The Captain was just like Omar Sharif. Tall, dark, flashing eyes and gleaming teeth. You could just imagine him charging across the desert on a wild stallion, a curved knife between his teeth, and the heroine clinging to him from the rear pillion. His slicked-back black hair had a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, just like mine. He wore an old fashioned pea jacket with brass buttons closing almost to the neck. I could have sworn I glimpsed the flash of a Croix de Guerre hiding behind the collar.
I was resplendent in white jacket, black tie and cummerbund. The insignificant person in charge of the rental department had typically uninformed ideas about wing collars and flashy waistcoats. He didn't even know what I meant when I said I didn't want to look like a homosexual snooker player. I brushed him aside and chose my own apparel. Conservative and distinguished. A man of substance who sets fashion, doesn't follow it.
For the first formal dinner of our married life my bride chose a simple pearl-colored dress with plenty of decolletage. She has taste, too.
We were ushered to our seats in the chandelier-lit dining room. The champagne arrived with commendable speed.
The Captain made his entrance and sat at the head of the table as the men bobbed half up then back down again. He didn't have a limp.
"I am Captain Ahab. Welcome to my table on the fine ship Caribbean Conch."
We all murmured our good evenings.
The Captain was good. He had memorized the place settings on the small piece of paper I saw the purser slip him as he came into the room.
"On my left is the charming Miss Lawrence – nay, Mrs. Neptune! And the most very fortunate Mr. Neptune. May I offer my heartiest congratulations on this happy day!"
Polite applause and a couple of bravos came from our fellow guests, though with more enthusiasm in some quarters than others. Miss Lawrence wriggled a little closer to the Captain on her gilt chair.
"Next to Mr. Neptune is the lovely Miss Loretta Swat, familiar to us all as celebrity weather lady and for Loretta's Book of the Month."
I knew Loretta's Book of the Month could make or break authors and even publishing houses.
I turned to nod a greeting to my neighbor and barely managed not to turn it into a drool. I don't watch much TV, and I prefer to look out of the window to see what the weather is doing, so while I had heard of Miss Swat I was not prepared for the reality. She was thirty-something, tall, tanned, blonde, full bosomed, and half-naked. Her black cocktail dress could not possibly have hidden even the flimsiest foundation garments. Her eyes met mine.
"My, Mr. Neptune, what a pleasure," came a husky Southern voice. I wondered if the voice was real. I didn't care if the boobs were or not.
"The pleasure is all mine, dear lady, all mine," I replied gallantly, dragging my eyes up to hers.
I felt a small but determined foot kick my shin from the other side of the table. Here we go again. Well, it was my honeymoon. I returned my attention to the Captain. Mind you, Miss L likes a threesome as well as the next lusty bisexual vixen, so perhaps…
"And now, to help me entertain such a scintillating company, our ship's Medical Officer, Dr. Dunnett."
Dr. Dunnett was Scottish – one could tell before he even opened his mouth. In his early fifties, slightly stooped, half-moon glasses, his patently dyed red hair was brushed over a bald pate. Thin grey hair was growing out under the henna'd mess, and dandruff spattered the worn and shiny dinner jacket. He was obviously a man who knew his mind, because instead of the usual collection of wine glasses, he had before him a cut-glass whisky tumbler and a decanter in a silver swinging cradle. As long as the glass was in the right place, not a drop of the water of life would be spilled as the decanter tipped and poured.
"Good evening, Doctor," I said politely as I leaned forward slightly to get a better view of the decanter and stand.
They were somehow familiar. I cast my mind back to the last Reunion at Edinburgh Castle. I recalled just the same decanter before each of my assembled comrades, though not much else about the evening. At least not until we hit the bars behind Princes Street in the early hours, but that is another story and anyway there is an official record. Yes, there was the Castle crest, discreetly engraved on the side of the stand. It looked like the Old Medical School bash had been held at the Castle as well.
I leaned back and sneaked a peek at the Swat cleavage as I went. For my pains I got another kick in the shin.
"Next to the good Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Boner-Drippit. Mrs. Boner-Drippit is of course well known to all of us on the Literary Cruise, and I am sure Mr. Boner also has a tale to tell."
