Chapter 9
They were approaching the tropics. Even on the boat deck the new temperatures, the whole climate were noticeable. The breezes were warmer, the sun brighter. And Jennifer slumped in her deck chair, almost angry with all these people for enjoying the warmth, the brilliant sun-and taking up Brace's time.
If he weren't so busy she could have a few minutes with him, thank him for all he had done... Jennifer shook her head. That wasn't the way to put it, for he had done many things for which she certainly had no intention of thanking him.
Anyway, she could get it over with and be free to breathe deeply again. There were too many constrictions now. Too many-yes-inhibitions. Too much humiliation. And the casual way Bruce seemed to accept her surrender! Inviting her right out in public to view the Southern Cross and practically stating his intentions of taking her below to practice some of those dozens of ways of making love.
Jennifer caught herself up short. He had invited her to view the Southern Cross. The rest was her errant imagination. Her scandalous imagination. Her depraved imagination.
She was so intent on her own thoughts she didn't even notice the man who wedged himself into the next deck chair, grinning amiably at her. He was big-a little outsized. And a tow-head. With freckles. So that, despite his size, he still looked like a small boy.
"Could you share those thoughts? You seemed to be enjoying them so. I expect they're right nice."
Jennifer focussed on him, on the freckled nose -snub, naturally-and the friendly grin.
"They're vile. And I'm a witch who enjoys vile thoughts."
"You're a mighty pretty witch."
"That just shows you how wicked I am. I'm not pretty at all. I just slip into this disguise when I lure young men to their doom."
The towhead grinned at her, wider, if that were possible without setting his ears back farther. "I'm Jerry Brandon. And I'm ready to face up to that doom. Go ahead. Lure me."
"I'm Jennifer Lorn. And quite frankly, I'm too contented and lazy right now to lure anyone, even as nice and friendly and easily lured a guy as Jerry Brandon. Besides, you sound like a drink, which makes me thirsty, and here comes a steward with nice tall glasses of-iced tea? Lemonade?"
"On these Dutch ships it's usually limeade, unless otherwise specified. I think the Dutch have a surplus lime crop and dump it on their overseas ships. They rarely use it in their own country. Chocolate."
"You've been to Holland?"
Jerry Brandon nodded. "And if I had any sense I'd shut up now and let you suspect I'm a world traveller. I was through there. Once. On my way to Berlin. Courtesy of Uncle. Army of Occupation."
Jennifer laughed. "You don't look old enough to be troubled by the draft, let alone a veteran."
"That's my secret wizardry. Eternal youth." Jerry Brandon sat up, a slightly baffled look on his freckled face. "And my curse. Here I am, practically in my dotage. An elderly forty-five backed by years of experience all over the world -well, at least-Germany six months, Japan, three. And women pat me on the head and say, 'You're a nice lad. Now run along and play with your chemistry set.' I'm frustrated."
"This swinging singles cruise, I take it, is your way of getting unfrustrated? Which, if I recall rightly, you were doing fairly well last night with that strawberry blonde. By the way, where is she today?"
Jerry sat up, peering conspiratorially around, and then whispered, "Don't tell anybody, but I strangled her last night and threw her body overboard." He reached up to snag two glasses from the passing steward, handling one to Jennifer and gulping at his own. "Yup, limeade. Actually, she's seasick. On this millpond! Or else she's sick of the sight of me and won't leave her cabin." Jerry lay back in his deck chair, glass balanced on his chest, closing his eyes. "If you won't love me, I'll take second best. What about the girls at your tables?"
Jennifer sighed in mock despair. "I'm jilted. Well, there's Anna, the ash blonde. She's hung-over, according to my spy system, and Elsie will in all likelihood give you brisk game of deck tennis-and probably beat you. If that will help unfrustrate you. Carol? I haven't seen her since last night."
"The soignee one? The dyke? She's sulking in the library and glaring at everybody. That one couldn't unfrustrate a gang of horny marines after two years on Okinawa, if you'll pardon the expression. She wouldn't know the motions. She's a dyke."
Jennifer puzzled over that. "Dyke?"
Jerry sipped at his glass and set it back at precarious balance on his chest. "Dyke. Male member of the Lesbian team. You mean you didn't know?"
Jennifer shuddered, remembering. "I knew when she made a pass. I just didn't know the term. Or the warning signs. Apparently you read 'em loud and clear."
Jerry shook his head and grabbed at his toppling glass. "So'd everybody else. Or practically everybody. You noticed how the two girls scuttled, right after supper? They had her pegged. Dykes aren't popular on swingin' singles cruises. Or any recreational center where it's boy-meets-girl type. They upset the ecology. The man-woman ratio. Since they aren't either. And I'm boring you, so leave me alone and let me sleep out my frustrations. Only be there when I wake up." Jerry set his empty glass down by the deck chair and lay back, completely relaxed. "I like a woman handy, even if she is wearing stars in her eyes for some other guy. Goodbye!" And Jerry closed his eyes, breathing heavily, already asleep.
