Inappropriate Pirates, Modern Love

An Erotic Romance by Kethandra Wilde

Copyright 2021 Kethandra Wilde

All sexual activity only involves characters that are over the age of 18.

Dear Reader: this is an entry in the Literotica 2021 Winter Holidays Story Contest. Reads, votes, and comments, especially positive or constructive ones, are deeply appreciated.

This is a Romance, about a relationship being built, so I hope you're willing to let the story and characters take their time - building a solid foundation as if were - before getting to the most erotic parts of their tale.

I trust the journey will be worth it.

- Kethandra

*

New Year's is a time for change, so it's out with the old and in with the crew.

-

Getting to 'Mom's Beach Place' in south Florida had always been a bore. Now the endless, monotonous drive down Interstate 95, hour after hour even after crossing into the Sunshine State from Georgia was close to painful. It's one state: how long can it take? Rob slurped at cold coffee, trying to avoid thinking about exactly how many hours it was since he left Delaware on this unwanted, last minute trip. Instead, he listed the ways he did not want to be making this drive.

First, he was driving his work truck, which was not designed for long hauls, highway speeds or driver comfort.

Second, he had planned on spending this holiday in Vermont with his new girlfriend, Jennifer. Skiing, snowboarding, and much more. Four nights between Christmas and New Year's in a cozy rental cabin, far away from the too-close ears of his apartment's neighbors and her even closer roommates. Ears that she claimed prevented her from really feeling relaxed and able to 'let loose' during sex, as she put it.

Rob had hoped the isolation and the cabin's romantic wood-burning stove with the glass doors would do the trick, but he was beginning to suspect that Jennifer's discomfort with sex, or any physical intimacy really, went deeper than fears of being overheard.

It was a shame, because she was a beauty from her deep, dark brown eyes and a thick cascade of brown-black hair, to the more than ample, shapely curves both above and below her narrow, tucked-in waist. Definitely a change from his usual typical type, though. While he never failed to see multiple pairs of eyes drawn her way whenever they were in public together, his own gaze had always been captivated by much slimmer, more athletic figures. Picture a ponytail sticking out the back of a ball cap topping off a tall, lean-muscled and tanned beach volleyball player and you'd have a good approximation of the type that left Rob not only attracted, but nervous, insecure and stumbling over his words.

The third reason this particular drive left him so annoyed was family, specifically his lazy-ass brother and sister. Sure, the upstairs of the duplex his mother had lived in with her second husband was a great vacation spot, one block from the beach, with peak views of the Atlantic and a nice, private pool shared with only the renters of the downstairs unit. But when she had died, she had left the building to her three children, communally, along with its taxes and upkeep.

Rob could have used his one third share of the sales proceeds to pay cash for his own modest home and get out of his small apartment. But he was outvoted 2-1. So the duplex wouldn't be sold, and the two couldn't be forced to buy him out at anything close to the market value. His brother had offered him a ridiculous low-ball, then refused to consider any counter offer.

His siblings insisted on keeping Mom's Place, reserving the upstairs for family as it had always been, and continuing to rent out the ground floor. It wouldn't have been all bad except they had also insisted that there was no need to pay local professionals when any work needed done to maintain the 50-year old building. Rob had the know-how and the tools, and he had done numerous repairs on the property when it had been Mom's.

Why wouldn't he continue to do what he had always done and fly or drive to Florida any time there was a problem? And why would his siblings even consider reimbursing him for his time and travel; he hadn't charged Mom, had he? It was like pulling teeth just to get them to cover their share of the cost of any supplies he needed to complete the work. A sudden, unexpected leak in the plumbing meant he'd be spending the days between Christmas and New Year's tearing out and replacing much of the bathroom, canceling his trip to Vermont with Jennifer.

He blew out a slow breath. Relax, man. Think happy thoughts. Remember the good times he had spent there, warm water and waves, gorgeous sunrises filtering through the tall palms. From the time he had turned 10 until he was on his own as a young adult, Rob had split his time between Mom's Florida place and Dad's house in Delaware, only a few miles from where he lived now.

