Chapter 14

Ben’s turn:

It took us two minutes in Bink’s bedroom for Mandy to spot the little camera. I don’t know how she did it. She’s just Mandy, though, and operates in a different way than other people. That’s why I love ‘er so much. No, that’s only ONE reason.

Whispers to me and Bink. I guess that’s JUST a camera, because if Barb and Sara have microphones in there and could hear what we’re saying...

“They wanna WATCH?” Bink said. “Go, Mom!”

“Is it gonna bother you, baby?” Mandy asked me.

“Darlin’, I don’t care. They wanna watch, so what?”

Did it bother Bink? She didn’t say. She had my dick in her mouth, giggling.

Mandy whispered, “Don’t stare at the camera or they’ll figure it out.”

So my first orgasm in Bink’s bed was for the house, so to speak. Most of it went into the little plastic specimen cup.

Bringing the cup to them was more of a titillation. We were all naked. When Barb opened the bedroom door on Barb’s room, they were naked, too. I’ve seen Barb. Hadn’t seen a naked Sara, but there she was, lying there, legs spread, all pink and plump and ... the thought flashed into my head that just maybe we didn’t NEED the stupid cup and syringe.

But no. We left it with them, went back to Bink’s bedroom and gave that new bed an unrestrained workout. Forgot about the camera, just had a happy time with my two girls, enhanced by the fact that every sexual desire I ever had was being met, and to be truthful, before these two hit me, I just didn’t have many desires. Barb had been it, and while good, just wasn’t something to put a lot of energy into.

Mandy and Bink? My life exists for, and because of, these two. And how did we end up sleeping in Bink’s bed? We have a house of our own.

Strange. Woke up in a wonderful knot, me and Mandy and Bink, to the sound of the door opening and Sara stepping in. “Hey, gang. We’re baking biscuits.”

“Thanks, Aunt Sara,” Mandy said. “If I can get unstuck here, we’ll be there...”

“Gravy, too!” I heard Barb yell.

“They probably got gravy enough,” Sara snickered. “I hope I do.”

Bink made a big deal of tossing the covers off us. Her head was closest to my dick.

“Bink!” I hissed. She had me in her mouth. “Sara doesn’t wanna see that.”

“Maybe not. Go away, Aunt Sara...”

Sara left, tittering “What a horrible little thing...”

“Ben or Bink?” Mandy asked after her.

“He’s always so hard in the morning,” Bink observed. “Can’t resist our Ben.”

“Can’t resist biscuits and gravy, either,” Mandy said. “Let’s go!”

“Get dressed first.”

“Yeah, I guess. Since they are,” Bink whined.

Well, mostly. Both Barb and Sara were in robes, loosely tied robes, at that, but breakfast was in progress and just because a woman shows you things doesn’t necessarily mean those things are for you to play with.

Different, though, the sweet, firm titties of my two teen mates and the rounder, softer, more plush breasts of a couple of thirty-somethings.

We ate breakfast and got out of there.

“Place is getting weirder every time I go over there,” Bink said. “I mean, weird. Mom and Sara, they’re into each other, and Sara’s been the best partner Mom’s ever had that I know of, but they’re ... Well, really! A camera? I’m sure they were watching us.”

“You played it up when you figured they were watching,” Mandy pointed out. “Deep throat. Indeed. You did that for the camera. You know YOU don’t like it and Ben doesn’t like it. You’re just a show-off.”

The new, open version of sexuality between Barb and Sara, the display, the inclusion of our group into it, that was cause for conversation. I know it was a lot of information for me to process. Part of me found that as part of me had new sexual awareness since mating with Bink and Mandy, the perceived interest from Barb and Sara was a bit titillating.

Still, I got Bink and Mandy and we’re pledged to one another, as married as any legal document could ever wish to do.

Thoughts about the night at Barb’s receded when we got back into a serious run at home-schooling. I’m quite sure that we could, among ourselves, come up with a broad curriculum to pursue on our own, but we decided to employ some real teachers to keep us grounded.

Working off a list given to me by my former teacher, now high school principal at the school formerly attended by the girls, we had teachers for each discipline lined up offering guidance on what to study, then offering testing and evaluation to track the girls’ progress.

