How is it that seemingly unlikely people end up in unanticipated sexual intimacy? I mean, what are the forces, the precipitating factors that contribute to this improbable union? For instance, how does it happen that an older woman and a younger man - the friend of her son perhaps - end up entangled? Or in-laws? Or, in my case, with a nun?
I suppose that some of the necessary predilection would at least include the right temperament. But that's one of those true-but-trivial positions. Necessary, to be sure, but hardly sufficient. Think about it: the mere presence of an erection for example, coupled with a horny disposition hardly insures much of anything happening. As a case in point, I spent several years of my young life hanging out in that uncomfortable space, constantly armed and ready with nowhere to go.
No, desire by itself isn't enough. More's needed. A physical connection coupled with a temporal connection might add to the stew of spontaneous generation. Yes, there have been those times when, by good fortune and presence, the barriers of improbability have been breached. It had happened to me a time or two, but not as often as I might have wished. No, that's not enough. There's a huge difference between conventional, voluntary proximity and reluctant, involuntary closeness.
So, given the mix of sufficient predisposing personalities, however hidden, coupled with a forced physical proximity, unexpected shifts might occur.
I wasn't thinking of any of this the time I was thrown together with a nun. I didn't even have a secret lech for nuns; they were far down on my list of masturbation fantasies. Oh, in the seventh grade I had an attractive young nun who'd taken a kindly interest in my reading skills and I'd briefly wondered what she looked like under those long, black robes. But it hadn't been planted in my libido as a major jack-off fantasy. So when I'd accepted a two-day charter to deliver a 35' sloop to the British Virgins, I hardly blinked when I was unexpectedly asked if I'd take along a Sister Mary Joseph as a passenger.
I wondered briefly if all nuns were called Sister Mary Joseph? I vaguely recalled having a Latin teacher by that name. But I remember about as much of that teacher as I did the Latin that was force fed into my reluctant adolescent mind.
"Sure. Be glad for the company," I replied to the charter manager. He rarely asked for favors and besides, I thought he was a straight shooter.
An hour later, as I was finishing stowing my gear and provisions for the two-day sail, Mike, the guy who'd arranged this ferry job, pulled up in his jeep with the gaily-colored canvas top and tooted his horn. A black-robed woman in traditional, I mean old-fashioned, nun's attire climbed out. I saw a flash of black-stockinged calf as she lighted. Shading her eyes with her hand, she surveyed the length of the small sloop, her eyes ending with me. I smiled and waved to come aboard. She waved back, turned and said something to Mike who in turn, waved goodby and spun off.
She picked up a small black bag and walked to the gangplank where I stood ready to assist her. What little I could see of her face, I guessed she was about my age, middle thirties or so. As I extended my hand to help her step aboard, I smiled at our contrast, she covered head-to-toe in black and me, wearing nothing more than a faded pair of ancient Pusser's sailing shorts.
Even though there was a little cooling breeze, she was perspiring, not surprising given the intensity of the August sun in the Caribbean. And it was early morning. It was going to get a lot warmer, I knew.
"Thanks for giving me a lift," she said, extending a warm, firm hand and shaking mine. Her eyes were grey-green, level and intelligent. Strong eyes, I thought.
As I touched her elbow to steer her aft, I said, "Normally, I try to sail straight through doing these deliveries. But the weather's been a bit unsettled and I'd prefer to lay over at night. How much of a hurry you in?"
She laughed, wiping the sweat from her brow. "Actually, I'm way ahead of schedule. I don't have to be at the school until September. So please, do whatever is comfortable for you. I want to be a good . . . uh, shipmate?"
"Good, we'll just poke along then. I've done too many of these day-and-night sails, and I can use the rest."
"Sounds good to me. Where shall I put my things?" she asked, holding up her small bag.
"Tooth brush?" I asked.
"Hardly more. All my materials and clothes were shipped ahead. I suspect they're waiting there for me."
"Sister," I said, "it'll be a bit cooler as soon as we get underway, for there's a fairly constant wind out of the northeast, but I have to warn you, it's going to get a lot hotter before the sun goes down."
"Oh, darn! Really? I'm suffocating already in this Batman outfit."
Her description of her habit was so unexpected, I guffawed and then almost choked, trying to muffle it. "Sorry," I gasped.
"Don't think a thing of it. The Church has already changed their stance on nun's clothes. They're becoming much more liberal, thank goodness. But I had a brief interview by the Bishop and, apprehensive as I was in the presence of such an . . . ah . . . exalted person, I wore these traditional robes, I guess to try to impress him." She looked away and added in a softer voice, "I don't think it did." Then again speaking to me she added, "But my "real-live clothes" have gone ahead."
Leading her into the galley, I said, "If it's permitted and you're comfortable, you can wear some of mine. I have some extra, but they're all men's sailing clothes . . ." Finishing lamely, I added, "Shorts, T-shirts, things like that."
"Oh, would you? I'd be so appreciative. This all happened so fast, getting a ride with you I mean, I didn't have a chance to plan a thing. God provided, I thought, and I just jumped at it."
I pulled a Coke from the ice chest and holding it up, raised my eyebrows in a universal query?
"Yes, please. That'd be wonderful."
"There's a very small cabin here that you can use. There's only one head right here; we'll both have to use it. The pump for the toilet takes some getting used to. OK?"
She smiled and nodded. I find it's much better to get the ground rules out front. If there's a problem or an objection, it's better to know about it in advance. I knew I carried all sorts of misconceptions about religious orders and nuns. That, coupled with a slight problem I had with authority figures, might set me up to misunderstand.
Digging into my duffle, I pulled out another pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Then remembering, I dug into a locker and found a baseball cap. "Well, that's about it. Not very clerical, but certainly cooler and more practical."
"Can I change right away, before we get underway?"
"Sure. I'm going above to cast off. We'll motor in the channel. Come up when you're ready."
I put the small gang plank ashore and cast off the stern and bow lines before jumping back aboard. It's always easier to sail with more than one person, but from long experience, I knew how to do it with an economy of motion. I didn't have to think about the mechanics of boats and sailing. It was just something I did, freeing my mind for other things. Like thinking about Sister Mary Joseph. Geez, what a handle! I wondered if she'd mind if I shortened it?
"What can I do to help?" she asked.
Surprised, my head snapped around. She was standing on the aft deck wearing my clothes. She was almost comical. The shorts and the shirt were both too large. The bunched bottom of the T-shirt was belted into the sailing shorts. They, in turn, were staying up only by the grace of a cinched, built-in pull belt.
"You're laughing at me!" she protested with a smile.
I looked ashore as if to form an answer and looked back at her, secure in the knowledge that the sun at my back prevented her from seeing my eyes as I looked her over. Christ, she had breasts! And shapely ones too, made more prominent by her tiny waist.
"Sorry again. Don't mean to laugh. It's the contrast, you see. One minute you were my seventh grade teacher and the next minute you're . . . well, certainly not that! You look good! I mean, it's . . . it's more, uh, fitting."
"Thanks. And I mean it. What can I do to help? I'm a strong woman and I'd like to learn something about sailing. I'll be your uh, first mate. That OK?"
Mate? Suddenly, that term carried a vastly different meaning.
"Alright, mate. You take the helm. See that red buoy ahead of us? Steer a course to the right of it and I'll handle the main."
