank for me.

I quit work. Change that. I quit the nine-to-five job as an engineer. I could call myself a writer now, full-time. I’ve actually been paid for my writing, the odd magazine article, technical work, a few flights of fiction, enough off e-books to actually pay a light bill or get me half a tank of diesel. Somehow the idea of showing up at the same place every day just didn’t fit my ideas of a chosen lifestyle any more.

Wasn’t just Dad’s money, either. I’d made some pretty good moves with my old employer’s stock over the last few years. In short, I was in the happy position of NOT having to meet a schedule and I wanted a houseboat. Dorable is the happy result.

I can pilot her from inside the main cabin, looking out through a big window, just in case the weather’s nasty, or I can pilot her from the hurricane deck, perched under a roof, enjoying the breeze and 360- degree view from eight feet over the water. I have assistance in the form of a grey neutered tomcat, Admiral Sir Pickles of Choupique. That name’s pronounced ‘shoe-peek’ where I come from. And I call ‘im ‘Pickles’ from when he was a mere curious kitten who pestered me for a lick of a dill pickle I was eating on the aft deck. The face he made cemented the name.

Inside I have a full-sized bed, a kitchen complete with a range (propane) and a refrigerator that will run on either electricity or propane. Air conditioner, too, but I only use it when I connect to shore power.

The fore-deck in front of the cabin was short, enough room for handling anchors, room for a couple of chairs if one wished to sit there, and there was a tie-down for a motor scooter. The scooter was my ticket to land-based activities. I had my SUV parked at the home marina, but if supplies ran out while I was on a trip, I could tie up to the bank, lower a gang-plank to shore, and putt-putt off to get what I needed, as long as what I needed could fit on the scooter.

A bag or two of groceries, a case of oil, that sort of thing was doable. Past that, I’d had some success with bribing somebody to haul things to my boat for me.

I went on trips. That little Norwegian (an antique, almost) diesel had a pleasant note, each stroke a distinctly separate pop instead of the annoying buzz of newer, high-speed engines. If I pushed the throttle wide open, I could do almost eight knots. If I pulled the throttle back half-way, still seven knots. Dorable was no speedboat. I’d determined that just being on her was destination enough, and if I wanted to change the scenery, then I could do so in easy day-length jaunts.

That’s where I was today. The destination was a state park on a lazy river. We don’t have any other kind of rivers in south Louisiana. The big question is always fresh or salt water. This one was fresh. I’d nosed along close to the bank, tied off parallel to the shore with loops of line that would allow me to cast off single-handed from the boat, and I went ashore to make arrangements with the park rangers. Pickles remained on board to guard the place.

Some parks had no problem with me tying off. Some did. Sometimes those problems could be fixed by paying a fee just like I was a motor home parked in that big lot I walked past.

These people? “Just don’t block the boat launching ramp.” I walked back to the boat, dropped the gangplank, and rode the scooter off onto the shore. Once I got there, I dismounted and slowly guided it up the bank to the top of the bluff, then remounted and took off to the nearest grocery.

When I got back, the bluff overlooking my boat was filled with a crowd of young people. I looked around, spotted a church bus. There were ice chests sited on picnic tables and groups of teens were scampering out in various directions. Oh, well. I have a task to complete. I park my scooter near the edge of the bluff overlooking my boat and unload a double handful of canvas bags – my groceries. I work my way down the path and deposit them on the deck of the boat.

The next step is retrieving the scooter. I crank it up, use its engine power to ease it down the slope as I walk alongside. I got the scooter on board and was tying it down when I heard a female voice behind me.

“Neat boat. I bet I know where the name comes from.”

I turned to see who was talking. There she was. Mid to late twenties. Closer to six feet than five, wearing a cotton T-shirt with a church logo and a pair of loose shorts, khaki. And naturally, athletic shoes.

“Okay,” I said, “where’s the name come from?”

“Robert Heinlein. Time Enough for Love.”

“Not exactly the kind of book I’d expect a church lady to read,” I countered. “And it could be the name of my unrequited love.”

She laughed. “I’m Georgina Bates. My friends can’t decide on Georgie or Gee-Gee or Gee.”

“Georgina,” I said carefully.

“My great grandmother’s name. I thought about changing it but that would dishonor a nice lady who held me when I was four.”

“Good reason to keep it, I said. “I’m Joshua Bertrand. ‘Josh’ works.”

“So this is your boat?”

