The Hemingway Maid ('16 revision)

Anyway. There was no art of gentle persuasion at work now; this was the frontal assault, and I was completely unprepared for the swiftness of Elise's attack. Then again, I don't think she was prepared for what she found when she got between my legs. I felt her hands encircle me, then she kind of drew back and studied the matter in hand -- then I heard her muttering words like 'Sweet Jesus' and 'zeppelin' before I lost sight of her head in a blinding blur of frenzied twisting motions, and my body spasmed almost instantly into a state of total sensory overload. Those first moments - when she first drew me into those immensely un-mortal portals of infinite space - define to me even now my memory of that night.

At my age it is fair to say that she was not the first woman to go down on me, though the list of women is, unfortunately, long and undistinguished, but she shot to the top of that list in about three heartbeats. She did things with her mouth and throat that felt positively inhuman, and followed these sorties with penetrating finger movements that left me shocked and breathless. My response built rapidly. I'm not normally fast off the draw, but this was ridiculous, as this wasn't even going to qualify as a fast one.

And here I might be impertinent enough to interject that it had been some time since I had been with anyone (other than my right hand, and that a not too regular event), so I knew what was coming was going to be monumentally explosive, even by my abnormal standards. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to warn her.

I truly doubt that any other mammal on earth - save perhaps an elephant or a sperm whale - has ever cut loose with as much cum as I did that first time with Elise. And I'm talking in all recorded history here. Let's just get adjectives like explosive and cataclysmic out of the way, as they simply don't apply. The 'little' orgasm I had was volcanic - it was the Mt Saint Helens of orgasms. So, here I was, first time ever with Elise, and I start off by blowing about three gallons of cum into, well, her mouth for a start.

Hell, she was game enough to try, I have to give that to her. At least she was through the first three or four eruptions.

But, oh no, ole-volcano-nuts weren't through, not that night. They had decided to give her their best imitation of Krakatoa!

Elise took the first bursts about as well as anyone could, I suppose, then she sat up, her mouth a devastated landscape of pearlescent cum, her face coated with what appeared to be a quart of the stuff, and she looked very, very satisfied with herself. But were they finished? Oh, no, not in the least. She kept jacking my pole and another, much larger torrent of huge ropey splooge shot through the air -- out onto my stomach, onto her face, into her hair -- and she stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. Then I sat up and watched as she took a finger and scooped more of it off her face and onto her tongue, into her mouth, and when that wasn't enough for her, I looked on in open mouthed amazement as she licked puddles of the stuff off my belly and began rubbing her face from side-to-side through it.

This was, I decided, heaven. I was really dead and was already there. But no, Elise still wasn't finished with me. Or it - no, them.

She worked her way back down to the offending beast and admonished it with a thorough tongue lashing, though I must say he stood up to her assault rather well. She licked and bit and jacked my cock back into full raging form, then slid up my body and positioned herself over me. With her knees on either side of mine, I felt her feet slide to the insides of my legs, and thus firmly braced she lowered herself onto my cock and began to slowly slide up and down the length of it, the remnants of my first orgasm coating her way with silky smoothness.

With her face above mine, I looked on in awe as I watched the full moon rise behind her head, the pure light of creation pouring in through the open hatchway above us. Her form was backlighted - though flashes of moonlight danced between strands of her hair - and her body took on a deep lavender glow as the moon grew into our space. Her long hair swept across my face as she danced in the light, and I remember catching strands in my mouth, marveling that even her hair tasted like the essence of eternity.

+++++

I woke the next morning to the now familiar smells and sounds of Elise working away in the galley. As I cleaned up I wondered just what the heck Pedro had done all night; I had completely forgotten about him and felt a little put off with myself for that round of selfishness. Even though Sabrina had two separate 'bedrooms' there was no way that last night's activities could have gone unnoticed. Being old enough - well, almost - to be Pedro's grandfather gave me some room for maneuver, I suspect, but I hoped to avoid this kind of awkwardness in the future. But how?