It had been an unusually cold autumn at home this year while the weather sites were predicting beachside temperatures in the mid-70s down south. He could make the best of that, even deprived of what he had hoped would turn out to be a lot more physical activity than just skiing and snowboarding up north.

Speaking of hope, his thoughts wandered to the renters on the ground floor of the building. For years a single mother and her young daughter had occupied it, helping Mom with chores, shopping, and getting to doctors appointments as age caught up with her. Since then a professional property management company had watched over the building and handled renting the downstairs unit. Would the current occupants be short-term vacationers, 'snowbirds' here for the winter months, or college-age revelers treating the Christmas holiday away from classes like an early Spring Break? That last could mean more damage and more repairs for him.

He still missed the previous tenants, though they'd been gone at least a decade. The still-young single mother had been great with Mom, and she'd been more than a small factor in influencing his teenage self as to what was most attractive in the opposite sex. Tall, slim and graceful, she'd had a wide, friendly smile and a soft, somehow sophisticated Georgia accent. Like he imagined a debutante ought to have when she curtsied to a line of well-bred old money tuxedos before waltzing off in a full-skirted dress while the older men lit cigars and snuffed at brandy on a shady veranda.

What was her name? Kirkland? Kirkwood. 'Mrs. Kirkwood' Mom had always told him to call the obviously athletic woman, though she herself told him to call her Josie. There had never been any Mr. Kirkland as far as Rob knew. More than her name, though, and even more than that soft, smooth as silk voice, what he remembered was how she looked in that pool. In and, especially, climbing back out.

Mrs. Kirkwood - Josie - had always worn simple, one-piece tank suits to swim, but they showcased her remarkably well, clinging to her flawless, willowy body whether she was swimming precisely stroked laps, or languidly pulling herself up the stainless steel ladder, small but obvious nipples twin sirens irresistibly calling his teenage eyes. She never gave the slightest indication that she knew what effect she had on a smitten teen, though Mom would occasionally give him a stern shake of the head when he stared at the tenant too much.

Josie's lanky, long-limbed tomboy daughter Janabeth, though, rarely left Rob alone or with idle time to ogle. In high school, he was still the closest thing to a playmate the kid had in neighborhood dominated by senior retirees. At first, JB - as she liked to be called - had been obsessed with pirates, demanding that he play endless scenarios involving gangplanks, keel-hauling and palm frond sword-fights.

When this started the girl couldn't have been more than 5 or 6, speaking her piratish banter with a slight childish lisp, including lots of 'arrrs' which sounded more like 'ahhhs.'

It must have been the fourth year or so of this play when this younger Rob realized her enthusiasm for all things swashbuckling was unlikely to wane. He was already handy with tools and enjoyed construction, so he decided to take advantage of the overgrown lot next door and the remains of the small wooden sailboat someone had abandoned there many years before.

The old boat's hull had substantial damage on one side of the bow below the waterline, with shattered lapstrake planking and a couple cracked ribs, as though it had struck an underwater rock or a coral outcropping. Other than that, much of its 'bones' were solid, though the fittings of any value, like cleats, ports, and winches, had been stripped away.

The missing mast's step fascinated his engineering mind. This was was the four-sided, heavy wood and metal bracing, attacked to the keel and protruding through what was the left of the small cabin's flooring, that secured the bottom of the mast solidly to the boat. Under the thickest of the underbrush, he'd found the long mast and a tangle of rigging lines.

Fortunately, the mast had been propped up on blocks to protect it from the constant moisture of the ground. It felt solid. With some clever engineering that he was still proud of, he'd raised the long, heavy spar, eased it through the reinforced opening in the cabin's roof and down to be secured into the sturdy step. With a trip to the local marine supply store for a coil of braided Dacron line, he had managed to add rope ladders to each side of the mast as stabilizing stays, supporting the high vertical pole while providing the precarious climbing aids that adorned any pirate ship he'd ever seen. Which meant in Errol Flynn's Sea Hawk and a couple other more forgettable films on one of the classic movie channels, plus a picture book JB had received as a Christmas gift a couple of years earlier.

