The Voyages of Luscious Lucy Ch. 01

To the thousands of readers who have enjoyed my stories, I say thanks! This new offering, The Voyages of Luscious Lucy, is a work in progress and I don't as yet know where it will lead our characters. Once again, our hero is an older musician type guy who gets himself into all kinds of kinky situations with the fairer sex. If any of you have any ideas for situations, feel free to send them along through Author Feedback, and I'll twist them into this randy tale. Read and enjoy!

Chapter One: And Then There Was Velda

I don't remember when I first got the bright idea to move out of the old house and move onto the boat. I just remember having this urge to make a change. It wasn't something I had a lifelong craving to do. But then, I can't remember ever really having any life long urges at all!

I didn't even actually go out and buy the damn boat either. Although, when it landed in my lap, I probably should have gone straight to the head doctor, had myself carefully diagnosed, and found out what exactly was wrong with my head.

I suppose I should explain what transpired in the months leading up to my revelation to become a vagabond of the sea. Or should I say transient harbor dweller! Because I really have no knowledge of the sea or for that matter, any desire to travel the world. But I definitely had a hankering to see some real estate, other than that upon which I had spent the past twenty six years of my existence.

My wife of twenty odd years had taken to wandering off for days or even weeks at a time. I knew she had grown tired of me, and was "In search of her real self." I certainly couldn't blame her. I really had been a test of her patience. My chosen profession was being a musician. After so many years of middle of the night homecomings, or early morning homecomings, or some days, mid-afternoon homecomings, the arguing had finally just stopped and I knew it was just a matter of time 'til she put the haul ass on for good and quit coming back to me at all.

What I wasn't prepared for was the Mariposa County, California Sheriff calling to inform me she had perished in a high speed auto accident. His question was what did I want him to do with her remains?

I had to give that a little thought. My first impulse was to say, "You've got the wrong person." But I didn't, and I made a hasty trip to Bootjack, California to take care of what had to be done. I found out things about her that I would never have believed a year prior, but decided that anything she had done was due to the way I had treated her and so I sucked it up and had her sent back to North Carolina to be buried with her people.

This all took a couple of days and several thousand bucks, which I didn't have so I screwed up my VISA card and chalked it up to bad luck. Then I headed back to Florida and went back to my old routine.

--------

About six weeks after her death, I received a letter from a lawyer over in town asking if I could meet him in his office to discuss my deceased wife's will. I had no idea she even had a will, and had even less of an idea of what she might have that was of any value. The house where we lived was a hand me down from my parents and she had no claim to it. Other than that, I couldn't imagine what she would have left in a will.

I put on a shirt and dirty tie and fired up my ancient Chevy Impala and drove the fifteen or so miles from Neptune Beach into Jacksonville. After circling the block twice hunting for a meter, I found a spot and walked into the lawyer's office only twelve minutes late. I checked my Timex and was pleased I had made it on the correct day. I'm not big on keeping schedules, except to be on time for the music gig to start.

Lawyers are not my favorite breed of people. Any dealings I've had in the past with the legal profession have usually required them to bail me out of the drunk tank or save me from prosecution on some other equally mundane charge. And it usually cost me more money than it was worth.

Arthur E. Peacock Esq. Was etched on a brass plaque on the door to his office, on the thirty first floor of the old Barnett Bank Building in downtown Jacksonville. The building smelled like old wet books. I opened the door, which announced my arrival with a nerve grating squeal as I pushed it open and stepped inside. One of those prehistoric hydraulic closers took the door out of my hand and returned it to its normally closed position.

The office looked as if it had been used to shoot an old Mike Hammer film in. I swear to you, his receptionist had a name-plaque sitting on her desk indicating that her name was, in fact, Velda! The room was at least twenty degrees cooler than the hallway, and smelled of Velda's perfume, and stale cigarette smoke. Velda stood and stepped around her desk. My heart hammered in my chest as she extended her soft hand to shake mine.

"You must be Mr. Kewl," Velda cooed, taking my hand in hers.

I couldn't remember whom the last person was that had called me Mr. Kewl. Everybody just calls me Mac, short for McFadden. My parents never told me where the name came form. I guessed it must have been a joke they shared secretly between themselves.

