Come Sail Away With Me

"I am fine Ms. O'Doyle, thanks for asking. I am calling with the details of our dinner meeting. You haven't forgotten, have you, Chastity?"

"No, not at all Lance. Go ahead, give me the details."

"Can you meet me at the Nantucket Yacht Club, that's at forty-seventh and Waterfront drive, at seven-thirty? If you prefer, I could pick you up."

"No, that's fine. I can meet you there."

"I'll be very much looking forward to it. See you then."

"Nora!" Chastity calls to her assistant, "will you come here please?"

"Yes, Chas?"

"I need you to make four copies of the Kenya list, fax two copies to me at my home. Then e-mail me the Google directions to the Nantucket Yacht club, that's on forty-seventh. I am leaving for the day; put all my calls and meetings on hold for Monday. Then you can go home early yourself."

"Are you okay, Chas?"

Chastity looks at Nora oddly. "Why would you ask me that? I'm just fine!"

"Well, okay. You sure you don't have a fever; you look so flushed?"

"Nonsense. Nora, you get the strangest ideas," Chastity asserts, turns on her heel, and promptly leaves.

Starting her five-year-old Jetta in the company garage, she adjusts the air conditioning to high, remarking to herself how hot her car has become, even in the shelter of the garage. The hard plastic of the door panel against her thigh aggravates her. Her mind immediately contrasts her car's interior with the soft leather comfort of his car. Mr. High falootin' rich man Lance. He who pierces. Well she would be damned if he'd pierce her. Odd how that word affects her, flooding her with conflicting sensations. The mere sound of it causes a twinge, down there, in her most private of places, but also inspires an instant feeling of abhorrence so severe she is driven to thoughts of violence. For the fleetest of moments, she wonders if both feelings are one and the same.

As she pulls up to the old Victorian she shares with her dad, her phone sounds the strains of Aretha Franklin's Respect, her long-time ring tone. Nora has already completed her tasks and is headed home. Is there anything more Chas wanted?

"No thnx go hme," Chastity texts back.

She steps into the shower in preparation for her dinner meeting, the steaming water easing and calming her tired body. She reclines against the shower wall and lets the rivulets stream over her body. She loves the way the water caresses her, like an understanding lover. That oh, so familiar feeling begins in her. She slides her fingers between the lips of her vagina, holding back her foreskin with her index and ring finger and gently caressing the tiny bud beneath with her middle finger. As her excitement grows, she quickens her movements, rubbing harder and faster. She turns up to let hot water splash strongly in her face.

Chastity squeezes her thighs tightly together, using the base of her middle finger on her clit now, applying more pressure, while the tip slips between, entering her slightly with each stroke. One of her gentle rolling orgasms takes her then, cascading through her body like the hot water cascading over her. As the wave reaches her core, she plunges her finger deep in herself. "Pierced," her mind says, as the second wave shudders through her.

Later, fluffing out the finishing touches to her scarlet tresses, she ponders: "What is it about this particular man that has her so flummoxed? Why does his mere presence cause such strong negative feelings in her, while the thought of him seems also to affect her in a deep physical way?"

In her old Jetta on the way to the meeting, her mind flashes an image of his large graceful hand parting her thighs. She pulls to the curb for a few moments and takes ten deep cleansing breaths, clutching the copies of her proposal to remind herself this is to be a business dinner.

She arrives her usual ten minutes early, feeling a tiny bit embarrassed to leave her car with the valet. As she enters the club, she is approached by an older gentleman in a yachting cap. "Ms. O'Doyle?"

"Yes." she nearly yells, startled to be addressed by a stranger, "how did you know my . . ." "Excuse me for saying so, Ms O'Doyle, but your appearance is quite striking." "Yes, of course, forgive me. You startled me." "Not at all miss, it is I who apologize. Mr. Tollidair has asked that you join him on his boat. That would be at moorage number 48 ̶ Freddy!" He calls, motioning to a young man who dashed over immediately. "Would you please guide Ms. O'Doyle to slip 48?"

"Yes sir, right away. Would you please follow me, miss?"

"Thank you, er, what is your name again?"

"Freddy ma'am; it's Freddy. That's funny, ma'am."

"What is?"

"Well. I don't mean funny like 'ha ha', ma'am. It's more like I mean, er, it's like odd."

Chuckling now, Chastity asks again, "What's odd?"