JB was clambering up and down both sides of 'our pirate ship' like a monkey before he was done with the final touches and well before any parent, his or hers, had had a chance to declare the whole thing an unsafe and forbidden death trap. It was never 'my ship' to her, even though he had done the work entirely for the infectiously enthusiastic kid.

The girl was in her element, and her long, thin arms and legs showed no trace of the gangly awkwardness that characterized her land-based movements.

Besides tirelessly hauling her up and down, and swinging between the two ladders where they narrowed, far above the 'ship's' small deck, the only thing her indefatigable arms did for the rest of that week was one spontaneous, almost crushing bear hug around his mid-section, accompanied by a rapid, high-pitched "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

Rob recalled his surprise at how tall the young girl was, the top of her head banging into his chin before she leaned into his chest. She would be starting middle school in few weeks, and was already taller than almost any girl in his high school. She must have shot up several inches this summer alone.

JB had no fear of heights; in fact, her confidence seem to grow the further she left the ground behind. First thing each morning, he was dragged to their ship, his palm frond 'cutlass' stabbed through the wide leather belt she insisted he wear. Then she was off, upward in a flurry of hands and bare feet until her head was even with the top of the mast, one open hand shading her eyes. "Spanish galleon off the port bow, Cap'n!"

Her other hand pointed out the imagery treasure ship, neither needed for her to feel secure in her precarious position. If it wasn't a galleon, it might be a swift privateer, a flotilla of British warships, or the occasional "Whale, ho!"

Kids being kids and enjoying a silly poop joke more than they ought to, he would bellow out in his most heroic voice "Bring me my brown pants!" whenever it was the threatening flotilla of warships that she spied.

Recognizing her skill and enthusiasm for climbing, he had taken the remaining length of braided line and tied knots in it every few feet. Sending his young 'matey' aloft, they hung the improvised climbing rope to the mast's uppermost tip. He was stunned at how fast, how fearlessly she propelled herself up it, hand over hand.

Days later, he cringed when she showed him her improvisation: leaping from high on one of the rope ladders, she grabbed the knotted line and swung in a long arc. Her bare feet stretched out well beyond the confines of the ship below and then landed, poised and solid as any Olympic gymnast on the rearmost deck. Fearing he would be blamed for this increasingly dangerous trick, he'd admonished her, "Don't show that one to your Mom, okay?"

She'd nodded up at him, grinning, then actually winked. "Aye, Cap'n. Yer secret's safe with me."

Shortly after that, Rob had left for the one year of college he managed to struggle through. It wasn't a lack of smarts, but his impatience with abstract, sterile learning. He wanted to be doing things, learning with his hands and mind together. He'd struck up a friendship with an old man that year, an inventor of some improvement in the pre-electronic manual calculator, who had a tinker's repair shop near campus. The wizened little man could fix anything mechanical or motorized, fabricating missing parts as needed from odd scrap. Who knew that friendship would lead to his first real job and an eventual career?

Christmas Break, after Fall Semester ended, was his next trip to Florida and Mom's Place. JB was dragging him out to the overgrown lot before he'd managed to deposit his duffel bag in a bedroom.

"Look what I added to our ship." The words poured out in a stream. "I know what I'm gonna be when I grow up now."

Again, it was obvious she had grown, at least taller, and her tugging made it clear she had built an impressive amount of wiry strength in the last few months.

That wasn't the only impressive thing she'd accomplished. Rob was shocked. There was a long stretch of brown steel monkey bars, then a second set mounted higher and inclined, sloping upward to a wooden platform. A knotted rope, like the one they'd hung from the mast swayed there next to a long vertical bar, its metal polished shinier than the monkey bars. A thick deposit of coarse sawdust covered the ground below. She had a more challenging assortment of climbing apparatuses than most playgrounds.

Her grin was a wide expanse of straight white teeth, her blue eyes bright. Skinny arms pointed elbows out, akimbo, with her hands on narrow hips. Her pride was evident.

"You..." he actually stuttered. "You did all this?"

"Nah, silly. I'm still a kid. Mr. Boyle, across the street." She indicated the house diagonal across the street, "He helped. His church or something didn't need this stuff anymore. He had a whole big group of people come over and set it all up for me. Turns out our pirate ship was his old boat. Pretty cool, huh?"