Frippery was dressed in taffeta, as near as I could make out. The years had not been too kind, and her neck was better now described as scraggy than thin. She looked like an ostrich with stomachache. Or maybe that's just the thankful ex-husband speaking.
Boner had been taken in by the fashion idiot in the tuxedo rental department. Wing collar, paisley waistcoat in unnatural shades, trousers with red stripes down the sides, and a strange jacket with pocket cuffs in the same paisley as the waistcoat. He sat upright and nodded round the table. He seemed to think he looked good dressed as a clown.
"Finally, and far from least, the charming lady on my right…"
"Gigi! Gigi! You must all call me Gigi! Oh, what fun we shall have! Miss Swat, I watch your cookery program all the time! The maid does your angels on horseback so well!"
So la Swat was a celebrity chef too? Well, with a shelf like that I dare say she could get away with anything from gardening to political comment.
Mrs. Gloria Goldfinkel (of the Happachappabunket Goldfinkels) was still in pink. Lots of pink. Not to mention gold and sparkling diamonds. I couldn't begin to describe the ensemble. Jay is far better than I at that kind of thing. Suffice it to say that had she fallen overboard, she would be visible as a beacon from outer space, if the weight of wealth didn't drag her to the bottom first to be a hazard to submarine magnetic navigation equipment.
Mrs. Goldfinkel smiled radiantly around the table, the epitome of party fun.
Captain Ahab had finished his introductions and evidently felt like a break from social duties. He sat back and sipped at a glass of mineral water. There was silence for a few moments, then as the most presentable male guest (and as Harry Neptune) I took up the burden of conversation.
"How's your stomach, Boner? Up to the delights to come? A glass with you."
"I don't drink. Nor does Frippery."
"Well, actually, I wouldn't mind just a teenthy-weenthy glath…"
"We don't drink alcohol," Boner continued, firmly removing the wine glass from poor Frippery's place. "It's the ruination of the western world. And an emerging problem in the Third…"
I switched off, as my former lover began to drone on in a familiar and dreary speech I'd heard a thousand times before. I could probably repeat it, word for word, just as I could still recall the lyrics of the musicals he played from dawn to dusk when composing his tomes. I turned my attention to the new Golden Delicious of my husband's eye, a peroxide blonde with suspiciously convex tits. She looked like she had a couple of colanders stuffed down the front of her frock. (Maybe she did.) Harry was obviously having a hard time (as it were) maintaining eye contact as they chatted knowingly of Caribbean cuisine.
"Oh, I agree, the flying fish filet at the Far Flung Farrago, is infinitely superior to the tunny tournedos at Terrapin Terrace!"
They laughed, comfortable in a smug shared world of culinary conceit. I wondered how long it would be until Ms. Swat discovered that Harry thought okra was an Afro-American talk show host. The first course arrived and Blondie examined it with an expert eye. I sighed deeply and briskly draped my napkin across my lap. Things could well get messy and I'd hate to get grease on my fine new frock. Not that H would notice if I'd rented a gorilla suit. I took a dainty bite of the chilled Crab Surprise. It was delicious so I decided not to commence the petulant neglected spouse routine until I'd sampled all six courses, then go for the conversational jugular with a soothing liqueur. The glamorous weather forecaster, cook, and serial fornicator (according to the tabloids she had a weakness for sportsmen – by the team) continued to turn her plate around, cooing and purring at what looked remarkably like a lettuce leaf, some crab meat and a large dollop of pink sauce. TV cooks indeed! Give me Nigella Lawson any day. That woman knows how to live. I laid down my fork and stared at my own plate. To my intense surprise, nothing happened whatsoever. The way the blonde was communing with it, I had expected it to get up and dance.
"Looks like crab to me. What's the surprise, I wonder? Don't tell me, it's lobster dressed as crab. "
Naughtily, I cast a pointed glance at Ms. Flyswat's frontage. She had to be at least forty-five. Even Joan Collins knows when it's wise to keep your baked goods wrapped.
Harry glared at me. Alas, it was one of those rare and unfortunate moments when a thought solidifies and becomes a barb (usually after considerable forethought and precision timing). I smiled sweetly at my dearly beloved. Then, in the brief moment when I had his attention, I mouthed:
I want a divorce!
Unfortunately, my amour had never been good at lip reading.
