Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Slow,
Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - It's raining, the fishing's screwed up from all the fresh water, so Buddy takes his boat to go help with rescue efforts from massive flooding. You can find a lot of things in a flooded town.
I finally got tired of working. I had vacation. Had no goals at all – maybe laze around a bit, hey, thought about going fishing, but at this time of the year, that’s either an early morning or late evening deal for me. I mean, the summer sun on the Gulf Coast is brutal, especially if it not only beats down on your head from the sky, but it reflects off the water at you.
That was the plan when I left work on Friday. Weather was crap. Rained all day, not that nice sprinkly rain, but spates of downpours, prompting the local weather service to announce flash flood warnings. I know my area. I’ve lived here all my life. That’s one thing in my favor. Other thing in my favor is that I’m driving a pickup truck, so a foot of water’s not a problem if I can stay on the road.
So I went home. My home. Mine alone. Been that way for half of the ten years I’ve owned it. The first half? It was me and my wife, before the wife remembered how wonderful life was with her high school sweetheart. She absconded ... I waited, was hoping for a reconciliation, but one of the big attractors he had that I didn’t was he liked to drink. So did she, but we only drank together and never to obliteration.
Obliteration is what she wanted, obliteration was what she got. They left a nightclub at one in the morning and drove off the road into a drainage canal. A passerby reported the taillights sticking out above the surface at four. I was tasked with identifying the body.
I would’ve probably felt more remorse if the table next to her in the mortuary didn’t hold her boyfriend.
That saved me the financial hit. Her funeral was a lot less expensive than the division of property a divorce would’ve cost me.
Still – wife. Mourn. Even when I didn’t realize I was mourning.
Now I’m recovered. I’m watching the rain and the news and I see that the eastern part of the state was taking a beating, floods like they haven’t seen in a millennium.
Saturday I went grocery shopping, did some housework, checked out the aluminum flat-bottomed boat on its trailer beside the house.
The boat ain’t fancy, it’s functional. It’s ugly drab green, not shiny metal-flake. It’s angular aluminum, not curvy, sexy fiberglass, and the motor’s a mere fifty horsepower. I fish out of it on local rivers and lakes, and I even use it for oystering if I’m ambitious. It’s rigged with a depth finder and a trolling motor, little battery-powered thing that allows me to ease along a bank without a lot of noise, or hold my position in a bit of wind or current. Nice boat.
I’m sitting in the house half-watching a movie when the phone (cellphone) rings. I glance at the caller ID. Carl Simmons. Guy I work with. We’ve fished a time or two.
“Hey, Carl. What’s up?”
“You following that flooding crap?”
“On and off. Looks bad.”
“Worse than bad, Buddy. Thousands of people stranded. The National Guard and the state and local services can’t get to ‘em all. Bunch of us are thinking about convoying over in the morning with our boats and seeing if we can help out.”
“Yeah. You in?”
“Was going fishing tomorrow, but all this rain, the lake’s gonna be shit, probably. I’m in. Lemme go tank up everything and get some supplies.”
“Do that. We’re gonna meet in the company parking lot at about five-thirty.”
“I’ll be there.”
And of such things is life made.
I met three others at the company parking lot, as we’d planned. My boat was loaded with bottled water and a first aid kit and a tool box and some blankets. The others were similarly equipped. These are guys who’re used to hunting and fishing in their off time and stomping hill and vale at work on the pipeline that provides our checks. Even the one desk jockey here is a former pipeliner. There’s not a pair of skinny jeans or a man bun among us.
Three hours later we’re talking with a deputy sheriff of one of the affected parishes. This is Louisiana. We have parishes instead of counties. “Go down this road a mile and a half. There’s another unit there. He’ll point you to the water where you can launch and he’ll watch yer rigs while you’re workin’. ‘Preciate the help.”
An hour later I’m in the water. The parking lot we left behind already had almost a dozen boat trailers in it, so when we get in the water, all the close-in victims have been recovered. No problem. There are plenty to go around.