"You askin' like that, what my name is. Only other person ever asked me was Mr. Tollidair. Now you are havin' dinner with him and you asked me too. Kind'a odd is all I'm sayin. Nothin' meant by it or nothin', ma'am."

"Uh, Freddy, may I ask you something?"

"Sure ma'am, anything you like. Any friend of Mr. Tollidair is a friend of mine."

"That's just what I was going to ask you. What do you think of him?"

"Like I said, ma'am, he's the best. He even says I should call him Lance, like we were friends or somethin', but somehow that just don't seem right to me. If anybody deserves to be called Mister, it's him."

"What makes him so special, Sean?"

"Well, here's just one thing. My mom was in the hospital. I don't know how he even knew. But, he sent her this big bunch of flowers. Really made her feel special. And you know what else ma'am? " "I can't imagine."

"I ain't supposed to tell no one, but I guess you'd be okay, being his friend an' all, but Lance, that is Mr. Tollidair, him and me have a secret bank account for, like, college. For every thousand dollars he puts in, he makes me put in a hundred. Kinda sneaky the way he worked that, but good sneaky, if you know what I mean. Well, here we are ma'am. You tell Mr. Tollidair, Freddy says 'hey' will ya?"

"Thank you very much, Freddy. I will certainly do that." Chastity begins to rummage in her purse for a tip for Fred, but he interrupts. "No need for that ma'am. Mr. Tollidair takes good care of me. Have a good evening, ma'am."

Another affirmation of the man's goodness! Then why can't she stand him? And, if she can't stand him, then why is she here at all? Just what is going on? Chastity is unused to having a clouded mind. Usually she makes a decision, sticks to it, and proves herself right. With great confusion and a bit of trepidation, she works her way to the end of the dock, where she can see a large boat, a ship almost, moored, engine running and lights aboard gleaming.

He stands near the stern, looking every bit the seagoing man in white slacks and deck shoes, a gray cardigan sweater and Captains cap. "Ahoy," he calls playfully.

"Why didn't you tell me dinner was on board a ship?" she spouts.

"It's not a ship, it's just a little boat," he defends himself, "and I wanted to surprise you. Now I've gone and made you angry again."

"It's okay," she says, still not pacified, "but I am really not dressed for seafaring." She is clad in her classic black evening dress, deep cut in front to show the right amount of cleavage and short enough to flash a bit of thigh now and then. A silver belt at the waist emphasizes her hourglass figure. Her heels are high to emphasize her muscled calves and buttocks, and she carries a tiny handbag of silver lame.

"You look astonishing," he praises, "absolutely ravishing." As she nears the gangplank, he moves to meet her half way, extending his hand in helpful fashion.

"Thank you," she says. He cannot discern if she is thanking him for the compliments or his hand, but is happy her crabbiness has abated somewhat.

"Welcome aboard," he says, smiling in that ultra charming way of his, as he helps her past the gunnels and onto a seat in the cockpit. Bowing elaborately, he continues, "I am your captain, lord and master of this tiny vessel, Winds of Hope, and your humble servant. If you will excuse me for a few moments I have some nautical tasks to attend to and I shall return henceforth." With this, he turns, performs a comical little bow, and descends to the galley, his head disappearing as he calls, "be right back."

Chastity is left alone to contemplate while Lance tinkers below. In about three minutes, a pair of white deck shoes come sailing up from the galley. Moments later, his captain's hat appears, followed by the rest of his superbly shaped body. In one hand, he carries a tray obviously laden with food and two crystal goblets; in the other an unopened bottle of champagne. Lance moves with the grace of an antelope as he distributes his burdens. After setting the tray and the bottle on a table in the cockpit, he bends to retrieve the deck shoes and hands them to Chastity. "Here," he says. "Put these on. I would hate to have to rescue you from the deep blue. I am so sorry I didn't warn you to dress properly. Men pay so little attention to things like proper attire. Especially, when it is someone else's attire. Do forgive me. If you get chilly, do let me know, I have plenty of warm clothes and jackets and seafaring attire on board."

He slides into the padded bench seat beside her and presents her with the tray. "Let's see, we have Dungeness crab meat, pate, some little rye things, a nice hot cup of chowder, some veggies, an assortment of cheeses and fruits, and. . . This!" he says, producing the bottle of Cristal. Without further inducement, he proceeds to pop the cork on the Champagne, which he deftly catches in his left hand as he begins to pour with his right.