I'd done this a hundred times alone, but I thought it'd be better to give her something to do. I knew there'd be times later when her help would be welcome. After several minutes' busy work, we were healed over a little and sailing at a comfortable five knots. I shut off the diesel and sat back, watching her.
Her hair was auburn, wavy and longer than I thought nuns wore it. Shows how much I knew about nuns. Next to nothing. Curling around her ears, it framed her face nicely. Her arms and her legs were firm and nicely rounded; they were not pale as I'd anticipated. Actually, she had an olive complexion with a good base tan. She also had an athletic build and she looked strong. I told her so.
"It's the racquetball," she explained. I'd rather play tennis, but in the winter's cold, I'm glad for the exercise. You play?"
"Both," I nodded, and then to be honest, added, "but not in the last while."
The day's warmth and humidity was taking it's toll in perspiration and despite the capacious of the borrowed T-shirt, it began to cling to her, mostly to her rounded breasts. Her bra was clearly evident. I naturally noticed things like that, but in this case, it carried an extra charge. I was enjoying looking at this nun's body, at least as much as I could see.
"Sister Mary Joseph?" I asked.
"Would you mind if I called you something shorter? Maybe MJ, or something like that?"
She laughed and answered, "No one's ever called me "MJ" before. Actually my baptismal name is Mary, but sure, call me MJ if you like."
"Thanks, that'll feel better." Reaching into a small top-side storage, I pulled out a tube of sun block left there by a previous passenger and passing it to her, said, "You'd better put this on . . . everywhere that's exposed . . . the sun'll fry you in an hour, even if you've got a fair tan already."
"I'm used to tanning well. It's the Mediterranean blood I think, but you're right. I'd better be careful."
I put the autopilot on our course and then watched as she covered her arms and legs. As she lifted one foot to cover her calves, I noticed one leg of the baggy shorts gap well open, affording me a view almost up to her crotch. I caught a flash of white panties.
I'd put on sun glasses as I always do, for the bright sun light hurts my eyes. I have a slight impairment of my pupillary constrictor muscles and can only constrict about half way. Still, I didn't turn my head away and when she suddenly looked up, she saw me looking between her legs.
She flushed and lowered her leg, but kept on chatting. I hardly heard what she was saying, so taken was I with her obvious healthy good looks and innate sexiness. And why, I wondered, was there an added charge because she was a nun? Was it the unavailability? Or did I simply enjoy the kinkiness of it? Probably both.
A strong gust healed us to starboard and unprepared, she lost her balance. Instinctually, she threw an arm and a leg out as she fell back and then hung there, over-balanced on her behind, unable to come upright again. And this time, the pant leg of the baggy shorts fell completely open, exposing an entire thigh to her panties and crotch. It was broad daylight and I stared at the darker gusset of her white panties and the dark pubic hair curling out of her panty crotch. The view lasted seconds, no more, but it was imprinted in my mind. I was looking at a nun's white panties, right at her crotch. God, what a jolt!
MJ regained her balance with a good natured laugh and asked, "Does that happen often?"
"Infrequently on relatively calm days like this, but when it kicks up . . ." and I let it finish itself.
Sitting back against a floatation cushion again, she asked, "So tell me, why'd you become a sailor?"
I thought a moment before answering, "I didn't."
"I don't understand."
"I don't think of myself as a sailor. Yes, I sail, but that's not what I do. That's not who I am."
"I understand that you're not what you do, but how do you mean it?" she asked, persistent.
"I've driven a truck, but I don't think of myself as a truck driver. And once I learned about electronics and could fix a televison set, but I don't think of myself as an electronics technician."
"But I think of myself as a nun."
"Yes, there's that. And I can understand it, for you've given your life to it, haven't you? To God? Something like that?"
"That's certainly part of it. There's commitment, to be sure. If you were to ask me, 'Who are you?' I'd see myself as someone in a black robe; I'd see myself as a nun. What do you see?"
"None other, cap'n."
"Well, it's not what I do. It's what I AM."
"And that is?"
"I'll tell you something about me. It's no secret. Secrets'll kill you."
"I'm a guy who used to drink too much. I don't do that any more. That's the central organizing fact in my life, Sister."
She looked at me, one eyebrow elevated. I'd seen that look before.
"Yes, really. Now, I don't drink. Not at all. Haven't in a long time, but I used to. I was . . . no, I am an alcoholic. It's important for me to recognize that I'll always be an alcoholic and in that recognition, I don't have to drink."
"I've heard about that. AA I think. One of our priests had a problem and he . . ."
I interrupted; I'd heard those stories hundreds of times from pros. I didn't want to listen to a second-hand report. "So you see, Sister, when I think of myself, it's not what schools I've gone to, what degrees I have or what I've done, but rather, it's who I am. Simple, huh?"
"Hardly . . . but I think I do understand a little. And what happened to 'MJ'? I was beginning to like the sound of it."
"Yeah, I retreat to formality when I'm apprehensive, MJ."
"You thought I'd judge you, didn't you?"
I shrugged. "Many folks do."
"I've my own history. I wasn't always a nun, you know. I'm quite aware of humanness. No, I try not judge people. I try to accept them just as they are and hope they'll accept me as I am."
"And how's that?" I asked, curious. This was no ordinary nun, I thought and then smiled. I didn't know any nuns at all. How would I know ordinary?
"Most days I'd like to think that I'm a daughter of God, that I've given my life over to his care, but the fact is, quite often my ego gets in the way. And my humanness."
Laughing, I said, "I know about ego, but what do you mean about humanness?"
"Goodness, how'd I get into this?"
"You don't have to talk about anything that's uncomfortable."
"Yes, I know, but strange as it sounds, I think I'd like to. I need to be honest. Perhaps I need to be honest with myself . . . honest outside the confessional. Somehow that doesn't seem to count, the confessional I mean. The anonymity serves to protect me from the bare truth."
"You on the lamb or somthin', MJ? You know, church collections or somthin' like that?"
"I know, I know. I often try to hide behind repartee. Don't let me side track you."
She pulled both knees up and leaning forward, wrapped her forearms around her legs as she gazed off into some unfocused middle distance. I looked at the undersides of her thighs.
"It's just that I'm not sure . . ." and she trailed off.
"I'm not even sure of what. My faith perhaps. Or, as scary, if I'm really cut out to be a nun. I mean, I'm not completely happy . . . I have these . . . uh, thoughts . . . these desires. They're unsettling. Do you know what I mean?"
"Maybe. Not sure." Then, taking a big chance, I asked, "Sex?"
For a moment, she looked pained. "Yes! That's it." She looked aside, perhaps in thought or perhaps in embarrassment. "That's what's bothering me and there's no one I can talk to. Father Weston always tells me the same thing." Then, dropping her voice, she mimicked the Father: 'Just pray, Sister. Pray to God.'"
"Sometimes. A little. But mostly, I'm left uncertain, agitated, almost jittery."
Not knowing anything about her and less about the chaste life of the religious, I didn't know what to say, but trying to keep the topic alive, I asked, "MJ, were you inexperienced . . . I mean, were you a virgin when you became a nun?"
I felt my face become warm when I suddenly realized that I'd spoken of her virginity as if it were in the past tense.
"Uh . . . I didn't mean . . ." I started to say, but she just laughed.
