I had been married less than twenty-four hours.
In that time I had been socked in the eye and raped by my new wife, been donated a dream honeymoon by a decidedly iffy Vegas vicar who apparently performed the wedding ceremony, rushed half way across America to be hustled up a gangplank, encountered as fellow shipmates my ex-wife and her new husband who happened to be the ex-lover of my new wife, fingered a blonde weather lady and celebrity chef to orgasm at the Captain's table, fought off the ministrations of a Black Widow, witnessed my wife's debauched and accomplished impression of Mata Hari dancing the fandango, witnessed the murder of a singing Spanish gigolo (they are all gigolos), discovered that said Spaniard was an awfully unpopular chap to judge by the bilateral assault on his probably worthless life, licked the blonde weather lady and celebrity chef to another screaming climax, inserted the Neptune seed into the lady's willing mouth by main assault, pee'd on my wife, been socked once more by her in the other eye and knocked myself unconscious on bathroom furniture as I took a dive, and recovered from at least one hangover.
I think I managed to remember everything.
Under such circumstances a chap can do one of two things. Either is best accomplished with fortification, so I popped the remaining bottle of champagne and took a healthy slug.
"Oh darling!"
Mrs. Neptune dragged her eyes away from the TV long enough to examine her handiwork. I took a look in the mirror and wondered where my sunglasses had got to. I hadn't had such a pair of shiners since being ejected from the B-52 in sixty-nine (the bar in Guam, not the aeroplane).
"Why don't you bust my nose while you're at it, seeing as you're in the mood?"
"Poor Harry!"
She clicked off the TV and pulled my head down to give me a kiss.
"You've been up Swat's cunt! I can smell her! And taste her!"
"Harry darling, don't get uppity. You were there before me. Share and share alike and all that."
"Bloody hell, you didn't even wait for me. Just left me at death's door on the bathroom floor (hey, that rhymes!). That does it. Next time it's the double titty rub with two-tongue orchestration. I'll drown the pair of you."
"Speaking of drowning, next time you can pee on her! I'll have to wash the fishnet out and hang it up to dry."
"It'll be my pleasure," I said savagely.
I sat on the bed and glugged some more Brut.
Miss Lawrence recalled her incarceration in the bathroom and opened up a line of attack.
"Where the hell were you, anyway? I was strapped up there up for ages waiting for my beloved to come back and do his honeymoon duty. My nipples and clit are sore as…"
I cut her off.
"While you were playing single-handed BDSM I was investigating the murder of our late not-lamented Dago friend. After expert investigation and interrogation I discovered that non modo was he shot by some unknown marksman sed etiam another assassin stuck him at the same time with a deadly poisoned dart."
"How did you work that out, Sherlock?"
"The Doctor told me."
"That sozzled old wreck! He couldn't diagnose a cause of death if it was beheading."
"Not at this time of night certainly, but he was compos mentis enough earlier to conclude that it was death by lead poisoning. It took one of the matelots to prove it was also death by curare poisoning."
"How?"
"He stuck his finger with the dart when it fell out. He'll live."
I stared at my husband in ghoulish delight.
"Good heavens! We appear to have stumbled into an Agatha Christie novel. Guess that makes us Tommy and Tuppence. Or Dashiell Hammett's Nick and Nora Charles, more like. How exciting! We must sniff out the motive and find our man. Or woman…"
Harry nodded.
"Exactly. I wouldn't put anything past the Goldfinkel dame. That caterwauling at her toy boy's demise was as fake as the Swat's double F bra-busters. But why would she want him dispatched to the great mariachi fiesta in the sky? I could see it the other way round, if Raoul thought he had a way to get to her loot, but why would a middle aged nympho off her twenty-something Latin lover? Hmm. A blackmail angle, perhaps?"
I took a pensive sip of the somewhat tepid champagne. I was rather fond of a good mystery and had oft dreamed of slinking around in a belted raincoat, wise-cracking with jaded policemen as we examined some nastiness dredged from the bay. I ran the tip of one finger around the rim of my glass, eliciting a pleasing hum.
"Jealousy."
My partner raised one eyebrow.
"Oh? You think Gigi's girlish party-time demeanor hides a green-eyed monster with murderous predilections?"
I placed my glass upon the table.
"It's possible. I'd say all things are possible when passions are aroused. Wouldn't you? Why, I could have scratched that Lush's eyes out when you were all over her at dinner and you took your green-eyed monster out on my bare bottom when we returned to the cabin! It's still smarting."
I wriggled pleasurably against the sofa cushions, savoring the residual heat in my well-spanked buttocks. Harry coughed and assumed his "not guilty" expression.
"Jealous? Me? Never! Any excuse for a good bun-warming session, that's all. Now, what is this "lush" business? The Swat doesn't drink to excess, as far as I can see, and you're hardly one to talk!"
At last, I pulled my trump card out.
"Loretta Swat, celebrity weather gal and TV chef, was once a dancer and porn star called Voluptua Luscious. Lush for short. We danced together at the Pink Pussy Lounge in Ballistic. Took me a while to click as she's had some major body work done since '84."
Harry grinned lasciviously.
"I'll say. Why don't you go for a boob job like that? Talk about endless hours of pleasure. And where the hell is Ballistic?"
I loosened my robe and appraised my breasts. They had always been naturally big but not huge, kind of soft and pillowy rather than the bouncy beach balls that the Lush thrust before her. Thoughtfully, I emptied two fruit and goodie bowls and slipped them over my boobs as makeshift falsies.
"What do you think, sweetie? Is it me? Ballistic is in Arizona, by the way. I was working my way west. Or was it east? Those days are a bit of a blur. Anyway, Pink Pussy specialized in the infamous Pussy Dance. That was one wild flesh parlor, I can tell you!"
My husband looked suitably amused.
"Oh, do tell. This all sounds vaguely familiar. What was the Pussy Dance about – naked girls with cute little whiskers and tails?"
It was my turn to smile. I wondered if I could recall the moves. Come to think of it, there weren't too many steps to learn. It was all about positioning. I removed the bowls and slipped out of the robe.
"Put your champagne down, darling. I'm going to give you a little demonstration."
"Now you're talking!"
"Just lie back, relax and let me take care of everything…"
Harry stretched out on the sofa, his head at one end, feet protruding well over the other. He's a big boy. Slowly, sensuously, I began to unbutton his shirt, gradually exposing his hairy chest. His hands reached up to fondle my breasts and I squatted over him, enjoying the feel of his swelling crotch against my naked quim. I was just about to proceed to the nitty-gritty of the Pussy routine when a faint but familiar sound issued from the cabin next door.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!"
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
"Ow! Ow! Ow!"