Velda stood about four inches shorter than my 6'-3". About five inches of which was her high stiletto heeled shoes. Velda had long glistening copper hair, which cascaded around her heavily freckled face and tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a one piece black dress that fit her like a second skin, reaching only far enough over her gorgeous bottom to be decent. Velda was also stacked.

"I have an appointment with Mr. Peacock," I croaked.

"I know," Velda said, "and you're late, you naughty boy."

"Well, sorry about that, couldn't find a meter." I lied.

Velda was still clutching my hand. "I'll tell the Boss you're here."

Velda touched the button on an ancient intercom on her desk and drooled out her message to the lawyer behind the dark oak door on the right side of the room. The voice box crackled an unintelligible response, and went silent. Within seconds, the door creaked open and Arthur E. Peacock, Esquire thrust himself into Velda's office.

To say Arthur Peacock, Esquire is a colorful character, is like saying Castro is a tyrant! He could pass for Danny DeVito in a white linen suit. All smiles, the red faced man rushed up to me, taking my hand like a long lost relative, he ushered me into his dark office all the while explaining how happy he was to finally meet me.

Parking me in a huge leather chair in front of his massive carved mahogany desk, "Make your self at home," he bellowed. "Can I get you a little eye-opener?"

"Not just now," I stuttered, taking in my surroundings.

Arthur E. Peacock, Esquire was either a damned good lawyer, or a real con artist. His office had all the ear markings of the "Big Time." The walls were paneled in thick, dark pecky-cypress. The ceiling was hammered tin, reflecting the style of the old south. His walls tastefully displayed original paintings by various well known Southern artists. And the floor was covered in thick burgundy plush carpet.

His desk was immense and heaped with hundreds of file folders stuffed with papers. One small area, immediately in front of his high-backed leather chair remained uncluttered. A single file folder occupied this space.

"Damn glad we finally get to meet," He boomed again, pouring three fingers of dark bourbon over a couple of ice cubes and landing in his chair with a great exhalation of air.

"Maureen's been keeping me up to date on you ever since y'all tied the knot!" Arthur explained. "Damn shame she was such a lousy driver. I've had to fix a mess of tickets for her over the years. You still doing the music thing?"

"Yes sir," I replied, "until something better comes along."

"Well, today might just be your lucky day," He interjected. "You see, Maureen came into some family inheritance a year or so ago and according to her will, you get it all."

"She never mentioned it to me," I said. "Just how much is some?"

"A little over three quarters of a million!" Arthur Peacock breathed, tossing the bourbon down in a single throw.

"I think I should join you," I exhaled after my tongue came back up out of my throat.

"Help your self," He waved his hand. "Bring me one too."

I obliged and after I took a long pull of the bourbon, letting it burn itself all the way to the bottom, I asked, "Are you serious?"

His laughter was like rolling thunder, "You're God damned right I'm serious. And that's not the end of it. There's a little old houseboat tied up out there at The Beach Marina that belongs to you now too."

"What kind of a houseboat?" I asked, dumbly.

"Says here it's a seventy three footer, with twin diesels and all the trimmin's," He read.

I tried to imagine how long seventy three feet would be in my mind. It evaded me. I supposed time and distance were relevant to some people, but to me it made very little difference.

Peacock handed me a ring with several keys on it and shuffled back into the papers lying on the desk.

"Here's the check for the cash, the keys and title for the boat. I've paid slip charges on the boat through the end of the month. After that, it's up to you where you berth her." His eyes sparkled when he talked about the boat. "If you decide to sell her, call me. I'm quite interested in buying her. Other than that, Mr. Kewl, I think we're finished here. Unless you have any questions concerning my niece's will?"

I plucked a card from the crystal holder on his desk and sat for a few seconds, digesting the events of the past hour. My eyes burned from looking at the check I held in my hands. Pay to: McFadden A. Kewl, $782,809.01 was embossed in red and dark blue on the pale blue document. My hands shook as I gazed stupidly down.

"I do have one question," I said. "Where'd it all come from?"