"Not even close! I became sexually active when I was 18 and I loved it. Actually, I continued to love it right up until I made the decision to enter the convent in my mid twenties, somewhat later than most." She gave me a shy smile and added, "I suppose I thought that when I became a nun, it'd be no problem."
I nodded, thinking she knew what I was feeling when she caught me looking between her legs. I glanced away, feeling guilty and then looked back, making eye contact again. She has a very soft smile.
"That's the problem. It'd be easier if I'd never tasted the fruit, but I did and I'm bedeviled with the memory and the urges. My body seems to have an agenda separate from my mind."
She laughed again and said, "I haven't heard that word in years, but yes, that's the feeling."
"Yes, I suppose that's another word for horny?" She gave it an interrogatory inflection and looked at me as if for confirmation.
"Well, I stayed chaste one time. For a year. Actually for a year and ten days, but who was counting? But I must confess that I didn't think of my humanness as I grew twitchy!"
"A year? But why? I mean, if you didn't have to . . ."
I shrugged. I didn't know what to say.
"Character building?" she asked with a gentle smile.
"Whatdaya' think? Did it work?
She starred at me with an appraising look and said, "I suspect you already had lots of character. Were you in jail?"
I glanced at her, ready to protest and then felt silly when I saw her smile and the twinkle in her eyes. Two could pay this game. Still, my face felt warm.
"Just a confinement of my own making," I replied.
"Yes, I know about those jails."
Checking the wind direction and my heading, I interrupted, "I'm gonna make a starboard tack, wanna help?"
Jumping up, MJ said, "Sure. Tell me what to do."
Pointing to a line, I said, "When I come about, the boom'll swing way over to this side. Help me pull in the line, but be careful. Watch where you're standing," and I pointed to a spot, ". . . so you're not hit by the boom when it swings over. Okay?"
"Aye, aye, skipper."
Noting that she was standing where I'd indicated, I turned my attention to the busy work that'd occupy me for the next few seconds as the boat's forward momentum carried it across the wind. As the boom was whipping across the deck, MJ stepped forward for some reason and catching her movement, I yelled, "Back!"
The boom just brushed by her, knocking her off balance and she toppled right over a stay wire into the water. In moments she was bobbing astern and as I turned directly into the wind again, I looked back to see her waving an OK to me. Fortunately she was directly astern and the wind drifted the boat back to her without having to come around.
With the main flapping in the breeze, I ran to the stern and lowered a small ladder. MJ appeared to be a strong swimmer and came right up to the hanging ladder the first time and with little help, scampering back aboard. She was laughing but there was a trace of fear in her eyes as she grabbed my hand and said, "Thanks. Does this mean that you're now responsible for my life?"
"Yes. But only for the next few days. After that, it's God's turn again." I stared at her, soaking wet, the thin T-shirt clinging to her bra-covered tits, nipples full and prominent. I thought I'd love to 'take care' of her.
"Guess I"ll have to change again," she observed, wringing out the tail of the T-shirt, exposing a good portion of her midriff.
"MJ, I've got lots of shirts, but those are my only extra shorts. There's a Tobago Cays shirt at the bottom of my bag that someone gave me. It's XXL and is way too large for me, but it'll work as a night shirt for you."
Sweeping her short hair out of her eyes, she laughed again and looking at me shyly said, "Any port in a storm."
I approved of her steady, non-hysterical response to the sudden dunking.
Using the hatch cover as a hand hold, I swung down into the main cabin and turned to lend her a hand stepping down the ladder. Her legs appeared longer to me, in part because the shorts were jammed up between her thighs. I seemed not to be able to help myself, for I continued staring at her legs and her crotch all the way down the ladder and it wasn't until she said my name that I looked up into her eyes.
"You're staring," she said in a soft, mater-of-fact, non-accusatory tone.
"Uh, sorry," I replied. My face felt warm.
"That's okay. I understand," she murmured and then stood for a moment, looking at me before saying, "The shirt?"
"Oh yeah, the shirt . . . it's right here somewhere . . ." I was mumbling to myself as I rummaged in the bottom of my bag. "Here . . . this is it," and handed it to her. All I could see were here nipples. She'd gotten a bit chilled and her nipples had become even more prominent. The wet shirt clung to her pebbled areolae, making dark, bumpy circles plainly visible through the shirt and bra.
Seeing the direction of my gaze, she glanced down at her shirt front and said, "Oh! Goodness. I didn't know. Sorry."
Mimicking her, I said, "That's okay, I understand."
Hearing her own words, she broke into a bright smile and said, "I hope so."
There were no other boats on the horizon when I'd last looked and I knew we were well away from any shallow reefs, still I felt an imperative to check things out topside. More, I wanted to remove myself from the hole I was digging with such persistent alacrity.
The breeze had died off a little so it was easy to catch the wind and return to the new heading. After putting the boat on autopilot, I sat back with my feet braced and contemplated the horizon, a more compelling sight than my navel. She'd had panties on under my shorts; I'd seen them briefly. Now they were wet but would she wear 'em anyway? Or - my mind ran with this one - would she have on only my large T-shirt? If so, I might get a look at . . . and her voice nudged me out of my reverie, "If I fall over board one more time, I'll be in big trouble, huh?"
She came up on deck, pinning her hair back, her arms up, raising the hem of the shirt. I looked her up and down, admiring her lithe lines and shapely legs.
"MJ, you are the best looking nun I know."
"I'm probably the only nun you know," she retorted, sitting opposite me, gathering the hem of the long shirt under her thighs.
"Well, there is that," I agreed, "but when I was in grade school at St. Columbia . . ." and tailed off.
"You're kidding!" she said, looking surprised, pushing the shirt down between her thighs, still holding her knees up but together. The shirt fell away from the back of her thighs affording me a glimpse of her legs.
"Once, in seventh grade I think, at recess I was showing a photography magazine to a younger nun who'd been kind to me and while I was paging through it, looking for a particular picture I'd wanted to share with her, a picture of a nude woman suddenly popped up. In my confusion and embarrassment, I fumbled and before I could go on, she placed her hand on the open magazine and commented on the non-nude picture on the facing page. Can you see this tableau, MJ?"
"Sure. What happened?"
"Well, nothing happened but I always wondered what she thought. I mean, she had to have seen the naked woman and she had to have known how embarrassed I was."
"I'm sure she did, on both counts. She probably took some vicarious pleasure in pretending to look at the other picture."
"You think so?"
"I would have. But then, that's part of my problem, these earthly thoughts."
We looked at each other, me wearing only an old pair of shorts and she wearing only a large T-shirt. I was acutely aware of her, not just as a nun, but as an attractive woman who was nude under my shirt. Or was she?
"MJ," I asked, "you wearing anything under that shirt?"
She looked down a moment and then into my eyes. "No," she answered, "why?"
I considered for a minute telling her some lie, some bullshit that would have aimed at making me look good, but without thinking about it very much, I knew that wouldn't work for me. I'd have to tell her the truth, but how best to word it? And what was the truth, anyway? That I was just being open and honest with her? Maybe a little, but more, I suspect, that I wanted to get in her pants. Except at the moment she wasn't wearing any.
"Why? Because you're an attractive woman. More actually. Because you're a sexy woman." Jesus, I thought, what the hell was I doing? I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I wanted to follow this thread, so I continued, "You think of yourself as a nun. I don't, at least not entirely. I think of you as more - as a woman. Seeing you like this is pleasing and it's exciting."