"Ask the waiter!"
Later. I returned to the crab and Harry reattached himself to the bimbo's cleavage.
"I Married A Leech."
Sounded like one of Boner's lurid efforts, which were generally ripping yarns set at a frenetic pace that made Indiana Jones look like "The Sound Of Music." Something was always either exploding or decomposing, frequently both, as in his magnum opus, "The Squishing." They'd make great B-movies, 'though.
I'd like to squish that blonde. Monopolizing my husband!
Suddenly, I realized that something very strange had happened. And it had little, if nothing to do with the crab. I was jealous. Furiously, green monsterishly, hand-me-a-dagger-and-I'll-make-a-kebab type jealous. This was a new emotion and I fought back a large lump in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had discovered the secret in Crab Surprise.
"Oh, Mr. Boner, what a lovely suit!"
Boner preened as Mrs. G turned her attention to him.
"I buried my third husband in one just like it!"
Boner depreened. A hint of a smile appeared on Frippery's prim mouth.
"He was such a dear! In oil, you know. I do so miss him. And the others." For a moment Gigi looked sad. The she brightened up.
"Perhaps I'll meet number seven on this cruise! Lucky seven!"
She gazed around the table as if sizing up the candidates.
"Now," she said archly, "who have we here for Gigi? Doctor Dunnett?"
Dunnett shrank.
"A confirmed bachelor, Mrs. Goldfinkel, wedded to my profession. Never had the time for courting."
Or the sobriety, judging by the rate the decanter was emptying.
"Ooh, Doctor, you are such a tease. I bet you have the ladies swooning over you on every trip!"
There was a faint snort from the Captain.
"Mr. Boner, you are of course spoken for."
Mrs. G moved on without further comment. Boner looked put out.
"Mr. Neptune, I am just a day too late! Poor Gigi should have got her skates on! And you look so good in that tux!"
I took my wife's hand across the pristine linen tablecloth and bowed to Mrs. Goldfinkel.
"The fates would not have it so, my dear Mrs. Goldfinkel – Gigi. I have captured all my heart's desire and could want no more in life. I shall dance at your nuptials to the fortunate seventh Mr. G, whoever he may be."
For some reason Mrs. Neptune dug her fingernails into my palm. I looked at her and she smiled sweetly. She mouthed, Bar Steward!
"Just empty your glass dear, he'll soon refill it."
Gigi turned her attention to the Captain. She linked her arm in his and rested her frosted head on his shoulder.
"Ah, Captain, I do love a man in uniform!"
Captain Ahab was no stranger to these scenarios. He disengaged his arm politely and stood.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a toast! To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
We raised our glasses – the Boner's were filled with some carroty colored liquid Boner had brought with him in a thermos flask – and repeated the toast.
"To fine weather and a happy cruise!"
Glasses were drained and replaced with a late model Burgundy for the main course.
"And what is the weather prediction for the duration, Miss Swat? Any frontal systems we will be exposed to?"
"Why, Mr. Neptune! If the weather don't oblige, Ah sho' will do my little bitty best not to disappoint yuh!"
This was a bit rich even for me, but if listening to it was what it took to get Swat in the sack for a honeymoon treat Harry was your man. I could see by the way Jay snuck glances round me at Loretta's magnificent unfettered chest that she was of similar mind.
"Darling, I left my hair brush in the cabin. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me?"
"Of course, sweetheart." I made my apologies to the table and trotted off. If I trotted rapidly I would get in a swift Old Turkey to wash away the taste of the Burgundy before I came back.
There was no sign of a hairbrush in the cabin, so I pocketed my comb as a reasonable substitute and headed off to accomplish the second, unofficial, part of the mission.
When I got back to the table Miss Swat was picking ratatouille out of her cleavage and Miss Lawrence was addressing Boner.
"Did the discharge stop, or do you still wear the protective underwear?"
Harry's face was quite a picture when he resumed his seat at the Captain's table. Suddenly realizing that he'd been well and truly had, he shot me a masterful look and mouthed a warning. It looked a bit like:
I'm going to shag your button!