"Her old man had a sister up in New Jersey doing some kind of real estate thing," He said. "She thought Maureen was a little cutie-pie when she met her as a child and dropped the whole bundle on her when she died. Maureen spent a little time on the boat but never got into the money very much; until she bought that damned car she got killed in. She zeroed in on this red Porsche, and took off a runnin' for California, leaving that Deborah girl she played around with for so long stranded with the boat."

"I don't remember any Deborah," I commented.

"How long were you married to Maureen?" Peacock asked.

"Over twenty one years," I stated.

"And you didn't know she had this thing for young girls?" He prodded.

"I knew she messed around in college but she evidently kept it concealed from me since then." I added.

"Well, she's had this one living on the boat for almost a whole year," the lawyer said. "I'll evict her if you want me to, or you can handle it your own way."

"How old is this female, anyway?" I inquired.

"I don't think she's more than twenty, or so." He estimated. "But you'll have to determine that for yourself when you talk to her. I went there and told her about Maureen and she seemed pretty much devastated with the news. It sounded to me like Maureen was paying her freight and now she's going to have to fend for herself. 'Cept, she's doing a fine job with the boat."

"Is this girl going to be a problem for me?" I asked.

"I think you might want to go and check out the whole situation, My Friend," Peacock instructed. "She's really a very nice person and you might want to help her out, after you see the boat. If you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, sure," I answered. "I'll make sure I'm real nice to her. After all, she was screwin' my late wife!"

Peacock bellowed with laughter. He reminded me of a troll.

I stood up and tucked the bank draft deep in the bottom of my wallet and shook the beefy little man's outstretched hand. He stood behind his desk as I retreated from his office.

--------

Velda was leaning against the front of her desk, filing her already perfect nails with an emery board. Her short skirt rode high on her hip, exposing the dark lacy top of her hose and the garter snap that held it up. Velda gave me all her pearly white teeth in a huge smile.

"So you're the guitar player Maureen kept so secretly hidden away," Velda cooed.

"Guilty," I replied. "Did you know Maureen?"

"Oh yes," Velda sighed, dreamily. "For so many years."

Velda looked to be about thirty five and had a far away look in her eyes. As I stepped closer, I could see them welling up with tears.

"Do you know the girl on the boat?" I asked.

"Debbie?" She asked, startled. "Yeah, sure I do. I was there when Arthur came with the news about your wife. Debbie was crushed."

"Would you join me for a cup of coffee?" I asked. "Or maybe a drink after work?"

"I'll tell the boss I'm leaving for the day," Velda offered, turning on one spiked heel and heading for Peacock's door.

I waited as she disappeared into Peacock's office for a period of about eight or nine minutes. When she reappeared, her hair seemed to be a bit mussed up and her lipstick was definitely smeared. She winked at me and disappeared through another door, which I guessed was the powder room. Within moments she returned, once again carefully coiffed and rouged.

"Gotta keep the Old Boy happy," Velda remarked, stepping up to the door and waiting for me to pull it open.

The ride down in the ancient elevator from the thirty first floor took forever, because we made stops on almost every floor to pick up and deposit riders. I was pushed to the back of the car with Velda standing directly in front of me. It only took two floors for her to be pushed back against me with my stirring manhood pushed tightly into the swell of her butt. By the time we reached the ground floor, I had grown to full proportions, and had no idea how in the world I would hide the lump in my britches when we departed.

Stepping from the elevator, Velda slipped her arm through mine and walked all cuddled up next to me just like we were old lovers.

"You're either a real bad boy, or just really in need of some attention," Velda said as we headed out the door onto the street. "I can help you with that."

"I suppose you can," I chuckled, as we walked up the block to where I had parked my old wreck of a car.

Velda wrinkled her nose, bunching up her freckles, when she saw the car, but slid carefully onto the seat when I opened the door for her. I climbed in the driver's side and stuck the key in the hole. As usual, I had the wiggle the worn key a few times before it turned and fired the big V-8 to life. The old Impala might look tired from the outside, but the 396 cubic inch engine throbbed with the heart of a lion. I shifted into first and pulled out into traffic.

"Where to, Honey?" I asked.

"You do want to see the boat, don't you?" Velda asked, pulling her leg up on the seat and turning to face me.

The black dress had crawled up, exposing all of her stocking tops and her garters. I glanced down and she spread her legs more so I could see all the way up to the black nylon covering her bush. Velda was giving me a whole beaver shot.

