Archive-name: SpecMome/ships.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Shipboard Romance





    Women have been part of the U.S. Navy since World War I, but have

been restricted in what specialties and what duty stations they could serve.

Recently, the Navy started the "Women in Ships" program, stationing

qualified women officers and sailors on non-combat ships like destroyer-

tenders and ocean going tugs.  But many women hope for the day when they can

serve on destroyers and frigates, the greyhounds of the fleet.



    I was late arriving at the Wardroom table for breakfast that morning.

Giving my order to the Mess Attendant, I threw a cup of coffee down my throat

and started listening to the usual banter and conversation flowing around me.

My messmates were discussing women naval officers and their role on combat

ships; the general tone seemed pretty negative, so I decided to speak up in

favor of bringing them into "our" part of the Navy.  Considering I was only

on my first cup of coffee, this was amazingly articulate of me.



    "Well, Lieutenant," said a voice behind me, "then you might be

pleased to know that Lieutenant (jg) Pamela Hayden will be your running mate

for the next four weeks."



    I twisted around.  The Captain was standing behind my chair with a

big grin on his face.  I tried to gauge if he was kidding.  My face must have

given away my general confusion, because the entire Wardroom burst into

laughter.



    "You walked into that one, Alex," chortled the guy accross from me,

"we were just talking about this girl being sent TAD to us for the exercise

coming up.  Seems she wants to get a taste of the real Navy."



    The rest of my breakfast tasted considerably more sour.  I'd dealt

with TAD (Temporary Additional Duty) officers ranging from staff corps types

who hardly knew which end of the ship was which to local politicians using

their nominal reserve commissions to get a free joy ride.  But this was not

something I was prepared for.  I had visions of either (a) some ugly toad who

would spout feminist rhetoric or (b) some bubbleheaded bimbo who's definition

of "head" had nothing to do with what civilians call a bathroom.



    LTJG Hayden, of course, fitted neither of these cliches.  She was

taller than I expected, almost my height, with an unspectacular but trim

figure that seemed at ease in a khaki uniform.  She kept her hair short,

unlike some women officers who simply stuff their longer hair up into their

uniform cap, and she had a brightness to her brown eyes that instantly

told you that a keen mind lurked behind them.  When she introduced herself,

her voice was a rich contralto I've always associated with female radio

announcers; but there was an edge of self assurance and authority to it.  As

I unloaded her car and helped her carry her bags up to the spare stateroom

the XO had assigned her, I felt some of my preconceived doubts start to melt.



    Although I was her assigned "running mate" -- kind of like a mother

hen crossed with an instructor -- I saw very little of her for the next two

days before we headed out to sea for the exercise.  I had a division to pre-

pare for sea, and she had some studying to do in order to master the differ-

ences between a frigate and a destroyer-tender.  But I discovered during the

evening bull-sessions in the Wardroom that she had a witty sense of humor;

her smile and laugh could melt even the staunchest humbug among us.



    Then we finally got underway from the pier, picked our way along

the channel, and pointed the bow firmly towards open sea; the familiar roll

and pitch of the deck, the bright reflections off the waves, and the crisp

sea air thrilled me.  I have a bond with the sea -- almost like a lover, she

pleases me, vexes me, softly calls to me, rages against me.  At sea, standing

my watch as Officer of the Deck, in control of the ship, I'm at peace.



    I don't know when I realized that something different was going on.

Pamela was assigned to my watch section as the Junior Officer of the Deck,

and through the long midwatch hours we kept ourselves awake by talking; at

first about professional topics, our careers to date, our ambitions as naval

officers; then about deeper topics, our hopes and fears, our private selves.

I guess it was somewhere in the second week underway that I came to two

fairly suprising realizations:  Pamela was a damn fine officer, and I was

hopelessly in love with her.



    At first, I was unsure of how to act.  We had become almost intimate

in our conversations, within the same boundries that two very close male

friends might observe.  We had even briefly discussed our love lives, or

the lack of it in our cases (Navy life leaves little time for romance).  When

I realized how deeply I'd fallen over her, I was torn between continuing the

intimacy and trying to stand away from it.  There was more than just personal

feeling involved; a love affair with a junior, especially one in the same

command, could be regarded as cause for disciplinary action.  As the days

went on, a tension grew between us.  I was afraid at that point that Pamela

might detect my passion for her.  But there was something happening behind

those brown eyes of her's, a soul-searching stab that troubled me whenever our

eyes met.