“All mine,” I said. “Wanna come aboard and get another cold drink?”

“How about if I go get us each one and come back while you stow your groceries.”

“Oh, wow! ‘Stow’. Look at you bein’ all nautical.”

“Coke, Sprite, root beer, ginger ale...”

“Bingo,” I said. “Ginger ale!”

“Be right back.”

By now the music was going pretty good at the top of the bluff. I put cold milk and butter and eggs and bacon into the little fridge and stowed (really did!) the dried beans and rice and onions and some canned goods.

I felt the boat rock, then a cheerful “Ahoy!”

“Come in...”

“ ... to my parlor, said the spider to the fly...” She extended a ginger ale, dripping with cool moisture. Pickles met her, did a cat scan, apparently approved, then went back to sleep.

“Then let’s leave the parlor and sit on the back deck.”

I keep a couple of chairs back there. I’ve passed many a great hour talking with other river denizens, mostly retirees who had homes on various rivers. I keep an eye out for docks and landings in good repair and frequently ask about tying up for the night. I’m not so much of a hermit that I don’t enjoy the company of others, especially if the ‘other’ is blue-eyed, with her titian hair in a whimsical ponytail.

“Music’s getting kind of loud up there,” she said.

“Definitely intrudes on my solitude,” I replied, the last syllables almost over-ridden by the sound of a powerboat at full throttle in the middle of the channel. “Weekends are notorious.”

“You do this during the week?”

“I live in this thing,” I replied.

“No regular house?”

“Actually I’m pretty close to my house right now. I could be there in an hour on this scooter. Or I could take a couple or three hours to go back to the home marina and get my car. But I like being a river rat.”

“That’s it? River rat?”

“I write a little. Got some money in the bank. If push comes to shove, I guess somebody would need an engineer for a while, but really, this is it. Me, the river, the boat...”

“Interesting,” she said.

“Makes your Coke taste bad?”

“Don’t be silly. I saw the bookshelf when we walked through the cabin. And that MacBook on the desk...”

“Navigation station,” I corrected. “Not a desk...”

“Gotta be hard navigating this thing. This is a river. You go upstream or you go downstream. Tough.”

“You think too fast.”

“Notorious smartass,” she laughed.

“Church ladies don’t use the word ‘smartass’.”

“I don’t work for the church, so I’m not a church lady. I came along as a sort of chaperone. Won’t work, though. Those are teenagers. I’d need an icewater firehose and a cattle prod.”

“So you abandoned ship.”

“Ooooo, a nautical joke,” she tittered.

“I have smartass cred, too, Gee. What kind of work do you do?”

“I’ve a bachelor’s in biology, so naturally I’m an assistant manager at one of those trendy shops at the mall.”


“Sadly. Most of the wildlife I see has baggy pants and multicolor hair...”

“I got pictures. Wildlife. On my computer.”


“Uh-huh. Nose Dorable into the shallow end of a cut, sit quietly, put the camera on a tripod with a good telephoto ... And wait. Pictures. Or take a kayak.” There was a kayak bungeed to the port side of the cabin roof. “Or the skiff.” The skiff was twelve feet of welded aluminum with a ten-horsepower outboard. A nifty hoist picked it up out of the water and bedded it on the cabin roof. “I can explore. Fish. Take pictures.”

“Show me.”

“Okay.” I flipped a couple of switches, bringing up a big screen monitor, then I opened my MacBook and started looking.

“Sofa. Sit. I can control it from here or there.”

She sat on the sofa. I plopped on the opposite end, started flipping through pictures. After a dozen or so, she said, “You have some good ones. Is this what you write about?”

“No,” I said.

“I could do something with every one of these. A picture or two, a few paragraphs of facts, maybe some color about the surroundings.”

“Sounds like an idea. What DO you write about?”

“I’ve written about cruisin’ the river. Published in some little magazines, that sort of thing.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a metallic click then some splashing.

“Excuse me for a second. I think that my questions about dinner have been answered.”

She followed me out of the cabin. I started tugging a line in against the wishes of the fish at the other end.

“What’s that thing?” Gee asked.

“It’s called a yo-yo. I set a couple of ‘em over the side when I stop. Hand me that landing net by the door.”

She slapped the handle into my waiting hand. I scooped a catfish out of the river. “About two pounds. Dinner.”

She watched as I removed the hook from the fish’s mouth then dropped him into a live basket that went over the side. I cleaned the hook of that yo-yo and retrieved and cleaned a second a bit further up the rail.