"I guess so," I whispered.

Velda smiled, displaying her pearly white teeth again. "Head out to the beach, we can stop at Raspberries for a drink if you want."

I knew Raspberries very well. I had played music there a hundred times or more and knew everyone that came in there at night. It sat on the water, facing the river on the extreme outboard end of Beach Marine's yacht basin. I've watched a thousand boats enter and leave over the years and was intrigued knowing my late wife had a houseboat moored right under my very nose and I'd never known about it. Go Figure!

I'd only spent a few afternoons in the place. Usually these visits occurred when the band was booked to play there, and I had reason to check the equipment or make a repair. I was never one to hang out where we played. I judged the less familiar you got with the patrons, the less aggravation you'd have in your life. Although, I've been known to disappear after the gig with one of our fans, and spend the night getting familiar. Maureen knew the deal, that's how we met.

The bar was dark, they usually are. We migrated over to take a table at a window overlooking the boat slips. Velda perched on a soft chair, squirming her butt into the chair so as to make sure her skirt ride up and give me a view of her gorgeous hips. I took the seat next to her and waved for a waitress. Velda fished out a Virginia Slim and handed her lighter to me. I touched the flame to the slender cigarette and watched as she inhaled.

"Dewar's, rocks, and water on the side," Velda announced.

"Whiskey and water for me," I added, as the petite blond waitress stood gnawing on a wad of gum.

"Shew-ah, that it?" the blond queried, tapping a pencil on her order pad.

"Yeah, Honey. That ought to just about do it!" Velda grated, obviously irritated by the attitude of the rude waitress.

The little charmer spun on her heel and made way for the bar, leaving Velda and me to our own devices.

Velda pointed out the window at a long, sleek vessel tethered to the seawall directly across the marina from where we sat.

"Thar she blows, Sailor," Velda giggled, waggling her digit in the direction of my recently acquired treasure. "She might need a little sprucing up, but I think she's seaworthy. I've spent quite a bit of time over there and you'll be surprised when you see the cabin and staterooms. God, she must have been a beautiful ship when she was new."

Velda's eyes sparkled as she gazed at the grungy hull of the boat. Grungy is being kind. It appeared that the hull was made of steel, because what had once been a soft pastel yellow and dark brown was now rust streaked from years of neglect. The structure above the rail looked to be steel also, but had been carefully trimmed with wood and adorned with many feet of stainless steel railings and shiny chrome fittings. A fly bridge grew from her cabin roof and extended sky ward. In her day, she had been a show stopper. I needed this boat like I needed another hole in my head.

"I can't wait," I mused, scowling out the window.

I slim figure appeared through the door opening in the side of the cabin. From this far away it was hard to tell much about her, only that she stood about 5'-6", had nice tits, and short brown hair. She wore tattered cut-offs, and a boob shirt that barely covered 'em. She padded to the stern and loosened the line holding the boat to the pier, and retied it again. She made her way up the far rail to the bow and did the same with the bow line. The river has a five foot tide swing this close to the ocean so it was a constant chore keeping the lines adjusted.

"There she is, Mac," Velda whispered. "That's Deborah Mason. Maureen adored her."

"I don't get it. Am I missing something here?" I asked.

"Sweetheart, your sweet little wifey went both ways!" Velda scolded. "A hot wet pussy or another woman's mouth meant just as much to her as a hard cock sawing into her."

I groaned.

"You didn't know, did you?" Velda asked.

"I had no idea," I answered, stunned to be hearing about the double life my dearly departed wife had been leading. "I knew she wasn't happy with me, but I thought it was because I was always screwing up. I didn't know she was a muff diver too."

"Sugar, Maureen would fuck anybody for laughs," She giggled. "When you were out playing your guitar, she was out balling somebody. But she always had a steady squeeze she kept tucked away for special times."

"You seem to know an awfully lot about Maureen," I commented.

"I ought to, we spent a lot of time together," She sighed.

"Do I dare ask doing what?" I wondered.

"Let's just say, we were intimate," Velda said.

I groaned again. This was getting very hard to understand, but I wanted to find out as much as I could before I ventured over to the boat to talk with its inhabitant.