    The breaking point came one night after the midwatch.  After being

relieved by the oncoming watch section, we left the bridge and headed towards

Officers Country through the darkened passageways, lighted only by dim red

battle lamps designed to save night vision.  It was a rough night and the

ship was pitching more violently than usual.  As Pamela stepped through a

water-tight door, the ship took an unexpected twist; she lost her balance

and stumbled backwards.  On instinct, I put my arms out and before I even

knew what had happened we were locked in a kiss that could only be described

in astrophysical terms.



    Her lips were incredibly soft.  I could taste just a hint of sea salt

soon overcome by the sweetness and warm wetness of her mouth.  Her body in

my arms was firm, yet rippled with a soft suppleness.  She smelled of soap

and laundered khaki, and yet it seemed more potent a mixture than the most

expensive of perfumes.



    Ever so reluctantly, our lips parted; it seemed a moment frozen,

lasting hours and yet occupying only seconds.  Her eyes opened, closed again,

and then snapped wide as she pushed back out of my embrace.



    "Oh, my God.  What have I done?"  Her voice was almost inaudible.  Be-

fore I could say anything, she turned and fled down the passageway towards

her stateroom.



    I stood rooted to the deck, trying to sort out what had happened.  The

kiss was real -- I could still taste her on my lips and feel her warmth on my

arms -- but that was about the only solid thing my spinning thoughts could

hold onto.  I took a few steps towards her stateroom, hesitated, and finally

turned away toward my own.



    The remaining six hours until reveille were torture.  I lay in my rack

staring into the darkness.  She obviously felt something the way I did; the

passion in that brief moment was unmistakable.  But now what?  Could the affair

go on?  Could we even acknowlege its existance?  How could I now maintain

my working relationship with her and not give away in every gesture the in-

tensity of my feelings to everyone around us?



    Finally, almost with relief, I heard the boatswain's pipe over the

general announcing system calling reveille followed shortly by the call to

the morning meal.  I threw off my sweatsoaked uniform, splashed some cold

water on my face, donned a fresh set of khakis, and made my way to the Ward-

room for breakfast.  She wasn't there.  Both disappointed and relieved, I

began my meal as the other messmates came straggling in, filling the table.

I was deep in thought when I suddenly realized that Pamela had come in, and

then both of us realized that the only place left at the table was directly

accross from me.



    I don't think either one of us allowed our eyes to meet for more than

a second.  Yet meet they did, and the flush that reddened her cheeks and

throat could only have been matched in shade by my own.  Mortified, I glanced

around the table to see if anyone else had noticed; they hadn't.  I spent the

rest of my meal staring at the fried eggs on my plate.  At Officer's Call,

I ended up standing behind Pamela as we formed up for the XO's daily list of

priorities and special jobs for the day.  I had never before thought of khaki

as an especially sexy color, but I found my gaze lingering over the curve of

her buttocks, travelling along the line of her back to discover how pink the

skin of an ear is with the sun behind it.



    I almost missed what the XO said.



    "Lieutenant Keyes, when are we scheduled for small arms training?"



    "Uh, let me check XO."  I rummaged through my clipboard.  "This

afternoon, Sir, at 1600.  I have the list of people scheduled to attend right

here, and I placed a copy in your box yesterday."



    "Yes, of course," the XO replied, "I saw the list.  Why isn't Lieu-

tenant Hayden on it?  I understand she hasn't been qualified previously on

small arms."



    I was somewhat taken aback.  Being qualified on small arms was an

internal requirement for all officers on the ship and I hadn't planned on

including Pamela since she wasn't premanently stationed onboard.



    "Well, uh, XO, I don't think she's had the pre-fire safety lesson

or the weapon familiarization lecture yet.  All the people on that list

have done all that before we got underway."  I hoped the XO would buy my

excuse.  He didn't.



    "Mister, I want you personaly to see that Miss Hayden is in all re-

spects ready to qualify on the range this afternoon.  Do I make myself

clear?"  I nodded assent -- there being no other possible response.



    "Yes, sir, XO."



    Something I should make clear at this point about the geography of

the ship.  The small arms armory is located down in the depths of the ship

under the storerooms for the galley.  It is as isolated a spot as any on the

ship and, due to the nature of its contents, it is kept securely locked at

all times.  Only myself, my Chief Petty Officer, and the man on watch as the

Security Patrol had keys.  Furthermore, regulations require that when the

armory is manned, the door is to be secured by a latch on the inside and the

observation window is to be covered, preventing a hostile intruder from

identifying either the occupant or his exact location within the compartment.