She just stared at me, wide eyed.
"Am I offending you, MJ? I don't mean to be discourteous, but I've this unsettling habit of being frank. I say what I'm thinking . . . most of the time anyway . . . and further, I tend to ask for what I want."
She leaned forward a little and still looking at me with that same quizzical expression, she asked, "And do you get what you want . . . most of the time?"
"Seldom," I laughed, "but I try not to make up other people's minds for them. I let them decide for themselves. I've been told to ask for 100 percent of what I want, 100 percent of the time, and then be willing to negotiate a win-win compromise. So tell me, am I offending you with this line of questions?"
She sat and stared at me for a long time; I didn't think she was going to answer. Then she passed her hand in front of her in a kind of a chopping motion, apparently to add emphasis to her words, and said, "I must confess that in most social situations I've been in since taking the vows, I would have been offended. I don't understand it, but for some reason I'm not. It's refreshing. Your honesty, I mean. No, I don't feel offended - that surprises me a little - and there's some part of me that finds this whole situation just a little thrilling. Perhaps I'm being tested. Do you think?"
"It's been said that nothing happens in God's world by mistake. Perhaps we're both being tested. What do you suppose the message is?"
She smiled and countered, "You're answering a question with a question, but that's all right. You've been frank. I shall as well. Is that okay with you?"
"The truth shall set you free," I quoted.
"But first, it'll piss you off," she appended.
"They teach you that in the nunnery?"
"Yes, but not exactly in those words. I got that rendition from my father."
"A wise man?"
"More than I knew back then. But I don't want to talk about my father. I'm much too selfish right now. I want to talk about me. Actually, I think I NEED to talk about me. Will you keep a confidence?"
Making a small adjustment in the sail, I observed, "We certainly have the time to talk and I've never had a need to share a confidence. What ever you tell me, MJ will stay with me."
Nodding, "You can take that to the bank."
Again she studied me for a long moment and then seeming to make a decision, she leaned back and said, "I hardly know you, but I feel that I can trust you. Heaven knows, I need someone to talk with. Someone outside the Church, that is."
The breeze caused the mainsail to snap and at the same time, it rustled the bottom of her long T-shirt. I caught a flash of her thighs again, still well below crotch level. I couldn't tell if she saw me looking.
"I'm a good listener and I'll tell you my truth if you want it. Still, it's been my experience that many people just want to be heard. They don't want to be fixed, just heard. And some don't even want the truth."
"Yes, I do want to be heard, but I think in addition I need some reality testing, some feedback. Let me just start and we'll see where things go."
"Okay, let's start with the truth. Not any truth. Your truth. You know, the one that'll piss you off?"
She wrapped her arms about her knees and looked up at the mainsail for a moment before starting. "It's always been true for me, that I don't like to hear unflattering things about myself. Since becoming a nun, in some ways it has gotten worse."
"Expectations set you up?" I asked.
"Of course. I think I should be this or I should think that. I'm never as good as I think I should be."
"Good as in holy?" I asked.
"Yes, that's it! Not just a good person. More than that, I think I should be at least spiritual, if not totally holy. At times I expect that I should have attained some spiritual peak un-attained by Jesus Christ!"
"You're your own toughest critic, aren't you?" My pants were binding and I pulled the crotch away. I saw her eyes fall. "Is my fly open?" I asked with a frown.
She laughed and said, "Please, don't make me look there!"
"You're fun and I like that. It's okay with me, but you know, you're beating around the bush, don't you?"
"Yes, I am. It's difficult for me. It's as though I've got to tip toe around this for a while."
"Want me to just listen or to prompt you a little?
She slid her foot back and forth, making wet marks on the teak deck with her toes. "Uh . . . both, I guess. What I mean to say . . . well, I'd like you to listen, but there are times I need a little help." She cocked her head and asked, "Does that make sense?"
Nodding my head, I said, "Yeah." Then adding the prod, I suggested, "It was about keeping a confidence, remember? You asked me if I could keep a confidence."
"It's not likely that I'd forget. I'm edging toward very thin ice."
I waited. She knew what was bothering her. I didn't have to remind her of that, but she had to take her own time about it. It had started, I thought, when I told her I found her attractive. That was new for her, or at least, the first time in a long time. Too, this was probably the first time in as long that she'd been sitting with a man wearing no more than a thin T-shirt. A T-shirt with nothing under it. The cat was clearly out of the bag. Would we chase it?
She surprised me.
"You said you'd been chaste for a year?"
I nodded. Where was she going with this? I thought this was about her.
"What did you do after that, if I may ask?"
I smiled at the memory. "Became a rabbit."
"As in making love like one?"
"Making love is one expression. Rutting's another."
"An understatement. Renewed interest, awareness, drive and, oh yes, pleasure. That's some of it. I'd come to enjoy a new freedom, a freedom from the bondage of self - some people say."
"Would you call it excess energy? Sexual energy?" she asked.
Still not seeing where she was going with this, I nodded my confirmation.
"Well then, you might be able to understand what has been happening to me." She paused. I waited. "I was sexually active and then sublimated all my energies. I attempted to substitute my religion and my work for my passion. I was naive. I really thought it'd be no problem." She fell silent again, looking out across the sea, but not seeing. I recognized her process.
After a bit, I commented, "And it didn't work. It was still a problem."
She glanced back at me. "Was . . . and is."
"Horny," I said. It wasn't a question.
She nodded and then smiled, "But I tried to think of it in other terms."
"Yeah, same thing."
"Same thing. That's as good a term as any. Actually, better than most. Horny . . . doesn't beat around the bush, does it?"
"So, what do you do? Pray or masturbate?"
Her head snapped back to me, her eyes momentarily dark in anger, then she softened. "Prayer, yes. It helped at first, but less so later. And yes . . . this is difficult to say - I mean right here, in front of you, looking at you - but yes, I did uh, relieve myself." She looked down and then rushed on, "I HAD to. I'd have gone crazy. You don't know what it was like,"
"You're right, of course, MJ, I don't know - couldn't know what it was like. I'm not a woman and I'm certainly not a nun. But I do know about the body's physiologic needs, about desire, about horniness. My body simply has its own agenda and it's independent of my philosophic beliefs or my spiritual state. I suspect - but I don't know for sure - that your agenda isn't a lot different."
She reached over and touched my knee. "I'm sorry. That was condescending of me. You're absolutely right. At base, we're all the same, we're all human. I'm sorry I was patronizing of you."
I made a dismissive gesture with my hand and said, "Thanks, but don't give it a thought. I didn't. If we're going to be honest with each other, let's not walk on egg shells. Say what you're thinking. And you were thinking about masturbation . . . or what ever you called it."
She seemed to brace her shoulders. Did nice things with the front of her T-shirt. "My dad used to tell me to call a spade a spade."
"And not an excavating appliance?"
That earned a flash of white, even teeth. "Yes. It's not like I've been so sheltered that I don't know the language including its idioms. Remember, I used to be a uh, horny chick?" And she laughed at her own description. I hoped she still was. I harbored few illusions about myself.
"So you got horny and prayer didn't always work and you couldn't sleep at night and you became restless and irritable and then, in some moment of weakness or desperation, you'd break down and masturbate and then suffer the guilt of the damned?"