It’s a great theory. Bink and Mandy rather disrupt the practice. Math: “Oh, really, push ‘em into high school algebra.” Science: “Really? Celestial navigation? Astronomy and math? I know this textbook’s gonna be a yawner.” Language arts: “Both of them are READERS! Grammar is impeccable when we look at it. All I can recommend is that they study the names of the pieces they use so well.” And so on. Bink even sent the physical education coach a picture of her and Mandy at the top of Ada Z.‘s mast. I’m told that it’s blown up and framed in her office, a radical departure from pictures of other ‘student-athletes’ she’s worked with over the years. The history teacher’s got a copy.

Ada Z.‘s masthead. The boat’s not just a little piece of our life.

“We’ve been on dry land too long,” Mandy announced with Bink looking over her shoulder. Reinforcement. I guess maybe I’m supposed to offer resistance.

“East!” Bink says.

“How far?”

“Armpit of Florida, for starters,” Mandy expounded. “What we read says that there’s a big recreational boating community, and with fall, the place’ll be active with refugees from up north.”

“And our course,” Bink said, “will be offshore. We talked. We know we could do the Intracoastal Canal, but poor little Ada longs for the sea if we do that.”

“And,” Mandy reinforced, “We’ll just be a few miles out for most of the trip, parallel to the coast...”

“‘Way out when we go around the Mississippi River outlets,” Bink inserted.

“But if we need to, we can be back onshore pretty quick.”

“Nothing on Ada happens quick,” I reminded them, “At least in regards to distance.”

So back to the lists – groceries, supplies, and since it’s easing on into winter now, a couple of suits of foul-weather gear.

Just in case. If Ada was a sailboat, foul-weather gear, outer clothing suitable for wind and rain and ocean spray, would be a necessity. Sailboats in the size range of Ada Z. have open cockpits and steering can be a wet, and in the cooler weather, COLD proposition.

For powerboats like Ada? The pilothouse is watertight and heated or cooled, as needed. I read a report about one guy who did a trans-Atlantic crossing in his house slippers. Still, better to be prepared.

We spent the day before departure going through Ada, doing a close check of dock lines, fenders, rigging, and the prudent oil changes of the main engine and the generator.

We left port on Thursday morning. Leaving on Friday’s bad luck according to naval superstition. We made hardly a ripple as we eased out of the home marina. This time it’s Bink at the helm, me and Mandy handling lines as we departed. We pulled up and stowed dock lines and fenders because we were days away from our next projected landfall.

Pensacola, Florida was five hundred and four official miles away according to the Department of Commerce, and at our estimated hundred and eighty miles a day, well, the math is simple on paper. Sailing out of sight of land, then turning the bow eastward takes it out of the theoretical realm.

One to three-foot seas. Ada’s a big ol’ rocking chair at this rate. We let the autopilot handle the housekeeping while the three of us go outside the pilothouse and play with a sextant, taking sun shots.

Yes, GPS locates us on the surface of the planet to within a few yards without math, without “Just about the time I think I got it, the boat rocks”, without “a real mechanical chronometer? Seriously?” and “that’s a REAL book. You have that calculator...” but I get a feeling of timelessness from standing on the deck of MY ship in the middle (well, we’re pretty far from the middle, actually, but you get the idea) of the ocean.

Other fact about traveling in Ada. She’s slow, almost sedate, and her decks are just a matter of a few feet to the water. The first fact means you don’t SCARE the wildlife and you’re close enough and slow enough to actually see the wildlife.

“That’s a sea turtle!” Pictures. Turtle seems as interested in us as we were in him.

Dolphins by the dozens, maybe hundreds. The pod surrounded us, and there’s no doubt they WERE interested. Groups swimming alongside, coursing up out of the water to take a look.

The dolphins parted ways with us as we headed east. Leaving them behind I rigged a goofy-looking piece of fluorescent green plastic on the end of a line on a deep-sea fishing rig and started trailing it a hundred yards off our stern.

“Who knows. Might net us fresh fish for dinner.” True to our wishes, an ambitious bonito took the bait. Might not be the best choice of fish for dinner, but there it was. We idled the boat while I rendered honors to the fish on the swim step. I felt no remorse at slicing a couple of hefty fillets then rendering a burial at sea for the remainder. The carcass wouldn’t last an hour before some hungry eater or another would recycle the remains.