With these thoughts in mind, I led Pamela down to the armory to draw a .45

caliber pistol and conduct the required training.



    I was terribly aware of the opportunities made possible by this little

bit of luck.  At the same time, I wasn't sure if she wanted to take advantage

of them or even if we should.  As I closed the armory door and latched it,

sliding the window cover into place, her expression was unreadable.  Except

for the remote hum of the ship's machinery, there was practically no sound

save our own breathing and the scrape of shoes on the deck.  I opened one of

the lockers and drew out a pistol.  The workbench was small; she had to stand

close to me, slightly behind, to see the pistol as I started to break it down,

explaining myself as I went along.  Her breath caressed my neck.  I started

to lose track of what I was doing, where I was in the standard lecture.

Finally, unable to continue, I just stopped; my breathing was ragged and I

didn't dare move for fear of what I might do.



    At that moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It rested there lightly,

tenatively, then gently traced a line down my back and cautiously circled my

waist, followed by an arm, and then a body pressing against me.  I turned in

her arms and found myself in another passionate kiss.  But this time there

was less intensity and more fiery urgency.  Her hands on my waist began to

roam, squeezing my hips and my rear.  I let my own hands dance over her,

but travelling upwards until they forced their way between our bodies to

touch her breasts.



    She pulled back slightly, turned the full power of her brown eyes

into mine, and said, "I want you.  I want you now."



    Whatever doubt may have remained fled, never to return.  I disen-

gaged from her and took down some of the Landing Force sleeping bags,

pulled them out of their carrying cases, and spread them out on the deck.

That done, I turned around and stood facing her.  With deliberate slowness

we started to undress.  We removed shoes, socks; our caps were tossed aside.

Fumbling with buttons, we slid off our shirts.  Trousers followed, and soon,

almost not soon enough, we stood naked.



    The promise of her exquisite throat had been well kept.  Her breasts

were not large, but were full and firm like a teenagers, with suprisingly

large aereolas and nipples that were already tightening with sexual excite-

ment.  Her legs were long, obviously the cause of her taller than average

height, with curiously rough knees that contrasted sharply with lightly

tanned thighs that melded uninterrupted into a cute rump that begged for

gentle caresses.  I saw no tan lines, but then she evidently noticed none

on me either.



    "Oh, I see you like nude beaches, too!"  She almost giggled.



    I nodded, then reached out to stroke once along the side of her

breast.



    "You are so beautiful."  I could think of nothing else to say.



    She put her hand on mine and guided it to a nipple, stepped closer

to me and placed her other hand on my chest.



    "So are you."  The hand traced its way down my chest, over my belly,

and came to rest on my genitals.  I felt myself begin to stiffen.



    Slowly, I leaned over and replaced my hand with my lips on her nipple.

Pamela hissed an intake of air, then sighed in pleasure, holding my head in

one hand, my penis in her other.  As I sucked her nipples and ran my tongue

over her flushed breasts she continued stroking me erect, caressing the

underside and sensitive tip, kneading my balls.  My own hands, laying on her

hips, started to work their way behind her, thrilling to the smooth curve of

her buttocks.



    "Oh..... so nice," she murmered, "so very nice."



    By now I was stiff as a board.  Pamela pushed my head away from her

chest and smoothly lowered herself to her knees.  She continued to lightly

caress my erection, then looked up at me with questioning brown eyes.  I

nodded my approval.  Her tongue reached out and gave me a tenative lick,

then another more definite one, and then she leaned forward as her incredi-

bly soft lips closed around the tip.  Her tongue still active within her

enfolding mouth, she slid down my length about half way, grabbed the base

with her hand, and then started a steady series of sucking, licking, and

kissing that threatened to send me into oblivion.



    "Pamela, oh GOD that's so good, so good," I kept repeating over and

over, running my fingers through her short hair as her head bobbed and

thrashed.  We gradually worked our way down to the deck, until I lay on my

back with her beside me.  She never missed a stroke.  I started to caress

her thigh, now close at hand, and worked my fingers higher along that smooth

curve until they were buried in her pubis, working their way between the

outer lips, seeking the wet interior.  First one finger, then two, found

their way through the tangle of hairs into her vagina; my thumb moved up

higher and found her clitoris, drawing a sudden rake of teeth and a muffled

intake of breath from Pamela's busy mouth.  Encouraged, I began stroking my

fingers into her and continued rubbing my thumb along and around the area of

her clit.  She began to literally purr; I could feel the humming along my

cock as she picked up the pace of her fellatio.