Chastity is acutely aware he is trying to impress her with his light banter and deft movements. While she loves the attention, she abhors what she believes are his intentions, to get her in his bed. "And a nice bed it would be, too," says a voice in her head. "Shut up!" she answers.

"What?" Lance asks.

"Oh, nothing. I was just talking to myself."

"Out loud, with someone else present," he teases. He smiles with pleasure when he sees that he has again evoked her marvelous full-body blush. "You are even more beautiful when you blush," he praises.

"Thank you, I think," she says and finally laughs.

"There!" he yells. "I have finally done it!"

"Done what?" she blurts and begins to giggle.

"I've finally made you laugh," he says and laughs with her.

Their laughing spell dissipates within a few minutes. He hands her a glass and offers up a toast. "To sailing," he says simply.

Graciously she replies, "To sailing." And they drink.

"Here, try this," he says, spooning thick white chowder into her mouth. She is about to complain about being treated like a child when the marvelous taste explodes in her mouth. "Oh, my God," she exclaims. "That is truly marvelous. Wherever did you find it?"

"Find it, don't be silly Chastity. I have spent six hours making it for you."

"For me?" She asks, astonished. "And all this, too?"

"Oui, ma'am'selle. It tis the fate of all mankind to suffair for the beautiful wom-an, C'est non?" Chastity laughs hard and keeps laughing softly, speaking through her giggles, "Well, Lance, you've done it again. You've made me laugh."

"Wonderful. Your eyes sparkle so when you laugh."

"So, Mr. Lance that pierces, what is on the agenda for this evening?"

"I wish I had never told you that. I will never live it down. Anyway, I thought we would have a nice light dinner, stow everything away, batten down the hatches, change some shoes, maybe some clothes, power out past Lighthouse Point, and take a nice nighttime sail. We can take care of the business part during dinner if you wish. For right now, though, I wish you would change your shoes. I would feel very uncomfortable if you stood. The weather at sea can be very unpredictable."

"You certainly are very confident aren't you Lance?"

"Of course I am confident. I certainly didn't get where I am by doubting myself."

"I ran into another of your ardent admirers on the way here."

"Really, who was that?"

"Freddy says to say 'hey'."

"Fred's a fine boy."

"I think I have decided so are you, Mr. Tollidair, so are you. How many others are there like Fred?"

"I find them wherever I go. Fine young men and a few young women. They have the desire, the drive, the intelligence, in short everything they need for success, except for the chance. So I come along, give them a chance. It costs me almost nothing and is extremely rewarding. The first boy I helped, a caddie who once carried my clubs, Thom Sorenson. He knew more about the game than I could ever learn. Helped me win a few big games. He'll be graduating with an MBA from Harvard this spring. I may even hire him before some other company grabs him up."

"I am talking way too much. Let's see those Wi-Fi sites while we eat, huh?" Once again, he scoops up the low white deck shoes. This time, however, he kneels at her feet and helps her change into them.

"I feel like Cinderella," Chastity laughs.

"And a true princess you are, milady."

"You are so full of shit!"

Now it was his turn to laugh. "Shall I stop? Don't you like compliments?"

"Flattery Lance? To what end?"

"Okay, fine, you got me. Now let's see those plans."

She reaches into the slim briefcase that sits waiting at her feet, draws out the documents, and hands them over.

Lance takes his time perusing the documents, munching on the finger food as he reads. He disagrees with a few of her choices and gives cogent reasons why.

"Excuse me, Lance," she says suddenly. Would it be possible for me to get some more of that chowder? I am afraid mine has gone cold."

He hops up and disappears below, returning in about three minutes with a large steaming bowl of the chowder. Chastity digs in to the sumptuous concoction, pausing only to snag a piece of crab meat or a bit of bread or cheese. Both sip the champagne slowly.

He is very thorough, going over every aspect of the proposal for each village until he is satisfied, arguing his point of view with her as he would a colleague. They finally agree on twenty-two villages for the immediate run. He marks both sheets with the characteristic LT of his swirling signature and one goes into the seat of the cockpit, the other back in Chastity's bag.

"Are you finished eating?" he asks her. Her mouth is full, but she nods. He picks up everything, puts the cork back in the bottle and stows it all in the bench seat in the cockpit. "Ready to sail?"

He moves to the wheel, starting the engines and setting a course. He turns to Chastity. "Come," he says simply, extending his hand. He positions her behind the helm. "See that red arrow," he instructs her, "keep it within two degrees of 170."

