She leaned over me. Her breasts pressed innocently against my back. "Think you've found the problem Steve?"
"Yea, I do. Just hand me the small phillips."
She retrieved the screwdriver from the box on the table and passed the tool to my outstretched hand. Again her breasts snuggled against my spine. I leaned further to unfasten the hose clamp on the water system, thinking it best to ignore the breasts. I'd had this happen before. I assume all men have. Women "accidentally" touch their breasts against your back, arm or chest and act as if there is no contact. They seem to dare you to take action. Often I'd been completely shocked at the "pressers"--wives of bosses or best friends wives, even coworkers. Fitting the screwdriver, I applied pressure and felt the screw loosen. I also felt her hand on my protruding butt.
Startled, I reared, hitting my head on the hatch cover and stabbing my left hand with the screwdriver. "I'm sorry. Didn't mean to upset you. I'll get a bandage." The breasts and hand departed.
She patched my bleeding finger, and without comment, I returned to the job. The breasts returned to my back and the hand to my ass. I shouldn't be upset, I thought; she's a damn-fine looking woman. But, I was. I wildly searched my computer-like mind for the politically correct thing to do. As usual computer-mind failed me, and I decided to do nothing. Worse, that old beggar Beauregard stiffened in my pants and sent messages to computer-mind that he was actually enjoying the situation. Somehow, I managed to remove the clamp, clean the drain and reassemble the fixture. As I finished, the hand caressed my cheeks. I could feel one finger trace the crack of my ass from top to bottom. "We come as a package you know. He greatly relies on my recommendations," she said with her lips brushing my ear.
I climbed to my feet and turned to her. At that moment, the unmistakable sounds of my wife and her husband returning to the boat came down the companionway hatch of the 40-foot sloop. She grinned at my embarrassment and went up the ladder. I hesitated, unsure what to do, then noticed Beau had relaxed, so I too went up the ladder.
My wife Linda and I had flown to New York City to meet my old college roommate Jay and his wife Jane. Jay and I had been inseparable roommates in college. At first we had been wary of each other. Hell, the boy's speech was practically intelligible and he ate god-awful things such as hard biscuits called bagels and a sandwich with the unlikely name of "submarine." I introduced him to the better things in life such as red eye gravy, Tennessee style barbecue, moonshine whiskey and, of course, the South's finest product—beautiful women. Soon it was evident that we would be the best of friends forever. We did all the usual idiot-college- boy stuff—got drunk on cheap whisky, got sick on cheap whisky, dated the same women, got dumped by the same women for being too crude etc. Our favorite entertainment, however, was trading insults. The war of succession was not over, I remind him as often as possible. Just put on hold.
Jay and I had kept track of each other for years. We had both married and the two couples met often on vacations and various business meetings. Now Jay owned a small manufacturing firm, which had developed software to track the assembly process of the electrical component he sold. I operated a management consultant firm, which specialized in computer networks. I needed his software. He needed my skilled network engineering staff to go worldwide. If we combined companies, we could potentially realize excellent profits.
Jay had suggested that Linda and I fly to New York and sail with them up Long Island Sound. He and I could discuss the philosophy of the pending agreement and, at the same time, ensure that we were actually doing the right thing. Friendship is one thing but we couldn't allow it to cloud our business judgment. This had to be a business decision. What the hell, I'd thought--off to Yankee land. I had never been clear as to exactly where dinky little states like Connecticut and Rhode Island were anyway; so this was a chance to have fun and close the deal safely out of the clutches of his and my lawyers.
Linda and I had landed at La Guarda airport where Jay and Jane waited. "Yankee bastard," I hollered and made a move to jab him in the balls He countered by dodging my hand and shot two fingers towards my eyes, "Rebel redneck." I invoked a classic Three Stooges defense with my hand between my eyes. "Children, children," Linda screamed as she and Jane pulled us apart. Unfortunately women understand little of the Zen of Stooges combat techniques.