    The purring sent me over the top.  Before I could even warn her, I

was in the throes of a powerful orgasm, almost a painful one as my semen

was forced from inside me into an engorged penis.  She rode it with me, her

lips never leaving me, until the spasms subsided.



    For a minute I lay there, almost in a stunned condition.  As my

breath slowed, I looked down at Pamela and saw her holding my collapsing

erection, a look of disappointment plain on her face.



    "Pamela?  I'm sorry," I smiled, "you were too good."  I put my hand,

withdrawn in my passion, between her legs again.  I tugged gently at her

hairs, pulling on her thigh with my other hand, drawing her lower body up

towards my head.  She understood my hints and, with a sigh of relief,

staddled my head and lowered her self down over my mouth.



    As always, I had to fight the urge to sneeze as the soft hairs

around the outer lips tickled my nose.  Her's were especially soft, and

suprisingly long when uncurled by the moisture of her arousal.  Reaching in

with my hands, I spread apart her lips and ran my tongue along the soft

tissues exposed.



    Why is it that we always talk of women tasting or smelling

like fish?  They don't of course; Pamela tasted of, well, Pamela.  I could

smell the same faint whiff of soap as I did on her breasts, and taste the

slightly bitter tang of her sweat and sexual juices.  But what was making

an impression in my mind and what I would remember about the time I spent

licking and nuzzling her was the look in her eyes as she stared down

at me, and the ragged murmers and moans that escaped her clenched teeth as

she slipped higher and higher onto that plateau unique to women; with

trembling fingers running over my face and clenching my hair, she guided my

efforts, signaling good and bad, riding her building passion as my mouth

glided over her most sensitive spots.  As she struggled up to the final

heights, grinding into my face, her eyes wide open and glassy, I felt a slight

series of tremors pass through her body; the tremors deepened, muscles griping

and loosening in response to her passion.  For what seemed ages, the waves

of orgasm passed again and again through her body.  And, finally, they began

to diminish, recede, and calm.



    She collapsed on top of me, bringing her lips down to mine in a

warm kiss.  I held her close, like a warm blanket covering my body.  Her face

was shiny with a sheen of sweat, radiantly glowing as the afterflush

spread over her cheeks and throat.



    Neither of us talked.  We lay there for several minutes, listening

to each other's breathing and feeling each other's blood gradually cease

hammering through our veins, heartbeats slowing to normal.  Pamela finally

broke the silence.



    "Alex...," her finger traces the outlines of my face, "I don't know

how or if we can do this again."



    "I know."



    "This...  It was a fluke.  It can't happen here again.  Somebody

will get curious, suspicious.  We both have a career at stake."



    "I know, Pamela.  We will have to keep alert, " I kissed her fingers

as they crossed my lips, "and see what happens."  I hesitated.  "I think

I love you."



    "Yes."  She didn't elaborate.



    I could hear movement on the deck above us; the cooks drawing stores

for lunch.  Pamela saw me look up, glanced up herself, then said, "It's time

to go.  I think you've taught me all about your pistol!" She giggled.



    "Oh, there's a few lessons yet to be learned...," I found myself

giggling, too.



    Pamela gave me a final wet kiss, stood up, and began dressing.  I

picked up the sleeping bags, stowed them away, and put my uniform back on.

We checked each other over for giveaway signs, found none except the smokey

glow of satisfaction in each others eyes, then unlocked the armory door and

left.



------------- end part one



    The next two days were a nightmare.  Unable to even hint at intimacy,

we saw each other daily on watch, at work, in the wardroom.  Only our eyes,

meeting in furtive glances, gave any sign that passion lurked beneath our

calm, professional bearing.  I tried to think of another place we could meet

and be alone together, discretely, but every place had a difficulty -- The

armory was out of the question now, since we had no plausible reason for

being there.  Pamela completed her .45 qualifications the afternoon of our

love-making, scoring 30 out of a possible 30 points.