Wait, wait, I. . .I can't pilot a ship!"

"It's not a ship it is only a small boat, only a forty footer. It's very easy, everything is electric or electronic. The most common mistake people make is over steering. Just keep that arrow where I told you and we'll do fine."

"What, er where are you going?"

"I am going below to get us a couple of windbreakers."

"Fine thing, a girl wears her best sexy dress and the boy wants to cover it up with a jacket." Lance stops dead where he stands, looks in her eyes. "Is that what you did Chastity, wore your sexiest dress for me?"

Her face and neck and the sweet rise of her breasts are instantly flaming red. Her inadvertent confession has brought her to the brink. A wave of heat radiates from her stomach up to her nipples and down to her center.

"I'll go get those jackets now," he says clumsily, disappearing quickly down the hatchway.

Chastity mostly ignores the wheel until a small alarm sounds. She wrenches the wheel strongly back, over-correcting and nearly bringing the vessel parallel to the waves. Carefully she eases the tiller over until the red line rests exactly on the number 170. She feels a bit proud of her seamanship, even though it has been her inattention which caused the problem in the first place.

"Was he staying below an inordinate amount of time, waiting for their combined embarrassment to subside? What had she been thinking? Her innocent joke about a sexy dress went against everything she had presented to him so far. Oh well," she told herself, "there is bound to be some sexual tension between a man and a woman." Now it was out there in plain sight, not lurking in the shadows like some fearsome predator.

She sees Lighthouse Point approaching rapidly ahead and begins to worry whether she will be up to the task of piloting past it. Lance's head appears. It is so odd, always seeing him approach a bit at a time like that!

She welcomes both the windbreaker and the warm snifter of brandy he hands her.

As he helps her on with the jacket, she takes a sip of the amber liquid. The aroma and flavor of heirloom grapes fills her nose and mouth. A golden glow touches the tip of her tongue, slides hotly down her throat, diaphragm and belly and lays in her stomach like a bank of warm coals. "Wow!" She exclaims, "That is some great stuff. What is that?"

"I consider it the finest brandy in existence. From Spain. It is called, Phillipe Secundo."

"It's like golden fire."

"I think of it more in terms of banked embers, but yeah, that's fairly accurate. You ready to sail?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I'm the captain, you will be my crew."

"How am I going to do that? I don't know anything about sailing."

"You do the same as every other crew member; you follow the captain's orders. Trust me it will be easy and fun." Lance eases her from her seat by the wheel, takes her place and shuts off the engines. "Follow me," he says. He opens a small cabinet and takes out a chrome handle. "Stand right here. When I yell 'okay' from the bow, seat this crank in this contraption, called a windlass, and crank this way, clockwise as fast as you can. Now when you are doing that, this big thing here is called the boom. It may swing wildly across the deck, so you have to stay alert and duck if it swings. Then this gadget here, (it's called a mainsheet traveler) will tighten down and the boom will stop swinging. The boat will lean a bit, but don't worry, it's supposed to do that.

"When I tell you to, use this line here, it is called the lifeline, for obvious reasons, to come to the 'pulpit' in the bow. I'll be there so don't worry, just keep hanging on, until you get to me. As he instructs her, he moves to pull the canvas cover off the mainsail, folds it neatly and stashes it in the proper compartment. He undoes the ties that hold the sail tight against the boom. Okay, I am going forward now. Remember, when I yell, crank like hell and watch for the boom." He steps over to tie off the wheel, then moves quickly forward.

From loss of power, the boat begins to wallow a bit. She has begun to worry when she hears his voice from what seems like very far away. "Now!"

She sticks the crank in the hole and cranks as fast as she can, surprised at how easily it moves. Before her eyes, the large main canvas begins to rise straight up the mast. Forward, Lance is running a smaller, triangular sail up the front of the mast. She feels the strong pull as the vessel grabs the wind and leaps forward. The boom indeed swings and she ducks once as the mainsheet traveler also cranks up tight.

"Come forward!" she hears his deep voice resonate from forward. "Be careful!"

The deck is slanted now beneath her feet, about thirty degrees, she imagines. She works her way slowly forward without too much difficulty, even though the deck is slanted and jumping up and down like a bronco with a thorn in its saddle. When she draws even with the forward hatch, Lance holds out his hand to her. "Come on," he says, "Trust me, you'll love it."