An hour later, I’m back at the landing with a family: husband, wife, two kids, a big black Labrador who just can’t figure out why we’re all not happier about all this water. A Baptist church’s Boy Scout troop has a tent set up and they’re passing out cold drinks and hot dogs right now.
“Come back later. We’re makin’ a jambalaya,” one lady says, chopping onions as we speak.
I grab a Coke and head back out. This ain’t the twenty-five miles an hour I do when I’m buzzing to the far corners of the lake. I’m almost idling, almost dead slow. One, my wake would only add another injury to homes already in water up to the tops of the windows. Two, there’s EVERYTHING floating in that water. Last thing I need is to punch a hole in my boat or tear the motor up.
I head deeper into the wooded streets, listening, looking. There’s a little cul de sac. At the end is a duplex apartment. Water’s up to the eaves. Four people on the roof, waving.
This one’s mine. I ease up the street, nosing my boat up to the eaves of the house.
“Can you folks get in?” I ask.
“Toss me that rope,” the man says. “I’ll hold you against the roof.”
“Be careful,” I said. The mom and about an eight year old boy climbed in. Then I looked up. There SHE was. I didn’t know that she was properly ‘SHE’, but hey, it’s early in the day. “You next,” I said to her. She stepped across the gunwale confidently, moved back from the side. “Now you,” I told the guy. “Just toss that line in, then step. I’ll hold us in there.” I gave the motor a little throttle, pushing against the roof. He stepped in.
“Welcome to the Cajun Navy,” I said. “I’m Buddy Fontenot.” (I’m Cajun, and that’s pronounced “fahn-tuh-NO” in case you’re not from around here.) “Grab a drink if you want. There’s food at the landing. If you’re cold ... blankets.”
““We’re the Ellises,” the guy said. “I’m Johnny. My wife Cary. And Johnny junior. John-john.”
“Wisht we could’ve met under better circumstances.” I looked at the girl. She was a bit haggard-looking, short blonde hair, pulled behind her ears. Eyes like somebody’d captured bits of sky for color. Maybe five foot six. Maybe a hundred twenty or so. Who knows. She was wet and her jeans fit her, well, like a pair of wet jeans. The cotton blouse was damp, clinging to a rather unspectacular set of breasts, if big breasts are your thing. Ex-wife was proud of hers. I was ‘meh’.
“I’m Mimi Clemons.” She sat her backpack down.
“Mimi? Seriously? Is that with ‘e’s’ or ‘I’s’ or what?” I asked. I was hoping a little levity and banter would cut the sting of a harsh situation.
“M-I-M-I, thank you.” Got a flash of those eyes, plus a ‘what are you pulling?’ look.
“Just checking. Y’all sit down. Don’t want you falling back in at this stage of the game.”
I’d just backed away from the roof when John-john started yelling “Jarvis! Mom! There’s Jarvis!”
I’m thinking ‘Jarvis’ is another human. John-john’s pointing at a tree occupied by a tuxedo cat.
“Will he come if we get there?” I asked.
“He’s a cat,” the dad said. “I’m giving you a fifty-fifty.”
I eased the boat in among branches, put the motor in neutral, started pulling us inward towards the trunk by the expedient of tugging on the branches. “Watch your faces, folks,” I said.
Jarvis eyed us suspiciously. I said a little prayer. I don’t know if prayers work for cats. Good time to try. “John-john, call ‘im.”
“C’mere, Jarvis,” the kid intoned. “C’mon!”
Jarvis was calculating the profitability of this new situation as opposed to his tree. He went into a crouch. I prayed that wasn’t a ‘let me get further up the tree’ crouch.
“C’mon, Jarvis,” Cary said. Her voice was something I’d come to if I were a cat. Mimi joined her. Okay, Mimi’s voice. Had that certain timbre to it. I’d show up if I had to wade through a briar patch in my skivvies.
Apparently the cat thought the same. He jumped. John-john caught him, plopped back down on the seat of the boat, and Jarvis stayed put. We backed out of the tree and into the street.