"Whew! Have you been listening in on my confessions?"
"No, my own. A long time ago."
"Are you still feeling guilty?"
"Not even close."
"Why? I mean, how . . .?"
"MJ, this may sound strange to your ears, for it's leagues away from the Church's position, but I've fired the God of my childhood and I've hired a new one. My God rejoices in me. He/she/it rejoices in my humanness and in my sexuality."
Her tone betrayed her surprise and her confusion. "I'm surprised. I know I shouldn't be, but I am. Do you really believe in God?"
"No, not your God, MJ. My God. There's a huge difference. I used to be afraid of your God. I suppose I thought of him as a stern, unsmiling, cosmic score keeper who knew what a worthless sack of shit I really was and my only reward was going to be the warm place."
She looked at me with wide-eyed wonder. I half expected her to put her fingers over her open mouth or to glance upward in fearful expectation.
I continued, "I once asked a guy if he believed in God and he said no, that he considered himself a 'Christian atheist'. When I asked him what the devil that was he replied, 'I don't believe in God, but I'm still afraid of him.'"
She pointed out the obvious: "But you must believe in something if you're afraid of it."
I shrugged, then asked, "MJ, what'd you do with your wet clothes?"
"Your wet clothes. If you left them say, on the floor, they'll never dry. Even hanging up below decks, it'll take a while. Up here, they'll dry out in less than an hour."
"Oh. Yes, of course. Shall I get them?"
"I'm not your mother superior, MJ. Your call."
As she was getting up she commented, "Isn't it amazing how I defer to authority?" She smoothed the shirt over her hips which pulled it tight across her breasts. I looked at her tits.
"Uh . . . I'll get them," she said and went below.
I checked the wind and the direction. No change. There seldom was in these latitudes. Sitting back, I wondered to myself, "What do you think you're doing? Sure she's attractive, sexy even and sure, you'd love to get into her pants, but you don't have the right to fuck with her head. She's trusting, uncertain, even a little troubled and terribly vulnerable. What kinda sexual predator are you, anyway?"
"Thanks for making this talk easier for me," she said. She'd returned so silently and I'd been so lost in my own thoughts, I'd not sensed her presence. "Where shall I hang these?"
"There's a coffee can with clothes pins by the binnacle. I usually clip them to the stays on the windward side. Use extra clothes pins. We won't turn about for a lost . . ." and looking at her garments, I added, " . . . pair of panties."
She stiffened a moment and then chuckled, "You're trying to desensitize me, aren't you?"
"Is that what I'm doing? Hell, I thought I was just trying to talk dirty."
Pinning the brief white panties in question, she said, "I've never met anyone like you. You pretend your tough, but it's clear that you're well educated. You pretend you don't care, but you do."
"Yes, you, Mr. Smarty Pants. I'm catching on to you," she said, hanging her white bra and the last of her wet clothes. "Yes, I think I'm getting your number."
"Well, if you figure out who I am, let me know, won't you? I've been working on that one for a long time and every time I think I've got it nailed, I lose it. And by the way, you might want to hang those clothes on the port side."
"Why? This is the sunny side. Tell me, are you a control freak?"
I shrugged again. Seems I was doing that a lot. "Yeah, I guess." I eyed her clothes and allowed that a strong gust from the northeast could heal us over enough to catch a wave and dowse her laundry, but it'd been steady for the last few hours. I let it go.
"Do I have to?"
"Move my clothes?"
"Nope. Actually, you don't have to do anything much in life. We have choices. Accept the consequences and you can do anything you like."
"Good. I'd rather do nothing right now. Where were we?"
"Well, right before the brief exchange we had about your panties, we'd been talking about God . . . your God, my God."
"There's only one God."
It sounded rote. "So I've been told and that may be the case, but I don't think any religion - Christianity included - has a lock on God. They'd just like to think they do. But let's not discuss theology right now. You don't have to like it, but just accept that I have my own concept of a higher power, of the divine if you will. Our concept of a cosmic conscious doesn't bear upon the very real problems we're talking about right now."
She looked like she might argue this contentions stand of mine. So many Christians tended to take religious disagreement personally, as if it were a direct attack on them. I wondered if she'd let it go. Less God talk and more sex talk, that's what this conversation needed.
She sighed and made a vague hand gesture of surrender. "You're right. What attracts me to you is your unconventional stance; I can talk theology with the theologians."
"And I represent a non-intellectual philosophy of life, a variant on the 'if-it-feels-good-do-it school'?"
"Perhaps a little, but only on the surface. Actually, I think that's a mask, a facade behind which lives a deeper person. I suspect you're intellectual to a fault."
"But sweet and charming. Don't forget that."
"Do we have a topic here?" she asked, looking about the deck as if it had fallen and rolled under a hatch cover.
I sighed loudly and in protest. "Yes we do. We have for quite some time. You've been dancing around it with all the verve and denial of an ergot-frenzied Maypole celebration. MJ, you know what the topic is better than I do for that matter. What do you suppose we're talking - or not talking about?"
"Ergot-frenzied?" Then seeing the look on my face, she laughed and said, "Okay, okay. I give up. You can't blame a girl for trying."
In one smooth motion, she pulled her heels up to her thighs and pulled the T-shirt over her knees down to her ankles, but not fast enough. Alert as I am to such possibilities, I was quick to catch a glimpse, no more than a flash, of her dark and thick pubic hair. My first time. First time seeing a nun's bush, that is. When I looked up, she was watching me with an enigmatic smile. I felt like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.
"I suppose that's the topic?"
I raised one eyebrow in question. Such a display of sophistication was not beyond me, I hoped and besides, it looked hip when Cary Grant did it.
"Ah, yes," I nodded, as if I'd forgotten it for a moment.
Sitting with her chin resting on her shirt-covered knee, her eyes resting on me, she began to speak, slowly at first, then with gathering strength. "Much of my personality fits well with being a nun, but there's a huge emotional hole in me that nothing seems to fill, nothing spiritual that is. As I've alluded, this appears to be in the realm of either a physical need or that, coupled with an emotional obsession. Because it's so blatantly sexual, I've no way of dealing with it, physically or emotionally." She paused, perhaps to check my reaction. I just smiled and nodded.
"Being here with you today," she looked toward her clothes, "and this way," gesturing toward her lingerie hanging in the breeze, has somehow given me permission to be honest. I don't know where I'm going with this or how I'll feel about it latter. I only know that if I don't get honest, I'm going to continue to feel bad."
"Usually that way for me."
She began curling her toes. They were attractive toes. No polish. Of course.
"Do you know about exhibitionism?"
I was caught by my surprise and for a moment didn't answer. In point of fact, I'd always taken a low-grade interest in seeing and being seen. I nodded again. "A little."
"Well, when I was a little younger, I was very aware that I was attractive, even sexy. And as well, I was aware that guys liked to look at me. I liked that. I liked it even more when I 'accidentally' allowed them to see a bit more than was proper. I'd dress in semi-revealing ways, nothing brazen but I'd find situations to push the boundaries of propriety. It was thrilling, more so because it was - I perceived it anyway - as on the edge. Still it was more than acting out. It was more than getting away with something, although heaven knows, that was part of it. There was something more elemental about it. For one, it excited me no end. I'd get . . . um . . . excited . . . " and she looked me in the eye as if daring me to say anything, ". . . actually what I mean to say is, I'd get wet, showing some secret part of myself."