I made my way to the galley and kissed Elise hard on the mouth; she responded gently but gave a little 'ahem', and when I pulled back could see that she was guiding my attention to the company we had in the cockpit. Ron and Pedro - oh my, what a surprise! They were hunched over the little fold-down table by the wheel studying their pieces on the chess board they had set up between them. I made my way up into the brilliant sunlight with a handful of glasses filled with orange juice, and sat down next to Pedro.

"Hey, Puddknocker," Ron merrily exclaimed, "how's it hangin'?"

Pedro kind of snorted out a giggle as he looked away. Oh, this was going to be a blast!

"Say, Ron," I retorted, "I heard you was a transvestite hooker once. Can I get some from ya'?"

"No thanks, Pudd, I'm tryin' to quit."

I shook my head.

"Anyone up for a sail today?" Elise called out from somewhere down below.

"That sounds like fun, y'all up for it?" I said, looking out at the fresh breeze blowing over the sea.

"Better check into that first, sport. Cuban Coasties don't take kindly to nationals out taking boat rides...they might get the idea you're making a break off the reservation. Bad news if they do, too."

I could see his point. "Anyway to do it? Permits or such?"

"Yeah, go to the security guys at the gate. I think they can arrange it."

"Doesn't anyone go sailing around here?"

"Sure, sport, just not with the locals. Hell, even if you go out alone you're going to be boarded by the navy - and your boats going to get tossed. They really don't want folks sneaking off, and they're kinda serious about it."

Like I didn't know that.

O.K., so that explained why no one was out sailing on a day like today.

Elise handed an especially gorgeous breakfast up the companionway: fresh fruit and soft-boiled eggs in their shells stuffed with lump crabmeat and tiny bits of fiery-hot peppers and garlic were heaped on a platter surrounded by slender planks of buttered toast. She came up a minute later with a steaming pitcher of espresso and the little cups I kept on hand for such occasions.

Pedro had never seen anything like this meal, and had absolutely no idea that his sister was capable of such artistry. I was only beginning to fathom the depths of her accomplishments myself, despite the almost ten tons I'd put on in a week. I looked at the feast spread out before us and did not want to thank God for this food...I wanted to thank Him - for Elise.

When love comes to you, you'd better be ready to follow. Ain't that in a book someplace...or maybe a song?

We ate, and Ron - God bless him - cleared the plates then cleaned the dishes down below. Pedro went off to take care of his marina duties and Elise laid herself down in the morning sun with her head in my lap, and I stroked her hair, the memory of our own little little dance in the moonshadow still fresh in my mind.

"Jim, tell me what you're thinking - right now," her gentle voice commanded.

I didn't know where to begin. My feelings were - to me, anyway - clear, but obviously not so to her. How could I make a life for us all - in Cuba?

Couldn't be done, could it, wise guy. Reality check. No diplomatic relations, so no consular official to consult for bad advice. So, no legal way out. Getting out illegally almost a certain path to ruin for all concerned.

Then I was aware that Elise's gentle question still hung in the air.

"I was thinking about tomorrow," I said, putting it out there in the air apparent.

"Tomorrows are very complicated in Cuba, Jim. Perhaps we should concentrate on all of the todays we might have together."

"Yeah, well, that's the bargain this time around, isn't it. Pay the price for tomorrow's wasteland in the currency of the moment -- so let it ride, boy-o!" I'm spoiled enough to let bitterness take hold of my emotions on even the best of days. Still, I'm not sure Elise understood.

"Jim, I told you, you won't change the way things are in Cuba. This is Castro's game, and everybody plays by his rules. If you play your game, you'll lose. That I will not allow to happen."

I heard footsteps coming up the companionway.

"Who says you gotta play by his rules," Ron Fuller, ex-CIA hot-shot said.

With that he jumped off Sabrina and walked off towards the shower. He didn't even bother to hide his grin.

That shithead!

+++++

It turned out that getting clearance to take Pete, as I now called him, and Elise out on Sabrina wasn't all that difficult as long as we remained within three miles of shore. We were told we would be boarded as we left the marina and papers would be checked, and our position monitored by the navy to insure we remained within the stipulated distance from shore. And we were cautioned not to violate the three mile limit, or the consequences would be swift - and deadly. No more need be said about that, the smiling military-police guard said.