Half an hour later I was nosing us up against the elevated highway. Half a dozen people reached down to help my passengers out. One lady took Jarvis. I looked at Mimi. She returned the look. “You need crew, right?”
“You do. Let’s go.”
“Yes, cap’n.” Okay, there’s something behind the flash in those eyes. And yes, help is welcome, especially when I see she’s not the ‘squealing princess’ type.
Two more sorties, nine people.
“Why don’t you join ‘em, Mimi?”
“What for? A trip to a shelter? Sit on my butt and feel sorry for myself? Nothing to do but get all morose? Do you mind me being here?”
“Not even. Just don’t want you to think that...”
“That ... Hell, I dunno. Just ... I dunno. Happy to have you.”
I’d seen her smile with every rescue, calming children, holding the hand of an elderly man, trying to corral four puppies that came with one family. Now I saw her smile and there was just me.
We were idling along, further from the road, poking into streets, looking, when the motor labored and stopped. I put it into neutral, hit the starter. It started. Put it into gear. Stopped.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I tilted the motor, raising the propeller out of the water. “We’ve collected a bit of stray rope.”
“You can fix it, right?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m gonna go over the side. Let me fix my knife up.” I pulled some light nylon line out of the tool box, made a lanyard, then attached the knife to one end, looping the other around my wrist.
“I’ll hand you whatever you need,” she said.
I splashed over the side, started cutting away as much of the offensive cordage as possible. Finally, I swam back to the side of the boat. “There’s a red wrench in that compartment under the boat seat.”
She raised the seat cushion. “This one?”
“Yeah. Untie my knife and tie that wrench on the lanyard.” I figured she’d muff the knot. Wrong. She had it secured with a clove hitch with a half-hitch stopper.
“What are you doing?”
“Pulling the prop. The crap’s between it and the housing.”
“Here,” she said. “Tie this around a blade of the prop. Don’t want you dropping it.”
I did drop the wrench once. Retrieved it, made sure I didn’t drop the prop nut, handing it to Mimi. I wrestled with the prop, finally got it off the shaft, then worked the last of the line out of the way. The reassembly was pretty straightforward. Time to get back in the boat.
“You go sit on the far side. Balance,” I said.
When she sat, she grabbed the paddle, extending the handle towards me. “Grab this.”
I was back in the boat, completely soaked, and it wasn’t exactly that sparkling clean pool water, either. I popped a bottle of water, poured it over my face, wiping with my hand. She passed me another bottle.
“You got any booze?”
“Huh?” Did I pick up an alcoholic?
“You know – hard liquor. At least gargle and rinse your mouth out. Disinfectant.”
“Side pocket of that green tote. There’s a flask of brandy.”
“Either you’re one heck of a prepper or you have a problem,” she laughed.
“First one. Don’t you watch the old movies? A shot of brandy always revived the guy who was near death.”
“That’s a fallacy,” Mimi said. “The warm feeling just means your peripheral circulation is stimulated. It doesn’t last.”
“If it lasts long enough for the victim to get to a better place, then it’s served its function. By the way, what is it that you do, anyway?”
“I’m a registered nurse.”
“Should’ve known. You’re too ‘in control’ to be normal.”
“Yeah, okay,” she laughed as I swished brandy in my mouth then spit over the side. “I’m abnormal, Mister Spend My Weekend Rescuing Strangers.”
“It’s what people do. And you should talk, Mizz Rescue Me and I’ll Help Rescue Others.”
She smirked. “Here I’m useful. On the bank I’d be just another burden. Do another mouthful. Gargle.”
“I’m a medical professional,” she laughed. “I’ve seen LOTS worse.”
I was accepting the taste in my mouth as I lowered the foot of the motor back into the water, then started it. “Here goes,” I said. I put it into gear. Success. We eased along further through the floods. The houses provided a boatload – six adults, three children, two dogs.
By the time I nosed up to the roadway to offload, I was devoid of water. Mimi and I helped our passengers offload.