I smiled enigmatically and pretended not to notice. Boner had (thankfully) stopped talking ringworm and boils and Ms. Flyswat was taking the accident with the vegetable entree quite well really, all things considered. There had been a fairly major expletive when the piping hot slop hit her bronzed decolletage, but the ship had lurched just as I passed the bowl and my dainty little wrists have always been on the fragile side when it comes to lifting great big heavy items like dishes of steaming ratatouille. Oops. What was more, a brief but educational stint as The Great Superbo's glamorous assistant, Miss Fortune, taught me that the swiftness of the hand deceives the eye. It was a good flip. Superbo would have been proud. Meanwhile, the blonde was busy trying to turn the mess to her advantage.
"There was waaay too much liquid in that dish! Ah shall have a word with the chef. Ah might even offer to show him a couple of mah specialties."
There was a polite murmur of appreciation. I noticed that either Blondie's boobs had swollen with the heat of the sudden hot shower or she had artfully eased the melons another inch or so out of her skin-tight black gown.
Whichever it was, she looked ready to pop, her pronounced nipples defining the very edges of the plunging neckline. A glimmering crevasse opened up, like a bosomy gold mine and, unable to help himself, Harry grabbed his napkin and began to dab furiously, muttering inanely about the high cost of dry cleaning. And the Flyswat let him! A true Southern belle would have launched into outraged Scarlet O'Hara mode faster than you could say mint julep. Hmm. It wasn't just the boobies that were fake. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about Ms. Swat. I calmly watched my husband eradicate every last molecule of ratatouille from the valley of the doll. I wasn't the only exponent of sleight of hand. He'd given her titties quite a massage beneath the white linen napkin. The harlot gasped as he finally withdrew. I swear her breasts looked as if they'd just been polished. The Southern drawl grew huskier and more pronounced.
"Why, Mistah Neptune. Y'all sure know how to treat a lady. Ah'm eternally grateful to you, ah'm sure. Ah mean, really grateful, if yuh know what ah mean…"
This was getting quite indecent. Then it came to me. The super-sized chest, the phony Southern drawl. I knew Loretta Swat's true identity or, at least, one of her former incarnations.
"Well, I'll be damned! Voluptua Luscious!"
Everyone turned to me and stared. Except for Blondie, who positively glared. I giggled.
"Oops! Hey, this ratatouille is really rather good. Dig in before it gets cold!"
Harry excised his peepers from the thrusting orbs. His mouth worked furiously:
"Rocket thrusters?"
We really had to take a lip reading course.
"I'll tell you later!"
I returned to the veggies and a trip down mammary, sorry, memory lane. Voluptua Luscious was a former porn star and exotic dancer, once upon a time, way back in the shady mists of antiquity (the mid-1980s, to be precise). It was an era of big hair, big tits and big tips, and for one brief but heady season, Lush, (as the other girls affectionately called her for various reasons), was the veritable Queen of the Pink Pussy Lounge. What she couldn't do with a brass pole and a gallon of baby oil wasn't worth knowing. Why, it was there that I learned the infamous pussy dance. My own XXX career was brief but fascinating. A quick dip in the retro section of an adult video store should unearth at least one Titty Boomboom erotica classic.
"Nympho Vixen Sluts Do Miami" was my personal favorite, especially the lesbian gang bang scene in the car wash. Happy days.
I finished my ratty and beamed at my husband, suddenly feeling more at one with the world. After all, he almost looked like a rather well upholstered and mature version of James Bond in his debonair outfit. I was just pursing my mouth to blow him a fond little wifely kiss when I spotted the creeping hand. It was an artful little technique which my nearest and dearest had oft used to give me a frisson in a public place. Although, to the other guests at the table, it would simply appear as if H was politely hanging on Ms. Flyswat's every murmured word, I could clearly picture the furtive maneuvers taking place beneath the napkin draped across her lap. My dearly beloved had worked his hand up her long tanned thigh and inside her flimsy knickers. If she was wearing any. Somehow, I doubted it. Lush's eyes were slightly glazed, the pupils dilated. Harry knows where to find a clitoris. Just at that moment, the band struck up a ruckus with a Latin-American beat. I stood up and threw down my own napkin as if it were a gauntlet.
"Right! That's it! Come on, Harry – let's dance!"
My freshly betrothed stared at me as if I'd gone completely bananas.