“Neat,” she said. “Can’t get much fresher than that. How’re you gonna cook it?”

“Courtbouillon,” I said, using the Cajun pronunciation, ‘Coo-be-yawn’.

“Grandma’s dish,” she said.

“Wanna stay for dinner? Gonna be plenty.”

“Can I help you cook?”

“Can you slice an onion without removing your fingers?”


“Come on, then.”

I tossed the cutting board on the little counter. “Knife’s in the right drawer. Careful. It’s sharp.”

I was opening cans and heating a pan on the little stove while she chopped up an onion and some celery and half a bell pepper.

“I’m watchin’ you,” she laughed. “Making sure you do it right.”

“You know this dish?”

“Oh, yeah ... uh-huh. When Mom was sick, Grandma stayed with us and I helped out in the kitchen. I pay attention to things. Like you using bacon grease. Nice touch.”

“My tribute to Mother Gaia,” I said. “Not wasting...”

She laughed. “Oh yeah, guys with big boats are all about nature and conservation.”

“Like that one,” I said, acknowledging the annoying roar of a powerboat hauling ass up the river past us. “Watch your footing. He’s gonna rock us.” The biggest powerboats on the river didn’t give several tons of river barge much trouble, but it’s wise to never imagine you’re on completely solid ground.

“Got it,” she said.

I was right. Barely a shake. She finished the vegetables.

“Mizz Gee-gee...” came a call from shore.

“That would be one of my charges,” she said. “They’re worried that I’m in here suffering molestation.”

“I got this,” I said. “Go assuage their fears.”

Giggle. “Or confirm them. Or give them more fodder for vivid imaginations.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she exited to the foredeck.

“I’m okay, Kaitlyn,” I heard her say. “Me ‘n’ my friend Josh are cooking dinner.”

“‘Kay,” Kaitlyn said. “Brother Gene said to check on you.”

“Tell Brother Gene that I’m with an old friend.” And she was back inside the cabin as I stirred aromatic vegetables in a big cast-iron pot.

“And you fibbed to Brother Gene,” I said. “You’re goin’ to Hell over catfish courtbouillon.”

Titter. “One. I get to say how old ‘old’ is. Two hours is older than five minutes. Two. Gene harbors some idea that because he’s single and I’m single and we’re BOTH here as chaperones, we’re somehow connected. And three, I smell that stuff cooking. I might just risk Hell.”

I dumped tomatoes, tomato sauce and tomato paste into the pot and stirred, then added a bit of water. I opened the cabinet and pulled out a peppermill.

“Oooooh,” she giggled. “Fresh-ground pepper.”

“And sea salt,” I said.

“ALL salt is from the sea, sir. Some of it just been away longer than others.”

“College eddicashun makes you all uppity ‘n’ stuff,” I said.

Another giggle. “You’re funny.”

“Thank you. You’re funny, too. Now we let this simmer for a bit.”

“What about your fish?”

“I’ll pull ‘im up and clean ‘im when it’s time to put him in the pot. We’ll make a pot of rice then. That way the fish’ll be cooked about the same time the rice is ready. And canned corn.”

“A menu fit for...”

“Generations and generations of Cajuns,” I said. “Now, back to those pictures.”

The pot was stirred several times over the next hour. After she assured me she knew what she was doing, I let her put on the pot of rice while I attended to the funeral for the catfish. I officiated. It was attended by Pickles. He makes short work of the liver and roe. The rest goes over the side, creating a small marine riot as small fish tear up the remains. Circle of life and all that.

I took the bowl of catfish filets back into the cabin and deposited them into the savory courtbouillon, then went back out and hosed down the little folding platform I used for cleaning fish.

“Twenty minutes,” Gee said. “Rice’ll be done. I have a can of corn on the back burner. All we have to do is give it a quick heating.”

“Put a pat of butter in it,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be perfect.”

It was. We sat on the aft deck, table between us, feasted on the freshest possible catfish in a savory red gravy over rice, sipping cold ginger ale, listening to the noise that passed for music as the group of teens partied on the bluff overlooking us.

Shadows lengthened and the sun disappeared behind the trees.

“I’d better go make a showing up there, Josh,” she said.

“I guess so,” I agreed. “I definitely enjoyed the company.”

“I may be back, if you don’t mind putting up with my chatter.”