So, about two that afternoon, off we went on Sabrina - with the Three Amigos on board just for good measure. We motored out of the marina and I checked in by VHF with the patrol boat that always seemed to be on station off the approaches to Havana. They sounded bored and told us to have a nice sail, and Ron and the Amigos shot each other quick glances at that bit of lassitude. As we cleared the breakwater, and with Ron on the wheel, we pointed into the wind and raised sail, then bore off heading directly away from shore under full sail. Ron looked at his watch, the other Amigos, as I mentioned both retired PanAm jocks, hunched over their approach charts and started doing some Time/Distance calculations. Then all of a sudden it hit me: these Three Amigos were acting like a covert operations team; they made little marks on the chart, made knowing glances and comments to each other as the time ticked by.

Pete and Elise picked up on the military demeanor quicker than I had, though Pete seemed to think things were going along pretty fine. The sea wasn't at all rough, and the sky was as crisp and clear as far as the eye could see, but we were getting, after about twenty minutes, very close to three miles out from shore.

"Uh, Ron..."

"There he goes," Ron said, and the two Amigos hunched over their chart looked up and over at the patrol boat. "Mark the time: 1438 hours." The patrol boat was belching thick brownish-gray smoke from its single stack, and it was changing course to run parallel to Sabrina's heading away from the shore. "Oughta be anytime, now. Jim, go down and flip on the radar, would 'ya?"

The display up by the wheel flickered then jumped on; the range was set at five miles and the shoreline was now looking to be close to three miles away. One of the Amigos went over and flicked the range markers out to 24 miles. "Bingo, there he is," he said as looked at the radar. Then, "This oughta be real close. OK people, cover your ears..."

The roar was not simply deafening, it was palpable to the very core of my body and penetrated some deep primal awareness that screamed "RUN!" Within milliseconds awareness to external stimuli kicked in and I was peripherally aware that a Cuban Air Force Mig-29 had just cut across Sabrina's bow - about thirty feet above the sea. I guessed it's speed was in the neighborhood of 500 knots.

Ron swung the wheel and took up a course taking us straight toward the patrol boat. The patrol boat throttled down, its bow wave dissipated into the surrounding sea as the boat changed to an intercept course toward us, while the Mig had gone ballistic and disappeared vertically into the sky. The Amigo working the radar picked him up: "There he is. Looks like he's going to come by for another look see. O.K., his speed is way down. What do you think of those reaction times, Ron?"

"About what I expected."

I looked around and took note that Elise and Pete were gone, and I saw them down below. Elise looked pale and uncomfortable; Pedro looked up at me with happily excited eyes.

I felt like I needed a drink.

The pale gray Mig flew drifted overhead like a shark -- its flaps fully extended, its nose slightly high -- and the two Amigos looked at the racks of missiles and bombs hanging under the wings and furiously scribbled notes on their chart.

I was now very, very interested about these clowns' activities.

They were calculating response times of Cuban naval and air force units and the weapons deployed during that response. In short, they were conducting an espionage operation -- a covert operation, at that, while the Cubans looked on.

And on my fucking boat!

We closed on the patrol boat, or rather they closed on us - rapidly - and they contacted us by VHF, telling us in no uncertain terms to heave to and prepare for boarding.

Oh, I was a real happy camper right about then.

+++++

Life on Sabrina after our little excursion took on a nervous, if somewhat happy routine. Pete worked around the marina during the day and generally hung out on Ron's boat playing chess at night. It seemed that Rosalita had a daughter about Pete's age who was now staying on board Blade Runner, and puberty being puberty everywhere in the world, things were merrily taking their course with or without our interference, thank you very much.

Ron and the Amigos retired after our little excursion and sat around in the shadows with their slide rules and sat-phones - calling the mother-ship, perhaps. I had no clue, and didn't want one, either, but something was UP. The Amigos would retire to their boats, and to their women, after these little clandestine meetings, and I noticed their boats were little family affairs. Hell, as I looked around I began to notice lots of Cuban families living on boats with divorced-white-guys. Some girls had their parents living aboard with them, and one was rumored to have a grandparent on board in addition to the normal complement of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. If I found it difficult to imagine screwing Elise with even the thought of Pedro on board, I couldn't fathom what was going on in these guys minds.