"Jay, sweetheart, you know I was born with two left feet. I'd only crush your lovely little tootsies with my great plates of meat."
This was true, not an avoidance device. I groaned, inwardly. No way I was tripping the light with Boner or that greasy, sozzled doc. That left the Captain and instinct told me he'd stay close to his table in case it went down (the strained remnant of Lush's bodice, that is).
I lifted my chin and marched onto the small spotlit square of parquet which formed the dance floor. There was no one there, it being mid dinner, but the band played a mellow background medley. A sign on their glitzy podium read "Escabeche."
Mm, hot sauce. They certainly were a rather tasty quartet. Four hunky young Latinos in gaudy ruffled shirts and cock caressing pants jiggled their snake hips to a lively beat. One played the maracas and sang, one beat on his bongos, the third strummed a bass guitar and the fourth tootled a trumpet. The resulting din sounded a bit like Herb Alpert grafted to Santana, which more or less summed up the average age of the diners. I'd rather have had Carmen Miranda myself, but I've always been a retro kind of gal.
Seizing the spotlight, I surreptitiously undid the top two buttons of my slinky gown and began to sway sensuously to the sultry rhythm. This was going to be the performance of a lifetime. I'd show that has-been old Lush that Titty Boomboom still had the power to drive men wild with desire.
Harry would not be unimpressed.
Jay had obviously gone bananas. Everyone from the Falklands to Oslo knows Harry Neptune can't put one foot in front of the other on the dance floor unless it's a strict 3/4 waltz. The Gay Gordons may be performed under extraordinary pressure, but the tango and suchlike modern gyrations are definitely where Harry happily sits it out. I have never even attempted the Twist.
Miss Lawrence, on the other hand, is something of a whiz on the dance floor. Not to mention the brass pole and the lap. Early ballet training had found an application that would have scandalized old Miss Prodworthy with her cardigan and metronome.
I settled down to see what La Lawrence would deliver, and kept up a deft rhythm under cover of the napkin.
"Oh, my, Mistah Neptune! Ah do declare I may at any moment experience some deep satisfaction!"
Good. That was the idea. Then maybe this luscious Luscious would come back for more under the ministrations of the well-known tag team of Lawrence and Neptune. The name Voluptua Luscious rang a faint bell. Something to do with the X-rated Adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Ah well, I would find out later when I presented my bride with her honeymoon gift and ripped off the wrapping.
Speaking of my bride – by golly, she was on form tonight!
"Good heavens!" Even the squiffy doctor raised his head at the entertainment.
Jay's dress was hiked up nearly to the top of her thighs. Her feet were wide apart, her arms raised high in the air, her hair flew in a dizzying circle as she tossed her head wildly. At least three buttons had come undone on the top of her dress and her ample breasts thrust rhythmically against the expensive material as her body grated to and fro.
My fingers increased their pace inside Loretta's thin and sodden panties and I circumspectly eased the growing pressure on my trousers.
"Ooh la la!" squealed Mrs. Goldfinkel as the tempo of the music increased. "Just like the Crazy Horse in Paris before my second husband passed away!"
The Captain took another sip of mineral water and smiled quietly to himself. This was beginning to look like a memorable evening.
Jay slowed to an offbeat rhythm. She ran her hands lasciviously over her breasts, over her stomach and along her thighs. She was moving very slowly now though the music was becoming even more frenetic. Her eyes were closed and I knew she was moaning quietly to herself.
Her hands ran back up her thighs and for a moment took her dress to waist level. The glimpse of knickers disappeared as the dress fell back and she massaged her ribs. She started moving quicker again, eyes still closed. She squeezed her breasts.
Miss Swat's breathing quickened and I felt the warmth of approaching orgasm. My fingers slowed and she convulsively grasped my thigh. Harry knows when to prolong the pleasure.
Jay opened her eyes and in a sudden movement pointed at the maraca-wielding chanteur. He needed no second bidding. As he leapt from the low stage I saw it was Raoul, Mrs. Goldfinkel's quoits companion. He had all the usual greasy Dago attributes.
The band launched into what I think is called the Lambada. Whatever it was, Jay was into it. She slithered all over Raoul without touching him. He obviously knew the score because he matched her move for move with arms outstretched.