Jennifer sipped at her limeade, finding it refreshing, and stared over the rim of her glass at Jerry. He was nice. Cute, in a big, Newfoundland puppy way. But frustrated? Not him. And the strawberry blonde wasn't seasick. Probably exhausted from practicing too many of the dozens of ways of making love.
Jennifer once more clamped down on her thoughts. They were going astray again. And what had Jerry said about her? Stars in her eyes for some other guy? That was absurd! She hadn't stars in her eyes for anyone. Unless, once again, her body was betraying her, reacting independently of her resolutions.
She horrified herself by realizing that she was staring at Jerry's crotch, at the bulge of the brief bathing trunks. It was big. In her eyes it seemed enormous, and becoming monstrous. It must be huge. Perhaps that was why the strawberry blonde wasn't navigating this morning.
Resolutely Jennifer tried not to imagine Jerry's outsized penis stabbing into her pussy. That was madness. Sheer madness. Very horrid madness. Setting up fires inside her, disturbing all the calm she had managed to acquire.
Jennifer threw back the light rug preparatory to heading back to her cabin and the soothing and quietening ministrations of a cold shower.
Jerry spoke solemnly, slowly from behind his pretense of sleep. "You're deserting me. For another man. That's the story of my life. Frustration."
Jennifer leaned over and tapped his chest. "That strawberry blonde has probably recovered from whatever ailed her, and may even be anticipating a visit." Jennifer realized suddenly she was judging by her own physical desires- and shut up.
Jerry scrambled to his feet awkwardly, rather intensifying the Newfoundland puppy image Jennifer had of him. "You know, you could just be right. Nothing like a cheerful, beaming face when you're suffering from seasickness. Cheerfulness can give you one large pain in the- neck, so I'll risk it. She can only shoot me." And he loped off down the deck, a healthy male animal looking for a mate. And probably finding her.
Jennifer didn't expect either of them at luncheon. Possibly not at dinner, either. Depending on how frustrated Jerry was and how good at unfrustrating him the strawberry blonde was.
Jennifer stood up, drawing about her and the minimal bikini a light cape, and hurried off to her cabin and the prospects of a cool, cleansing shower.
She was ashamed of her thoughts, her speculations about Jerry and the strawberry blonde. By what right could she jump to such conclusions? And where did those bright, hedonistic pictures come from? Inside her. Because she had allowed a man to seduce her body, to take her freely. To ram his prick far up her pussy, to shoot hot salty juices up...
Jennifer knew she needed that cool shower, to get herself back on balance, to restore the calm she had once had. She also needed that calming influence so she could face Bruce, tell him that never again could she submit to such indignities.
She opened her cabin door and slipped inside, looking at the berth. It was neatly made up now, but last night it had been the scene of... She could almost see them, twined together in the frenzy of making love. How brutal, how degrading! Jennifer caught her breath, hating herself, and how-delightful.
That is only the treachery of my body, Jennifer told herself, leaning weakly against the cabin door, breathing with difficulty, feeling a desperate ache start in her pelvis and shoot upward through her body.
There was a soft, discreet knock at the cabin door. Jennifer sprang away from it as if the door had seared her flesh. She turned and stared at the door. "Who's there?"
Bruce's voice answered, light, gay, with just a suggestion of a chuckle. "My spies are everywhere. You cannot escape."
Bruce!
How dare he come so casually to her cabin door, banging for admission? Well, this was as good a time as any to tell him. Oh, of course, thank him for saving her life, but-yes, she was going to put an end to this crass, brutal, degrading use of her body.
Jennifer opened the door and he strode in, already reaching for her. She opened her mouth to protest and he clamped his mouth over hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
His hands touched her and the bandeau of her bikini dropped away, leaving her soft, defenseless breasts bare and inviting, and now crushed against his chest.
Jennifer struggled, trying to tear her mouth loose from his kiss. She felt his fingers fumbling-no, acting with precision, unfastening her panties, sliding them down her legs.
Jennifer thrust her hands at his chest, striving for breath to tell him to leave. To get out of her cabin. Out of her life. To leave her with a cool, calm body.
She felt his hands cupped under her little rump, pulling her to him, feeling the bulge of his penis rubbing against her body.
The fists she had knotted for pounding on his chest fell open and slid up, as cupping hands, to tug his face closer-closer.
She heard the final, cataclysmic "click" of the door latch as he shoved it home.
And he was picking up her body-I won't even let on it's me, just my body-and headed for the neat smoothness of the berth.