"See you're still pretty slow 'roomie, '" Jay grinned at me as we went to search for our bags.
Jay is about six feet two, and as usual his dark bushy hair was uncombed. I did see some streaks of gray invading the tangled mop. (Good material for later insults, which I filed with computer mind.) Jane, however, is in a class all by herself. The first time I met her was when she and Jay came to visit us in Tampa. I estimated her height as five feet eleven. She is a "big women." She isn't fat—there's just a lot of her. I stand six feet even, and it's rare a woman looks me almost straight in the eye. Not only is she tall, she's an exquisitely striking woman, the kind men openly stare at on the street. She has the "bombshell" type body reminiscent of the movie stars of the 50's. Short brown hair, liquid brown eyes went well with her large frame, flared hips and large breasts. We discussed tennis, which was her favorite sport when not sailing. She's an excellent athlete with powerful shoulders and a slim waist and on top of it all very intelligent. And if anything, she always speaks her mind. Not a shy bone in her body. I had come to like her as well as Jay. Linda who is five two often commented that when we all got together, she felt she had arrived in the land of the giants.
After walking through endless corridors, all under construction, (This airport has been her a long time. Aren't they ever going to finish it?), we found Jay's car and immediately set out for the marina at City Island, just off Hempstead Bay.
We boarded their sloop and squared away our gear. Soon we all sat topside enjoying an excellent Cabernet while watching the sun drift slowly down the Western sky. Linda had volunteered to do some on board cooking, so she and Jay set out for the local grocery store to procure items that could not go into our suitcase. I relaxed on deck still talking to Jane. She had gone below for something while I relaxed on the deck. The western sky turned purple with gold bands arching from a dying sun. I leaned back against the cockpit coming and felt good about life, a sense of power, of being in control, the world at me feet—I stood held up my glass to toast the gods—my mind wandered...
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Ah yes. Ozy and I. Masters or our domain and all we survey...
"Steve help," Jane's shriek sounded from the hatch." The damn sink is plugged again and overflowing. I quickly dropped my reverie and went below. "It's supposed to drain into the holding tank, but usually doesn't. Jay just pulls off the hose clamp and removes whatever I wasn't supposed to put down the drain. Suppose you could do that? "
"No problem." Ozymandias, now deflated, dropped to his knees amidst a sticky mixture of lemon rinds, cheese bits and coffee grounds. The great ruler probably never contemplated the complexities of clogged drains. Yes, there was more to the poem—
Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'
I suspected that that fool Shelley also never knew the joys of plumbing.
That's when the trouble had started.
Now, with Linda and Jay clambering over the rails, I was relieved. Sex is a wonderful thing, but this is Jay's wife. Not just any wife in the world; she's "roomies" wife. With all of us aboard, the cramped quarters would preclude any further advances.
I was wrong. The tidal currents from Hells Gate helped, and we quickly moved into the Middle Sound. Sailing towards New England we soon passed under Throgs Neck Bridge heading towards Oyster Bay. I was enjoying the spectacular scenery and Jane was enjoying me. Unaccountably, her breasts kept bumping into me. She also seemed to have trouble keeping her footing in the gentle chop. Her hands always sought me for help. I decided to play the gentleman and made no protest, glad Linda did not know of Jane's intentions.
Wrong again. "Apparently you have an admirer?" Linda whispered into my ear as we lay that evening in our bunk. We were at anchor in Oyster Bay and had turned in at about 11 o'clock.
"So you noticed."
"Couldn't help it. Her hands are all over you. Didn't see too much resistance?"
"I'm not sure what to do. All these years, and now this. Do you think he's noticed?"
"I'm not sure. Oh well, just don't enjoy it too much. Not much can happen on this little boat."
"Just don't you and Jay leave me alone with her again." I told her about fixing the drain and Jane's breasts and the hand.
.... There is more of this story ...