"The view's much better beside you, Harree!"
Mrs. Goldfinkel had tripped round to my side of the table and now gripped my arm tightly as she watched the dance with what I thought might have been a touch of nostalgia.
Loretta dug her nails in and I slowed the pace yet more. I felt a faint shudder pass through her body.
I saw that Jay was dancing a few inches further away from the Latin male bimbo, and the reason was evident for all to see. He needed more space to keep to the no-touching rule. Jay ran her hands down her breasts and thighs again and I knew he was willing her to grab his meat and two veg. She licked her lips.
It occurred to me that this was hardly the way a lady was supposed to behave on the first evening of her honeymoon. Dash it, her eyes were supposed to be on me. Never mind her hands. I began to wonder if she would be quite as appreciative of my gift of Miss Swat as I anticipated. She seemed to be in a hetero mood tonight, which is not at all the kind of threesome I had in mind.
All of a sudden Jay stopped dancing in mid-movement. Still in dance pose she fixed her eyes on Lothario's. He stopped too, mere millimeters away from Jay's sweating body. Her hands slowly traveled down her heaving breasts and glistening thighs. As they moved upward again her dress rose too, slowly this time. One hand caressed her crotch, a finger pushing the wet material into her pussy.
The band played on, on autopilot now. Every eye in the room was on Miss Lawrence. Raoul was mesmerized.
Jay's free hand ran round the inside of her thighs. She opened her mouth wide and ran her tongue over her lips.
Then her hand darted to Raoul's bulging erection. His gasp could be heard over the music as she tugged him to her.
Several things happened at once.
The lights went out.
The music stopped.
Miss Swat had a loud and enthusiastic orgasm.
"Ach, I spilled ma' whusky!"
A champagne cork popped.
Mrs. Goldfinkel grabbed my crown jewels and stuck her tongue in my ear.
A thump came from the dance floor as of a falling body.
"Lights!" in the Captain's commanding voice.
The lights came on.
Miss Lawrence stood in a theatrical gesture, one palm outstretched where she had evidently thrust away the panting and now frustrated Raoul. Raoul lay motionless face down on the floor.
Miss Lawrence gestured imperiously to the drummer.
"You! Next!"
There was a stunned silence followed by a roar of rapturous applause!
"Bravo! Bravo!"
I looked around the large dining room of the Caribbean Conch and witnessed a veritable sea of enthusiastic faces. Some diners whistled and stamped, others clapped as if I were a Broadway star making a final, much hyped farewell performance. I felt just like Ann-Margret. Harry told me afterwards that my most vociferous fans were a group of senior citizens from Cleveland but no matter. It was sublime. The bongo player thumped out a long, dramatic drum roll and I took a deep bow, placing one stiletto-clad foot on my partner's back for effect. Raoul seemed determined to play his role to the hilt. He remained slumped across the parquet, a glazed expression in his one visible eye. Smiling glamorously, I gave him a little kick in the ribs and hissed:
"OK, Fred Astaire, take a bow. Don't even think about stealing the limelight!"
It was years since I'd performed and I realized just how much I'd missed that feeling. Then and there, I vowed to make a comeback. Titty Boomboom would ride again. There was, after all, quite a market for plump and mature.
The applause faded, my Latin lover didn't move an inch. My artistic temperament came into play. I inserted the sharp end of my high-heeled sandals between his tight little spandex painted buns. Not a flicker. I crouched down and muttered in his ear.
"Up, Raoul!"
Then, unfortunately, I started to laugh uncontrollably. Don't ask me why, but for many, many years, the name Raoul has given me the giggles. There's just something about it which taps my funny bone and it can't be uttered without me creasing my sides. I spluttered. I heaved. Finally, I looked up to find myself almost nose to nose with Dr. Dunnett, who was peering officiously at the limp Latino. The whisky vapors almost knocked me out cold. The Scotsman placed two fingers on my partner's neck then shook his head.
"Thir's nae pulse. The laddie's deid."
Mrs. Goldfinkel screamed like an express train entering a tunnel.
"Raooooooul!!!"
Unfortunately, this set me off again and I clutched my sides. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and they weren't ones of sorrow for the boy's demise. I was helpless.
"I've never actually killed one before!" was all I could gasp, before setting off on another session of mirth.