Again the look, the check; again the smile.
"At first it thrilled me if I thought some guy had seen down my dress. Later, I made sure he saw more than that. A button left undone might afford a glimpse of my bra or the swell of my breast. I knew that. I'd checked in the mirror and knew what way I had to twist so the blouse would open up accidentally. Later, I practiced the same thing, checking myself in the mirror as I crossed my legs, knowing just how much thigh I was revealing. What came to surprise me, however, was that I seemed to get caught up in my own exhibitionism. I often inadvertently pushed my own boundaries and showed more than I'd ever intended to." She furrowed her eyebrows. "Is this making sense?"
I moved a bit to get back into the sail's shade. She turned to continue facing me, dropping one leg to the deck. Without staring, I knew the way the shirt was drawn and tented over her that if I could duck my head a little, I'd be looking well up her bare leg. Given the topic of our conversation, I didn't even wonder if she knew.
I commented, "Of course. I suspect such innocent play is far more common than people let on. MJ, this all sounds pretty normal to me. A touch kinky, but that's healthy in my book. I don't see behaviors there that might have scared you. And none that would have left an emotional hole."
"No," she agreed, "and as you can see, my exhibitionism is still very much with me today. For instance, I'm very aware of your attention and given the permissiveness of the setting, I'm aware of my own excited reaction to it."
"And familiar with it too, I imagine." She smiled to take away any perceived sting from her words. Then she continued, "Most people regard nuns as naive and sheltered; many are. I am not . . . naive anyway. I'm quite aware that I'm sitting before you, wearing only your T-shirt. I'm equally aware that my undergarments are flying before your eyes. I didn't plan it that way, but the exhibitionist in me is delighted. Seeming to be totally innocent, I've been able to show you my intimate underwear and even to flash you a glimpse of my thighs." She looked at me coquettishly and asked, "No more than that, was there?"
I didn't get to answer. A sudden blow, unanticipated and out of nowhere, heeled us way over at the same moment a large swell was sliding by. MJ fell back, legs flying again. Her almost-dry wash was again soaked. I'd been sitting in such a fashion that I'd caught myself effortlessly and viewed with considerable interest the sight of Sister Mary Joseph, sprawled back, T-shirt now in her lap and sisterly beaver looking at the sun, perhaps for the first time in years.
Her unerring instinct caused her to jam the shirt tail between her legs immediately as she sputtered, "And I didn't plan that!"
I might have said something like, "Well done, MJ. And did you plan your panties getting wet again?"
"So that's why you suggested the um . . . windy side," she accused. "One more dousing and I'll be reduced to my birthday suit, and we all know that the partially-clothed woman is far more seductive."
"And I thought I was seducing you."
The shock of our honesty caught us both unprepared and we began to laugh, each looking into the eyes of the other.
"God, you're fun," she said, gasping as she held her hand over her breasts, one nipple thrown into marked prominence.
I didn't want to interrupt our conversation for another wash day. "Let 'em hang for a little while. We can rinse them out later." I suggested, nodding to her wet clothes.
"We?" she laughed. "Are you some kind of pervert? Trying to get into my underpants?"
"That's already been established. Of course I am. And I will."
"Get into my pants?" she asked, still laughing.
"Has anyone? Since you've been a nun, I mean?"
She suddenly sobered and stared at me with that look of mild alarm she had. "No. Well, not exactly. I mean, I've had a couple of close calls, but I never . . . " and she paused, looking off into some unfocused distance of recall, " . . . there was this young priest. I think he may have had the same problem I do. He hinted at it. I was vulnerable. We were both excited. But nothing really happened. Still, I wonder. I think if he'd pushed me, I'd have fallen right over. We used to call that 'round heels.'"
"So, you remain chaste in fact if not in spirit?"
"Part of me says, 'Yes, darn it,' and another part admits I may never have been chaste in spirit. Therein lies the problem, my sailor friend. I'm a walking time bomb it seems. Awareness of my sex, of my physical needs, is never far from my consciousness." She shook her head, as if to clear it.
"Hmmm . . ." I said, perhaps sounding wiser than I felt.
She continued, "Somehow it was different when I became a nun."
"I'd think there'd not be much chance for exhibitionism and voyeurism in a nunnery," I reasoned.
"So you think. The fact is there are a lot of woman under one roof and despite the watchful eye of the older nuns, there was a certain relaxed attitude during sports, showers and the locker room. It's not as if we all live in separate cells! And I just know some of my sisters had to have feelings like mine."
She pushed her hair back and then glanced away, a sure sign she was about to reveal something more.
"Anyway," she continued, again glancing off to the horizon, "it surprised me how much I enjoyed looking at the other nuns. I mean, looking at their nude, or partially-nude bodies. I didn't think of myself as anything but heterosexual, but I found I was getting aroused looking at them and knowing, or at least suspecting, that some of them were looking at me. You know, in that way."
"Yes. Interested, sexual, curious, excited . . . all those things. I liked it, but still, it troubled me. I began wondering about different ones. Was she a virgin? Had this one ever gone down on a guy? Did she play with herself?" She laughed, "Then it got even worse!"
"I began having that same kind of thoughts about the priests. Oh, not all of them, just the sexy ones. I wondered if they ever did it."
"What made the 'sexy ones' sexy?"
She thought a minute, then smiled. "You're one. It's not just looks, although that's part of it. It's more attitude, I think. Confidence. Self assurance. Body posture. Bold eyes. Innuendo. Things like that."
"And . . . and I wanted to do it with them! I'd be talking to some priest about some religious matter at the same time I'd be wondering how big his penis was. I'd find myself distracted, looking at his mouth or looking at a glimpse of his tongue, fantasizing about doing it with him, or him doing it to me. Going down on me, I mean. There was a part of me that looked forward to confessing some of my licentious thoughts to the 'sexy priests'. I'd get a thrill from - what did you call it? - talking dirty? I couldn't stop myself from thinking this way. The more I tried, the more impossible it became. I was horny and excited all the time, and feeling like the lowest form of pretense, a walking column of human garbage."
"That's a feeling and not a fact. How you feel is how you feel, but it helps to know that you're not garbage. You're one of God's kids and you're perfect just the way you are."
"Come ON! As much as I enjoy hearing nice things said about me, I can't for a minute accept that."
"That's part of the problem. You've made up your mind that you're a piece of shit because of your very human feelings. That's a no-win. Until you accept yourself as you are, you're screwed, MJ."
"You know why I'm taking this trip? No, of course you don't. How could you? I'm taking a leave of absence. I had courage enough to talk about some of this with my superior who sent me to a shrink . . . a Jesuit shrink if you will! He reminds me of you. You and he say the same things. Anyway, they - the powers that be - have recommended that I take a year off with no more than light duties, that I think about how I might best serve God and myself. They even suggested that not all who are called are chosen, that I might discover that my path is outside the order."
She crossed her legs, Indian style, with the shirt tail still jammed between her thighs. This served to pull it taut against her breasts and prominent nipples. She checked. I was looking.
"You are my first authentic contact, my first experiment with real life since I started this sabbatical. So, what do you think?"
"You have nice tits."
Her eyes blazed. "You! I mean what do you really think?"