So anyway, just what the hell was going on in the Marina Hemingway? Was there something in the water here?

And hadn't these guys ever seen Islands In The Stream? Not a real happy ending, if you know what I mean.

During dinner that night I voiced my opinion to Elise that the Three Amigos were planning on making a dash for Florida, and taking a whole bunch of Cubans with them - and she dismissed the thought as not even worthy of a paranoid schizophrenic. She worked away on her mojos and salads, not missing a beat, and we ate dinner - as usual - in the cockpit, with the ever-present warm trade-winds rustling through the palms behind us. We had some chilled Sangria that night, too; well, actually, I had a lot of chilled Sangria and Elise sipped hers in amused silence, then she cleared, I cleaned, then we put all our things away together, all on the automatic pilot lovers develop as they drift dangerously towards the comfortable shoals of domesticity.

As I cleaned dishes, in my thoughts I dismissed the idea that Elise could have anything to do with such a wild-assed plot, that until recently she had been so far gone - according to Ron, anyway - that she had been incapable of making even a cup of coffee, let alone be in on the planning of some hair-brained operation to slip a bunch of Cuban families out of the country in the dark of night...

Then I felt her hand. She was looking at me with those eyes of hers, her hand was drifting down to the buckle on my belt while the other rubbed the front of my shorts. Did Krakatoa want to come out and play?

We both had our answer to that question in about three shakes of a, oh, well, you know where this is going so why bore you with the details.

Okay, okay...so you want a few details. She had my shorts down around my ankles before you could say 'men think with their dicks' three times, and I swear to God she took my dick in her hand and pulled me to the forepeak. It was almost humiliating, though fun in it's way, I suppose. I recommend it if you don't have anything else planned for a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Anyway. We fucked ourselves silly for hours. Nothing takes your mind off paranoid fantasies faster than watching your girlfriend's cheeks distend around the head of your cock as she tries not to gag while a half-liter of cum blows down her throat.

+++++

I guess after that night I reckoned I'd just drop the matter- let it ride - for the time being, anyway. Life on Sabrina maintained the same comfortable level of nervous domestic bliss that had characterized Elise's first days with me. Weeks went by while Ron and the Amigos went about there daily chores working on rigging or changing oil or injectors on an errant engine. Pete made money working his ass off, and I'm pretty sure he was proceeding nicely on his plans to marry Rosalita's daughter by the time he turned fifteen. I just hoped he wouldn't get her knocked up before that happened.

As summer wore on all thought turned to the looming tropical storm season. Nobody in the Caribbean takes tropical storms for granted, yet hurricane is a 'four letter word' no one wants to hear. But it was that time of year, and if you live in the Caribbean or the Gulf you pay attention to those buggers whenever they form-up off Africa. People on all the boats in the marina began sorting through their storm gear, making sure equipment was up to snuff and storm sails ready to set. Cubans living on board the various cruising boats seemed to disappear; they'd either left to go from whence they'd come -- or gone seriously to ground.

Like I said, nobody in Cuba took tropical storms for granted. A big one was rumored to be forming out past the Windward Islands, still many days away if it headed this way at all, but you could feel a new tension in the air. Like you're being stalked, I suppose, by a monster right out of your darkest childhood nightmares.

So, with that tension in mind, on this particularly hot and humid June afternoon Ron came over to Sabrina, a worried grin on his weatherbeaten face.

"Hey, Puddknocker," he started with the particularly annoying way he had of threading through shoal waters, "ready to go for a sail?"

All of my internal warning lights started going off. My gut spasmed, began to churn. Paranoid? Who, me? Like that guy on the cover of Mad Magazine? 'What? Me worry?'

"Ron, you got to be kidding me. It's hot and there's hardly any wind. You wanna just head out and get fried in the Sun?"

"Sounds good, Sport. Leave in five, O.K.?" He walked off with that stupid grin of his flying in defiance of all good sense, and so of course I knew something was up.

I went down to warn Elise - but she was gone, and everything on the boat had been stowed. Unbeknownst to me, Sabrina had been made ready for sea.