“I didn’t mind your chatter a bit. It’s been a bunch of pleasant conversations.”

“You too, Josh. I get so tired of the ‘he’s like’ and the ‘know whut i’m sayin’.” she sighed. “ ... like what’s waiting for me up there...”

“I’ll wait, then,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” Gee replied.

I find myself to have really enjoyed this lady’s presence. That’s why I said, “Nah, I’ll be here just in case. I’ll leave in the morning. There’s a promising channel up the river. Heads off into a cypress swamp. It’s not on the marine charts, but it’s on Google Earth. I’ll head there tomorrow.”

She smiled. “I just may be back...” And she left.

Pickles came up and sat on the sofa beside me.

“What’d YOU think?” I asked him.


“Not one of those prissy, stupid ones, huh, buddy?”


“Okay. If she shows back up, YOU try being friendly with ‘er. If she’s a cat person, we’ll call that a plus.”


“Want a treat? Or did you fill up on catfish liver?”


He knows the treats are in the cabinet and he knows what the canister looks like, so when I reached and retrieved it, he was right there, ready.

After Gee left, I got on the Internet to check on the status of a couple of articles I’d penned, hoping for their acceptance for publishing. It wasn’t the money, it was the idea that I could still coax something out of a keyboard. One made the cut. Standard conditions. Check headed to my account.

Next I looked through some pictures. I was thinking of Gee’s “I could do something with every one of these” statement. Might be an interesting excursion, I thought. She certainly seemed to be somebody I was interested in working with.

I expected that some good pictures might come from that swamp I was getting ready to visit. There’s something primeval about sunlight filtering through the cypress canopy, bits and flashes reflecting off the tannin-stained water at their bases. I was sure that the channel was a leftover from a hundred years ago when lumbermen harvested that swamp. It might’ve been deep enough then for their workboats to navigate back into the far reaches. I was hoping that there was still enough depth for me to ease Dorable out of the main river channel. I was really hoping I could get her far enough from the river to render her invisible. Privacy. Just me and Pickles and nature.

I’ve been in similar places on my journeys. Never got quite far enough to be completely silent, no man-made sounds at all, but this would be very close. Silence. Solitude. So why am I thinking about sharing it, all of a sudden. I pecked at the keyboard for a bit.

“Josh?” I heard.


“Are you decent?” And a giggle.

“What difference does it make?” I replied.

I felt the deck move almost imperceptibly., then “Hi!”

“Hi yourself. How’s the wildlife up on the bluff?”

“Teens being teens. I remember such, and I wasn’t about to listen to some old person tell me anything either.”

“Ah, the experiences of our misspent youth,” I said.

“You look like you’re doing pretty good now, although I must say I never actually met anyone who chose ‘river rat’ as a career choice.”

We sat together on the aft deck after I lowered the screens, enclosing us against the mosquitoes. We talked – books, schools, jobs. Pickles made an appearance, jumped up on her lap. She petted him, causing him to purr loudly.

“I guess you’re not averse to cats,” I said.

“No way. I had a cat for a pet when I was a kid. Poor thing was my constant friend. She died of old age when I was a teen. I cried.” She scratched Pickles’ ears. “This one is beautiful. I like that tabby swirl pattern.”

“He was the survivor of a litter at the boatyard that built Dorable,” I said. “Sort of a plank-owner. Like me.”

“How’s he work out on a boat?”

“He has his corner of the deck for his business. He’s my watchcat. Bravely protects me from various critters. He’s killed a snake or two. Sometimes if I nose in under a tree, one will fall onboard. Pickles KNOWS.”

At ten-thirty a horn sounded.

“That’s my cue,” she said. “Bus is leaving.”

“Well, again ... wonderful time talking with you. If you...”

“Are you gonna be here tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“If I was to, like, show up, could we go up the river a ways, and then come back? I’d like that...”

“I could do that,” I said. Okay, I guess that I am a sucker for blue eyes and ponytails.

“You sure? I mean, you might have a destination and an itinerary...”

“Gee,” I said, “That’s part of the reason I’m on this thing – so I won’t have an itinerary. And I’ve always got destinations...”

“About nine, then?”

“Nine works,” I said.

I was escorting her to the gangplank while this conversation was taking place. When she got to it, she turned suddenly, kissed my cheek and waved. A couple of girls on the bluff overlooking us saw the action and felt compelled to squeal, “Woo-hooooo! Mizz Gee-gee!”

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