“That’s it,” I said. “Getting dark.”
One of the other boaters heard me. “I got a spare Q-Beam (Auth. Note: a handheld spotlight) if you wanna keep going.”
“Okay,” I said. “Mimi? You up for more?”
“Sure. Let’s see if we can get some more bottled water. And maybe a bit to eat.”
By now there were two tents set up dispensing hot food and several groups passing out sandwiches and drinks. We took time to each get a Styrofoam clamshell with some pretty good jambalaya and a cold drink, then retired to the boat for seating. After a wolfed-down meal, we grabbed a couple of cases of bottled water and headed back into the flood.
By now, we had to go quite a distance to get past the empty houses. We managed to get one more family and an old guy. He was on a hill, sitting on his porch, the water two feet deep in his yard. No electricity. No phones. We talked him into coming with the rest of us, and back we went.
This time we landed, off-loaded, and Mimi helped me put the boat on the trailer.
“Now what?” I asked her.
“I dunno. I’m not ‘shelter’ material. I don’t think I could handle it. I have my credit cards, but where in the world do you think I’d find a hotel room?”
“We can call around, but you’re probably right. I have an option, but it’s a stretch.”
“Hit me,” she said.
“I live eighty miles on the other side of the Mississippi. I’ve got a spare bedroom. Yours if you want it.”
She turned an azure gaze on me. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah. Got phone. Broadband. Computer. You can do all your post-storm business from there.”
“In return, you expect what, exactly?”
“Somebody to eat my cooking, maybe sit across the table from me at a restaurant, argue with me over what’s on TV, if you’re around in the evening. If you go out, not bring anybody home with you ... Don’t be a total slob.”
“Won’t be a hotel open within a hundred miles of the flood zone,” she said. “Where do you live?”
I told her.
“That’s ALMOST that far, anyway.”
“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. “Just offering what I had.”
“Buddy, know this ... I’m not coming along for a bit of poke and giggle, and if you leave my dismembered body strewn about, I will haunt you to your death. I’ll take you up on your offer.”
“Good. Means I can drive straight home instead of a side trip to a hotel that may or may not exist in this time zone.”
“Ohhhh,” she intoned. “You DID have a selfish motive.”
“Yeah. Being a rescuer is hard work. I’m tired.”
“I hope you’re too tired to kill me until I get a shower and a good night’s sleep,” she said.
“Guaranteed,” I said. “I got sandwich fixings at the house, too, if you’re hungry.”
“No wife, no kids ... bachelor lifestyle,” she said. “I can imagine.”
“You may just be surprised, missy,” I returned.
It was almost an hour and a half drive under the best of conditions. Having to reroute traffic onto a two-lane highway to bypass flooded sections of Interstate 10 made it longer. It was after ten when I got to the house. I backed the rig into my driveway and unhitched the boat trailer.
“There,” I said. “Let’s go inside. Mosquitoes are getting bad.” It’s summer in Louisiana. Mosquitoes are numerous and hungry.
As I let Mimi in the front door, I was again reminded that all she had was that backpack of hers. “Welcome to my home,” I said. Okay, it’s neat. I’m no slob, and living by myself means I have nobody to blame if it’s dirty nor anybody to clean up after me.
Mimi’s head swiveled. “I’m just a little surprised.”
“Keep being surprised,” I retorted. “Lemme show you the guest room.”
She followed me. The room in question is neatly furnished, double bed, dresser, even a TV. Setting her backpack down, she turned to me. “I have my ID and credit cards and a few important papers. I have one change of underwear.”
“And you’re sticky and sweaty and dirty and tired and you’d like a good shower and a good night’s sleep...” I inserted.
“Yeah. But clothes...”
“We’re different sizes...”
“And shapes,” she added helpfully.
“I can give you a pair of my pajamas or a T-shirt. We can put the stuff you have on now into the washer. Use this bathroom,” I said, pointing to the open door across the hall from her bedroom. “It’s got soap and shampoo, but they’re all ‘guy grade’ stuff. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Buddy ... You open your house to me and expect me to whine about the shampoo?”