"Please return to your seat, Mrs. Neptune."
Captain Ahab had materialized, all gold braid and understated mastery. I looked up into his deep brown eyes and a sudden wave of nausea overcame me. Must have been the ratatouille. I swallowed.
"Oo-er, excuse me, I feel a bit Moby Dick."
Of course, when I realized what I'd just said, the hilarity started all over again. The Captain frowned.
"I must remind you that this is a very serious matter. There may be an inquest."
Dr. Dunnett looked up from examining the body, his thin face pinched and grim.
"Ah fear there will be. The laddie's been shot!"
There was a fresh banshee wail from Mrs. Goldfinkel, accompanied by various gasps, shrieks and squawks from the company. It was darned good entertainment, even if Raoul did get the fuzzy end of the lollipop. I rushed into Harry's manly embrace and pressed my face against his crisp white shirtfront. To the gathering ghouls, it would look as if I were weeping my little heart out in horror and fear. In truth, I was desperately attempting to staunch my hysterics. It wasn't easy, as the Goldmine kept crying her toy boy's name, while wringing her multi-carated hands in a credible performance of bereaved histrionics. One got the definite impression she'd perfected the act. I wondered how many husbands she'd buried and whether the Gigi curse extended to Latino playthings. Harry patted my bottom tenderly.
"There, there, darling. It wasn't your fault, really it wasn't. These hot-blooded Latin gigolos are always getting bumped off by jealous husbands, outraged fathers and incensed uncles! It's a fact of life, like fluff in your belly button. I'm just amazed the vengeful party didn't realize that Raoul was doing the male population a major favor, keeping the Black Widow at least partly amused."
I snorted into my husband's armpit. Once at Raoul, then again at his new name for Mrs. Goldfinkel. It suited her perfectly. She was calming down quite nicely, taking a strengthening gulp of Champagne and letting a steward fan her soothingly with a menu card. He'd better watch himself or he'd be the next victim. Tenderly, Harry brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face and I smelled the distinctive musky scent of rampant pussy on his fingers. That was it. The final straw. Several crew members carted off the draped and lifeless form of my dance partner as I thumped furiously on my spouse's chest.
"Adulterer!"
Effortlessly, Harry grasped my wrists and grinned down at me as I wriggled wildly.
"You're just put out because someone shot the poor bugger and you thought you'd sexed him to death!"
I pouted. Harry knows me so well. Nevertheless, we were officially man and wife. Frigging the Lush at our first formal dinner was below the belt. Waaay below the belt…
"And what about the irreproachable Mrs. Neptune?" Harry continued, increasing the vise-like grip on my wrists. "I've seen tamer dance routines at some pretty sordid strip joints! You were all over that grease ball like a nasty little rash. I've a good mind to pull your panties down and give you a damn good thrashing. Teach you who's boss and all that."
My tummy turned over again. This time, in a good way. I love being turned over a strong man's knees for a sound bare bottom spanking.
"Did someone mention spanking?"
Boner had acute hearing when it came to anything buttock related. Harry was spot on when he called my ex "Bummer." While H was a confirmed "tit man", B was an ass. I sighed deeply.
Harry grinned, reading my thoughts.
"Don't worry, dear. You'll get a thorough going over later. No stone will be left unturned, I promise you that much."
A piratical hand grappled its way up my garter belt and broached my drenched panties. I noticed that the other hand had recaptured Ms. Swat, who gave me a "howzabout it?" look. Well, I might and I might not. It depended on the mood of the moment.
A solemn Captain Ahab returned to his table.
"Mrs. Neptune, I'm afraid I must insist that you return to your cabin and do not vacate it until some questions have been answered. A mere formality, I assure you."
I fervently hoped the Captain himself would perform my debriefing. I certainly wouldn't mind going over his knees. I smiled sweetly at Harry.
"Right then, darling. Looks like I'm under house arrest. Time to find the handcuffs."
The Flyswat gasped, pretending to be shocked, while thrusting her tits out to "they're gonna blow!" dimensions. The tension was incredible but nothing broke loose so I guess she had the dress taped to her nipples.
"Why, hellzapoppin'!"
Harry feasted his eyes on the Grand Canyon.
"Quite."