    Then, a miracle happened.  A vital part of our helicopter refueling

system broke down unexpectedly, which severely crippled our ability to

participate in the remainder of the exercise.  Since the seas were building

due to a nearby storm system, the Admiral in charge of the exercise decided

we were an ideal solution to a troublesome request from the state department

on behalf of a little known French Carribean island for a ship to visit the

island.  Now that we were no longer very useful operationally, the Admiral

saw us as useful diplomatically.  We were ordered to the island.



    Neither Pamela or I dared make any plans, but the excitment in her

eyes was plain to see; my own must have been similar.  Time passed quickly

as both of us were caught up in the frenzy of preparation for entering port;

that next morning, we mustered the crew and manned the rails in our Summer

White uniforms, and made our way into harbour and alongside the pier.  For

the remainder of the morning I was busy aranging duty rosters with my Chief,

getting equipment shut down and properly stowed away, and assisting the XO

as he organized with the French Navy liason officer such details as bus

transportation to and from the French Enlisted Men's Club and the beaches.



    At last, just before lunch, those glorious words poured from the

general announcing system:  "Liberty call!  Liberty call!  Liberty call for

duty sections one and three, to expire onboard at 0700 tomorrow!  Now liberty

call!"



    Quickly checking in with my department head and informing him I was

going ashore, I then went to my stateroom, changed into shorts and a polo

shirt, grabbed my beach towel and suntan lotion, and headed towards Pamela's

stateroom.  I knocked on the door and stuck my head in.



    "Pamela," I said in a low voice, barely able to contain my excitement,

"there is a small square just to the left of the entrance to the port area.

Meet me there when you get ashore -- we're going to the beach!"



    She nodded, and gave me a quick smile.  Leaving the ship, I made my

way down to the port entrance, and then found a bench in the little park I

remembered from my last visit.  The sun was beating down on the square, and

even under the shade the heat was nearly oppressive.  I closed my eyes and

partially dozed, listening to the lilting french-creole tongue of the passing

men and women.



    Time passed; I don't know how long.  Then, I felt a weight settle

onto the bench next to me, and a hand on my arm.  It was Pamela.  Still too

near the ship to risk a blatent show of passion, we kissed briefly, then

made our way across the square to a car rental office; a quick flash of

green plastic and we soon were driving out of the town towards a little

known and very uninhibited beach I had discovered the year before.  Free to

talk, at last, we let loose in a torrent of conversation -- at first, about

that morning in the armory, about our desire, but then more and more about

ourselves and each other, reestablishing the rapport we had had on the bridge

in the early days of the exercise.



    Finding a place by the road, I parked the car near a path leading

through a grove of trees, behind which the unmistakable sounds of the ocean

could be heard.  We walked, hand in hand, down to the beach and strolled

along the sands towards the far end.  As soon as we passed the rocky point

that has been established as the boundry for the nude beach, we undressed

and continued our walk through a small number of fellow sunbathers; we both

carried our day-packs with our clothes and beach things.



    If you have ever been to a nude beach, and walked naked under the

sun with warm sand under your feet and the ocean breezes caressing your body,

then you know already the intense sensualness I was experiencing.  Pamela's

body, shining in the sunlight where the heat had drawn perspiration, smoothly

rich and tanned where her skin was dry, moved with easy grace.  I could see

the muscles in her thighs gently ripple her skin; her breasts shifted slightly

with each step.  By the time we reached the far end of the beach, behind

another rocky point and secluded from the other people, I was beginning to

show visible signs of desire as I felt myself start to erect.  I caught

Pamela's eyes as she noticed my cock begin to stand away from my body, and

in response her nipples tightened and a slight flush spread over her chest

and neck.



    We savored this buildup of tension.  Caressing each other only with

our eyes and our thoughts, we fell deeper and deeper into arousal as we

spread her beach blanket out on the sands.  We streached out, facing each

other on the blanket, still watching the signs of desire on each other's

bodies, matching the desire step by step.  Finally, I reached out and drew

her face towards mine.  We kissed, lightly brushing our lips together, then

with more passion as our tongues entwined.  My hands pressed urgently against

her breasts, the hardness of her nipples thrusting into my palms.  We needed

no more arousal; my cock was stiff, throbbing for release; her labia was slick

with her lubrication, her hair matted.



    I wanted to draw this lovemaking out as long as I could, and I had an

idea how to do that.  Motioning to Pamela, I sat upright with my legs crossed;

Pamela nestled into my lap with her legs wrapped around me.  With a slight

lifting of her hips, she positioned herself over me and slowly took me into

her.