"I saw your pussy when you fell back a little while ago. I was the voyeur and I loved it."
Again, she jammed her hand between her thighs. "You're impossible!"
"No. I'm really easy."
"Is that actually what you were thinking about? Just my body?"
"That, certainly. I also heard what you said about your feelings and taking time off. You've been given a blessing, MJ. Take it and run. Live it. Let yourself go. Live your fantasy. Explore yourself. Learn that part of you that has been pushed into the closet. If you have an itch, scratch it."
"I love your earthy analogies. You sound more and more like Father James, the shrink. He didn't pull any punches either. He was good with spades."
"Is that it? You all done with the confession?" I waved a hand and said with a grin, "I guess I'd hoped there'd be more, you know, juicy stuff."
"There is more, 'juicy stuff' as you call it, but that's the main thrust of it. I'm a damaged chick. Want to take me on as a patient?"
"No? I thought . . ."
"MJ, I don't want to be your therapist or your advisor or your confessor. I'm a man and you're a very attractive woman. You excite me and I want to seduce you, to thrill you, to fill your fantasies. I want to see you naked."
She suddenly jerked the T-shirt to her chin, held it there for the count of two, and then pushed it back into her lap. "Like that?" she asked.
I studied the after image. It was lucid and clear. Her breasts were larger than I'd imagined, full and firm-looking with medium-large, pebbled areolae and meaty nipples. Her waist was surprisingly narrow atop flared, woman's hips. Her dark auburn public hair was full and lush, at least what I could see.
I clapped. "More, I loved it! It thrilled me. Is that what you wanted to know? What'd it do for you, flashing me that way?"
"If I got up, there'd be a wet spot."
"Are you serious?" she asked, looking a little embarrassed.
"Yes, I'm serious. Get up. I want to see if you're just talk."
She frowned. I suppose she didn't like me thinking of her as 'just talk'. She stood up, pulling the shirt against her butt as she looked behind her at the teak seat. There was a wet spot.
"See!" she exclaimed. She spun around and pushed the flat of her index finger against the wet spot and then shoved it under my nose. "Smell!" she commanded.
It was faint but unmistakable. I knew that odor, that sweet, musky bouquet of pussy.
"Careful," I advised.
"Those are powerful pheromones. I'm liable to jump your bones."
"That sounds more like a request for permission than a threat of action," she countered.
"Busted," I admitted. "I guess it's not for nothing that I've been called 'an old gas bag', huh?"
She leaned forward and looked at me intently as if to make a point. I waited. "Let me see your penis," she said.
"Your penis, let me look at it. What do you call it? A cock? A prick? Dick, maybe?"
"You like to take it slow and easy, don't you, MJ?"
"I've been taking it slow for the last several years. YOU were the one who told me to live out my fantasies. Well, asking a sexy guy to show me his cock is one of them. I don't want to look through a peep hole at life. I want to see it right here, right now."
"That get you wet, girl?"
"Yes. What gets you hard, Mr.?"
"Lots of things, but it all comes down to T&A."
"Tits and ass. And of course, attitude. Is this quid pro quo?"
"You show me yours and I'll show you mine?" she asked with an expression close to a leer.
"It always comes down to juvenile stuff like that, lady. Yeah, if I'm gonna show you my boner - isn't that a charming name? - then I wanna up the ante. I wanna crank up the intimacy current. Show me your pussy, but not a flash. Really show it to me."
MJ leaned back and smiled at me, a warm, sunny smile that spoke volumes of her comfort at that moment. How far we'd come. A short while before, she'd stepped aboard looking all the world like what she was, a nun. Now, through a goofy process of self revelation, we were playing some bewitching, sexy game that embodied the challenge portion of Truth or Dare.
"Can you drop anchor somewhere? I'd be more comfortable if we were tied to something, like the bottom and I wouldn't have to concern myself with running aground on Virgin Gorda or someplace like that."
I gestured to port. We'd not been out of sight of land since we'd sailed. "See that island? We're stopping there for the rest of the afternoon and night. There's a secluded and protected cove where the water's clear blue and the Trade Winds blow all night. Helps keep us cool and the mosquitoes away. Want to help me anchor?"
She grinned and nodded her head.
Watching her take up lines and bend over, often it seemed, in an outlandish fashion, served to keep my fires going. I was quick to show my appreciation with timely wolf whistles. In short order, we were secured and safe. She turned to me and pulling off her voluminous T-shirt, she asked, "Now are we going to play show and tell?"
I walked slowly toward her, unbuttoning my shorts and allowing them to slip down on my hips, only my erection holding them up. "MJ, I seem to have a problem here with my shorts. Could you help me get 'em off, please?"
My eyes raked up and down her naked form. Sister Mary Joseph, pink and in the flesh, my big-titted sexy nun, was admiring me as I presented myself for her ministrations.
"You've come to the right place, sailor. I'm an expert in removing recalcitrant shorts." She kneeled in front of me and slowly pulled my shorts down my thighs. Pausing a moment, she looked up at me and said, "I usually kneel down for quite another reason."
My cock was stiff and bent down and when suddenly freed, leaped to attention. "Oh, my goodness!" she said, slowly fisting my cock.
I pulled her to her feet saying, "MJ, these teak decks are beautiful to look at, but for substantially greater comfort, come below and try out the bunk in the master suite, won't you?"
"Both of us? In one bed, I mean?" Laughing, she pulled me by the hand, down the ladder into the main salon, chanting, "Lead me not into temptation; I know the way myself."
"What ever happened to that demure, sexually repressed little nun I took aboard just hours ago?"
"You're right about the repressed part, sailor boy. I'm given to understand that you have a treatment for my sexual frustrations. Is this true or is it all just hypothetical bull pucky?" she asked, sweeping her black habit off the master bunk.
"The treatment started several hours ago, MJ. Look at yourself, at the progress you've already made. Better yet, let me look at you. I'd be far more appreciative."
"Well now, I'd hoped you might get around to a little friendly voyeurism. I'm certainly in a show-off mood. What would you like first to see?"
"Tell you what, woman . . . I'd like to examine your tits right now and while I'm doing that - you'll have lots of time - I'd like you to tell me of one of your fantasies, one of those delicious little vignettes long suppressed in the nunnery. That'll start our erotic variation of show and tell."
"I think things like that, but you say them! I love your boldness," she said as lay back, cupping her breasts. "Have at 'em," and she laughed at her own mimicry of me.
I lay down beside her and leaning on one elbow, I reached down and ran a feather-light touch around the base of her breast next to her axilla, approaching and retreating from her nipple. "Ready to tell me a story?" I asked.
She arched her back, pushing her breast toward me, saying, "Oh my God, that feels so good. I can't tell you . . ."
I pushed a little harder, testing the substance of her breast. It was surprisingly firm. I traced patterns from her chest wall to the edge of the areola, still not touching the prominent nipple.
She groaned and whispered, "Oh, please, please, please . . . yes, again yes. Please touch me!"
"Slowly, MJ. You've waited years. Let's wait another five to ten minutes. I want you to remember this and more, I want you to have clarity about this." I cupped her other breast and held it softly. "This is both an experience and an experiment."
She drew her heels up and with knees well apart, lifted her pelvis off the bunk, thrusting at a body, a cock, that wasn't there. "You're driving me crazy. I'm so darn horny I can't stand it. Do something."