She didn't wait for an answer, but ran, jumped high and seized the closest metal rung. Without pause she was swinging like a brachiating primate, skipping the next bar to grab another, further one. Where the second, higher set of bars began she did a double swing, kicking long legs for momentum before flinging herself through the air to snag the first rung and immediately begin the steep, angled climb.

She stopped briefly at the high wooden platform, arms spread wide, offering him another proud grin. Then she was airborne, catching the fireman's pole in both hands and spiraling downward, her long legs splayed out and reminding him of that first fearless swing down from the mast last summer.

She landed with a flourish, arms in a pose, breathing in deeply. He clapped in genuine appreciation. "You're absolutely amazing!"

Instantly, a delighted grin split her face, wrinkling the skin from her eyes to her cute little upturned nose.

"So then, me talented and fearless matey, what exactly are you going to be when you grow up? Gangplank attendant? Chief crow's nest spyglass operator? Wait. I know. Captain of your very own freelance 100-gun man o' war."

She shook her head, making clear her disappointment. "Silly man. Pirating is no kind of career for the 21st century. And those fakers at St. Augustine don't count. I'm..."

She paused, dragging the last word out, then jumped into the air, catching the pole next to her and nimbly kicking over, toes pointed, legs over her head. she finished the pronouncement while hanging upside down. "...going to to be a ninja. I'm going to win American Ninja Warrior. The first girl ever."

She'd had to explain what exactly an American Ninja Warrior was. Rob had not then seen the newish TV show, where athletes attempted to complete insanely difficult, ever-changing aerial obstacle courses as fast as possible without falling into the water tanks below, all to earn fame and a chance at one million dollars.

Now, over 10 years later, he certainly wasn't a regular viewer of the successful TV competition, but had stopped channel surfing a number of times to watch a few contestants attempt and generally fail to master the courses. It always reminded him of the lanky, fearless little girl and their makeshift pirate ship.

That trip was the last time he saw JB or Josie Kirkwood, her mother. His Mom had reported their unexpected move, and many times brought up how much she missed them, especially compared to the parade of tenants who'd occupied the downstairs unit after that.

He pulled off the exit ramp, onto the road that led directly to the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. He had left around sunset last night and it was almost noon. He gave little JB and their mutual childhood memories an extra mental 'thank you' for making the last few hours pass so quickly.

There was one car, a rental Camry, in the shared driveway. So someone was here. It would be very odd if the place stayed empty on one of the biggest tourist weeks of the year. He hoped they spent most of their time at the beach or exploring the tourist haunts, rather than in noisy play around the pool directly under his balcony. He grinned as he hauled a bag of tools up the stairs. Maybe his loud demolition work on the bathroom would be enough to encourage them to make themselves scarce.

After he brought his own bag up, plus the groceries he'd grabbed on the way through town, he checked out the leak the property manager had reported. Not as bad as he'd feared, but there would be one day, maybe two, for demo and repairs and then another three to lay new tile, grout it all and clean up. Add another couple days for the unforeseen. That meant he didn't need to start any work today and could rest up and relax after the drive. With the second bathroom attached to his bedroom, he didn't need to rush anything.

In any other home 'his bedroom' would be known as the master suite. Call it passive aggressive, stubborn, or anything else, but Rob had taken to calling their mom's old room with the attached bath his and he refused to respond to anything else his siblings tried to call it. He had chosen the wall paint, he had picked out the platform bed that removed Mom's old four-poster, with blankets and pillow to suit him. His clothes filled the closet and his toiletries, the bath cabinet. His own perhaps petty compensation for his grievances.

He recovered a small antique leather shaving bag from his luggage, zipped it open. Inside was what he needed right now: two old aluminum film canisters, both filled with good hydroponic marijuana, along with a pack of rolling papers and a lighter. Rob didn't smoke much, but vacation, even a working one, was the time he enjoyed it most. That reminded him of Jennifer and the ski trip. His jaw tightened. She had made it clear that 'getting stupid on pot' was not her idea of fun, so Rob had been resigned to a vacation without it this time. Not any more.