    For extended sex, this position is unbeatable.  Arms and legs around

each other, we could caress and kiss with ease, eyes level and open as we

watched each other's passion slowly build.  Only limited thrusting motion was

possible, although penatration was deep enough for me to feel the head of my

cock nestled against her cervix.  Her clitoris pressed into the slightly

fleshy area above the base of my cock; every slight motion sent a wave of

pleasure through Pamela's body, which returned to my cock as the muscles in

her vagina contracted and pulsed.  We were joined for what seemed hours -- the

sun drying the sweat on our backs, the pounding of our blood mingling with the

gentle rush of the surf.  Pamela began to orgasm, squeezing her legs and her

arms around me and throwing her head back as she moaned incoherently.  She

rode the plateau skillfully, drawing her pleasure out into a series of smaller,

less intense peaks, building up again to another wrenching climax.



    I came with her the second time.  My cock, almost painfully engorged,

jerked and spasmed within her.  The orgasm went on longer than I had ever

thought possible, with each shot of semen seemingly more intense than the last.

Finally, with gradually decreasing force, our spasms subsided and gave way to

a wash of afterglow that settled onto us like the sun on our backs.



    "Don't move," Pamela whispered, "I want you to stay inside me."



    I smiled.  "I'm not going anywhere."



    Another advantage of the position we were in is that after climax a

softening cock will generally not slip out.  We continued to sit, joined

together, as I felt my erection melt away inside her.  We kissed -- a long and

slow kiss that allowed our tongues to explore each other and our hands to

caress faces, necks, and chests.  Pamela's arousal was undiminished by her

orgasms so far; she wanted me hard again.  Rubbing her nipples across my chest,

she made my soft cock slide around a bit inside her as she rocked her hips

slightly.  I could feel myself respond, each heartbeat sending more blood to

my groin.  When I was stiff enough so there was no danger of my slipping out,

Pamela pushed me over onto my back, landing on her knees, and began to slide

up and down my shaft.  As I grew more erect, she lengthened her strokes,

rising up until just the head of my cock was still inside, then easing down

again until her pubis ground into mine.  Her eyes were closed now, her breasts

bouncing slightly with each change of direction.



    With so little recovery time since my last orgasm, I knew that I would

last for a while even with more intense stimulation.  I reached out with my

hands, cupped her theighs, and signaled with hand pressure for her to pick up

the pace of her strokes, now being matched from below by my thrusts.  The

strokes took on more the character of true humping as Pamela's body began to

slam down into mine with an audible thwack.  Her teeth were clenched, and she

began to grunt softly with each downstroke.



    Taking control, I pulled her down onto me and rolled over, straddling

her with my arms as I placed my weight on my elbows and knees.  I started

thrusting, using my hips at first and then with my whole lower body.  Her legs

clenched my waist and her heels banged into the backs of my theighs.



    Pamela started to gasp, breathing in great gulps of air that were

exhaled along with words of passion, mostly incoherent.  Feeling myself slip-

ping into the inchoherent moments preceeding orgasm, I tilted my head back,

sending drops of sweat cascading off my chin down onto her face.  I came with

the subtlty of a run-away truck, pounding myself into her unceasingly as I

again filled her with my sperm.  As I reached my peak and began to come down

again, she orgasmed also, squeezing the last drops of fluid from my cock with

powerful contractions.



    With a final moan of pleasure, I pushed away from her and rolled onto

my back beside her.



    "Oh, God...," I could barely breath, "Sweet Jesus, that was something

else!"  I grabbed her hand, squeezed it.  "I hope I never lose you."



    She squeezed back, then brushed the hair from her sweat soaked face.



    "Uh, UH!!  I'm never letting you go, lover, not ever!"  She sat up,

still breathing hard, and said, "I've never been fucked like that before.

You are amazing...!"



    She sighed and nestled into my side, her arm across my chest.  For

about half an hour we lay there, silently enjoying being close to each other.

I listened to her breathing, to the sea's murmuring, and to the occasional

cry of gulls and other birds.  For the rest of the day, we lay in the sun,

swam in the warm waters of the Carribean, and made love.  The images blur:

Pamela's look of concentration and pleasure as she sucked my cock, her rump

disappearing under the waves as we swam, the rolling and heaving of her

belly as my tongue lashed her clitoris.  As the sun began to sink rapidly

towards a quick tropical sunset, we finally packed up our things and

followed our lengthening shadows back to the car, hand in hand, satisfied

in body and spirit.



--