She reached a hand down as if to touch herself. I held her wrist and said, "Not yet, lady. When it's time, I'll get you off. I want you mad with passion."
She glared at me, eyes snapping. "You don't think I'm excited enough? You're daft!" She sniffed the air. "Smell me. I'm so wet and so randy, I smell like I'm in heat!"
I'd been aware of her increasing musk filling the still air of the closed cabin. My brain's response to her odor was to dive between her legs and smell her pussy, but I wanted to draw this out, to stretch every moment's awareness of the now.
"Yes, I can smell you. I smell your pussy. You're ripe, you know that?"
Writhing, she gasped, "Yes, I know I'm ripe. I secret so much. At times I've smelled myself in church and was mortified that someone else would smell me and know what was happening between my legs. Christ! Touch me there, Please, please."
"You smell that way for a reason. It's to attract a man . . . to attract me . . . right here, right now," I said, trailing a hand down over her belly and just brushing her pubic hair with my fingers. She thrust at me again and said something that sounded like, "Umph . . ."
I pushed my self up and looked between her scissoring thighs at her wet and matted pubic hair. Her inner thighs and butt cheeks were slick, her pussy lips swollen and partially everted. She made a squishing noise when she suddenly brought her knees up, catching my hand between her legs.
"Yes, there! Touch me there. Touch my womaness, my sex."
"Your womaness?" I said sarcastically, "Is that what you call it?"
"NO!" she shouted, defiantly. It's my . . . it's my pussy. My box. Snatch. Damn you, anyway. It's my pussy! There, you made me say it. You happy now?"
"Happier. I don't know what kinda spade you call it, but 'womaness' doesn't cut it. I like pussy and when I want to add and edge, I like to call it a pussy," I said, conversationally, slowly running my finger through her slick slit. Then I added, "Turn over."
"Roll over on your stomach. I wanna see your butt."
She flipped right over, saying, "You said you were a T&A man, didn't you. Well, here's mine!"
She had that wonderful lordosis, that sweet concave curve that arises from a narrow waist and swells to two firm, jutting cheeks. I ran the palm of my hand over her butt and said, "Who'da thought it? Who'da imagined that under those heavy black robes this sweet ass existed, unappreciated and unloved for all those years?"
She arched and back and pushed her buttocks up with a gratifying moan. I pushed up from the bottom on her belly and said, "Higher."
Up on her knees with her chest on the bunk, her cheeks separated, exposing her tan anus surrounded by a sprinkling of dark auburn curls. I traced a light line around her ass hole and she gasped. Her body shuddered and she exclaimed, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph . . . what are you doing to me back there? What is that? I've never felt anything like that."
"MJ, that's your butt hole, known to the medical community as an anus, but to lovers of this anatomy, it's more commonly referred to as your ass hole. Like the feeling?"
"Like it? God almighty, I love it! I never imagined . . . I mean, no one ever touched me back there. I always thought of it as . . ." and she fell silent, searching for the proper adjective.
"Dirty?" I suggested.
"Yes . . . dirty. No one ever tried to touch me there!"
"Lots of people - perhaps most even - are anally erotic but many don't even know it." I continued to touch her external sphincter and each time, it seemed to wink at me. "Shall I proceed?"
"I surrender. I just give up. Do anything you want with me. But for God's sake, do something." She pulled her arms under her chest and cupped her tits as I moved behind her, keeling between her legs, facing her upthrust ass.
"MJ, you've got a beautiful ass. I say that in the most appreciative way. You're an extraordinarily sexy woman."
Her aroma was wafting up to my nose; I drank in her scent for a long moment and then lowered my face to her exposed pussy. I opened my mouth and breathed my hot breath on her labia. She jerked and groaned, "Lord, lord . . . that's indescribable."
I extended my tongue and with it's pointed end, I touched the tender flesh between her anus and her labia and then slowly licked around the periphery of her ass hole. Her body jerked and she mumbled something into a pillow, the words lost. As I drew back to look again at her pumped up labia, her hand snaked between her thighs and she dipped a finger into her pussy, pulling thick secretions back to her distended clit.
"MJ, I can see you. You're touching your pussy and I'm watching you . . . watching you masturbate . . . and fingering your tender ass hole at the same time. Feel that? Feel my finger." I dipped my finger into the pool of her secretions and pressed the pulp of that finger to her anus, feeling it tighten and then slowly relax. "I'm going to slip my finger into your ass as you frig yourself . . . feel the pressure . . . that's it, push back against my finger . . . now . . . I'm in! Feel it. I'm inside your warm, soft ass guts, MJ. Frig your clit. Help me get you off."
She began bucking her ass back at me, all the time clawing at her pussy, moaning and thrashing her head from side to side, all the while murmuring incoherent words of passion. "Oh God. Oh shit-oh God, I'm going to cum. Shit, shit, shit . . . I'm going to cum. Jesus, Jesus. Here it comes . . ." and her voice rose to a scream of mindless ardor, long, high-pitched and crazed. Her body jerked once, twice and then again, each time accompanied by a visceral grunt. She fell forward in a limp puddle of spent emotion. Then she began to cry, initially quietly. I held her. Her crying grew in intensity, grew into body-racking sobs.
There was nothing to be said. The only thing I could do was hold her close, petting her hair, mumming softly in her ear. This was not an intellectual process. Far from it. It was a total-body catharsis, long over due and it had nothing to do with cognition. I could only hold her. Aware at the moment that my hard cock was pressed into the crack of her ass, yet not needing anything at that moment, aside from holding her.
I had no idea how this would impact her life. Was this the thing she needed to fill the emotional void? Hardly, I thought. That's an inside job. But there's no denying our body's needs. We can trick it, deny it, say that it doesn't matter and perhaps for a little while, we get away with it. But the body remembers and one day, if its vital enough, it will out.
How important is that? For me, it's important. Not the most important thing, but still, important. I'd come to recognize that I couldn't do much in life by myself, that I needed people. More, I needed love.
I held her close to me and whispered, "MJ, you are a lovable woman. Whatever you choose in life, know that."
Well, that was it. We slept together that night and the next but I never fucked her. My dick wanted to drill her, but instead my spirit got what it wanted. Perhaps what it needed.
We talked and talked over the next two days, sharing our fantasies and our fears. MJ said that she didn't know what was going to become of her but she knew that she couldn't trick her body any longer. I think she was moving into resignation, that her life had to encompass more than that of the celibate cleric.
We masturbated together a couple of times each day and spoke of our mutual desire to fuck each other. Yet, for reasons neither of us completely understood, we didn't. We wanted to and we admitted that. But we didn't and that seemed right. In the last hours of our being together we agreed that she needed to spend her year looking at her own issues without the distraction of someone like me. She said she'd get in touch with me after a year. I said sure, but didn't believe it.
I haven't seen her since that day and I'd not heard from her in almost that long. The other day I received a call and I recognized her voice immediately. I said hello and she said, "I'd like to see you again. Will you see me?"
"You! I never thought I'd hear from you again."
"Will you see me? We need to talk."
"Ahhh . . ." I couldn't talk, I was stunned.
"This may me one of the most important things in my life. Say you will."
I'm flying into San Francisco tomorrow. She said she'll meet me at the gate. I wonder what she'll be wearing this time.
~~~~ The End ~~~~