“I don’t know what all women need or use...”
“Whatever’s in there will do. I’ll go ahead and get ready to shower...”
“Lemme give you those PJs. You can stick your dirty clothes outside the door. I’ll get a load started in the washer. I’ll wash your delicates with mine...”
“Oooooo. Mixed laundry,” she laughed. First laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re about to pop a gasket trying to be so proper and serious, Buddy. Relax. I’m just normal people.”
“Welllll,” I started.
“You’re a decent person,” she said, “So far. I’m gonna go with that. Get those PJs. You shower. I shower. We’ll do laundry. Okay?”
“Okay.” I went into my bedroom, retrieved the PJs, brought them to her. “I’ll probably be out of the bathroom before you.”
“It’s not a race,” she smiled. “But okay...”
The shower felt wonderful. I was sweaty, my clothes still damp from going over the side to clear the fouled propeller. The hot water worked wonders. And honestly, I was NOT having sexual thoughts about the woman in the bathroom up the hall. I got out of the shower, shaved, brushed my teeth, splashed on a bit of aftershave, something I do even if I’m by myself because I like the quick sting it gives me.
I walked out of my bedroom wearing a pair of PJs that fit me well. True to her word, Mimi’s stuff was at the door of the bathroom. I heard a hair dryer going, so I gathered her clothes, took them to the laundry room, put her jeans and blouse and socks in with a load of my work clothes and started the washer.
She heard the washer running and found her way to the laundry room. By that time I had a pile of my undergarments ready, along with hers.
“I figured that you had clean drawers on, but you’d need your jeans and blouse, so they’re first. When this load finishes we’ll move that stuff to the dryer, put your unmentionables...”
She tittered, eyes twinkling.
“ ... on to wash and dry them in the morning.”
“Sounds like a plan. Now, about those sandwiches...”
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” I said.
When we got there, I started pulling out deli meats and cheese and condiments.
“Nice kitchen,” she said. “Whole house is nice, Buddy. I’m surprised.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Me and the wife – we sort of specced it out.”
“Not exactly. She left me. She and her boyfriend got drunk one night, had an argument about the flotation characteristics of an SUV in a drainage canal. We were headed for divorce, but hadn’t quite gotten there.”
Single, short word. “Oh.”
“Shit happens,” I said. “Sometimes I remember the good stuff. A lot of times I remember the bad. I’m over it – her. Sad for her folks, though.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know...”
“You couldn’t know. And it’s okay. I would’ve probably lost the house in the divorce, anyway, so...”
“The silver lining of the cloud, then.”
She was assembling a sandwich. “Salami. Mayo. Provolone. Got an onion?”
“Yeah,” I said. I retrieved one, peeled it and sliced a few rounds off it.
“Nice sandwich,” I said.
She looked at me. Smiled. “Then this one’s yours. I’ll do another...”
“I can make my own sandwich.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “And you could sit around your house all day watchin’ old movies instead of rescuing me, too, but you didn’t. So have a sandwich.”
“What do you want to drink? I got beer. Shiner. And ginger ale. And fully leaded Coca Cola.”
“Ginger ale’s wonderful,” she said, head down, busy.
I pulled a couple of glasses out of the cabinet, tossed in some ice, then poured the drinks and set them on the little breakfast nook table. She came to the table with a sandwich on the plate for each of us.
Both of us were obviously tired. We had little conversation as we ate, then we bumped into each other trying to secure the kitchen for the evening.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you can get started on your post-flood stuff.”
“And you have to go to work, right?”
“Nope. Not me. Vacation. Whatever you need...”
“Well, I NEED to go get some clothes.”
“We can do that. After breakfast.”
“Okay, Buddy. See you in the morning, then.”
“‘Kay, Mimi. Good night.”
And I went off to bed. Just like that. Just as oblivious to oncoming events as that doofus in the horror movies that starts down the stairs into the darkened basement.