The Hemingway Maid Ch. 02byAdrian Leverkuhn©
When I look back on that first night with Elise from the perspective of almost ten years, the one thing that stands out most to me was the dreamlike quality of the time that passed between us in those warm, gentle breezes the drifted through the Marina Hemingway. We had passed from stranger to friend in the course of a days walk through the outskirts Havana; in the quiet of her forest home we grew comfortable in each others company as we explored the unfamiliar terrain of trust and redemption. In the afterglow of our first real dinner together on my sailboat Sabrina, we had tumbled little glasses of aromatic Port under our mouths and continued our imaginary day wandering through the cool rose-petaled air of Paris, reveling in the perfection of lunch at Le Grande Vefour, and the simple joy of breathing in the timeless beauty of Monet and Sisley at the Musee d'Orsay. We held each other's hands in the soft glow of evening; even now I remember feeling an almost adolescent sense of anticipation as we drew inward toward the union we could no longer deny.
It had started so simply. She had taken my hand to her face, placed one of my fingers in her mouth, and swirled her tongue around the tip as she sucked on it. The cascade of electro-erotic impulses that coursed up my spine as our eyes met sent me reeling down unforeseen byways of memory; my body left its space on earth and drifted inward on the currents of instinct. It was a gentle awakening.
We had found our way into the sheltering warmth of Sabrina and shed our sweat-soaked clothes in hurried little heaps, then had fallen into the depths of moon-dappled shadows as we made our way to bed. She had hopped up on the forepeak berth facing me, and I had dropped to my knees to worship on the altar of her need. As her thighs found their way over my shoulders, my mouth had found her vagina bathed in shimmery moonglow. As I gently kissed her lips I looked up over her small belly at the silvered form of her pure femininity. The lust I felt for her caressed the balance of eternity's gentle abeyance, of time's dominion over the hearts of mortals. The form of our lust so released gave way to the ancient dance of union.
I had buried my face in her warmth and felt the wetness of her release as she shuddered and bucked against the pressure of my tongue. Her fingers had entwined their searching grasp within my hair, and she pulled me deeper to her need. I ran my hands up her belly to her breasts and took the hard thrust of her nipples in my fingers. I drew feathery circles over each breast with the electricity that separated her skin from mine, and I felt the shivery response of her skin as she reacted in surprise to this gentle aural impulse.
Just as quickly, her hips and back had arced and she screamed in total release, and I slowly pulled back to ease off the pressure; she reacted by pulling my face back deeper into her spreading fire, bucking harder against my mouth. Elise had run into the rapids of almost perpetual orgasm, and as she bounced and swayed in her release she began to cry. I could not tell from where her tears had come; she had just barely managed to gasp out words of love and encouragement when an implosive jolt hit her, and she thrashed into fetal contortions.
I was a bit concerned.
It wasn't that I had never taken a woman into such extreme terrain before, but her convulsed reactions seemed to echo with contradictions. I moved up to her side, held her face to mine and kissed her. She looked at me with unexpected tenderness; while I had feared the resurgence of her past into our space, I was met with a frank expression of wonder. She had not expected either my consumptive lust for her, or her need for total release. Perhaps it was that the warm little cocoon of Sabrina's intimate spaces afforded her a shield from prying eyes.
Her hands moved to my loins, and she stroked me oh so softly with just the tips of her fingernails. She looked at me with a temptress's eyes, daring me to resist the pleasures she offered with each gentle stroke. I was soon drifting to the rhythm of her skilled fingers, lost in the music of moonbeams and the gently dancing waves on Sabrina's hull.
Oh, had I risen to the occasion!
With a sudden rush, Elise dropped down between my legs and took me in her mouth. There was no gentle persuasion at work now; this was the frontal assault, and I was completely unprepared for the swiftness of her attack. Her head became a blinding blur of frenzied twisting motion, and my body went almost instantly into total sensory overload. Those first moments - when she first drew me into those immensely un-mortal portals of infinite space - define to me even now my memory of her on that night.
At my age it is fair to say that she was not the first woman to go down on me. The list of women is, unfortunately, long and undistinguished. But she shot to the top of the list in about three heartbeats. She did things with her mouth and throat that felt positively inhuman, and followed these sorties with penetrating finger movements that left me shocked and breathless. My response built rapidly. I'm not normally so fast off the draw, but this was ridiculous. This wasn't even going to qualify as a fast one.
And here I might be impertinent enough to interject that it had been some time since I had been with anyone (other than my right hand, and that a not too regular event), and I knew that what was coming (sorry!) was going to be monumentally explosive. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to warn her.
I truly doubt that any other mammal on earth - save perhaps an elephant or a sperm whale - has ever cut loose with as much cum as I did that first time with Elise. And I'm talking in all recorded here. Let's just get adjectives like explosive and cataclysmic out of the way; they simply don't apply. This 'little' orgasm I had was volcanic - it was the Mt Saint Helens of orgasms - so, here I was, first time ever with Elise, amd I start off by blowing about three gallons of cum into, well, her mouth for a start.
Hell, she was game enough to try - through about the first three or four eruptions!
But, oh no, ole-volcano-dick wasn't through! He was going to his best imitation of Mt Vesuvius!
Elise took the first bursts about as well as anyone could, I guess, then she sat up, her mouth a devastated landscape of pearlescent cum , her face coated with what appeared to be a quart of the stuff, and she looked very, very satisfied with herself. And was she finished? Oh, no. She jacked about four more huge ropey blasts out onto my stomach. I sat up and watched as she took a finger and scooped more of it onto her tongue and into her mouth, and when that wasn't enough for her, I looked on in open mouthed amazement as she licked puddles of the stuff off my belly and began rubbing her face from side-to-side through it.
This was heaven.
And Elise still wasn't through.
She worked her way back down to the offending beast and admonished it with a thorough tongue lashing, though I must say he stood up to her rather well. She licked and bit and jacked my cock back into full raging form, then slid up my body and positioned herself over me. With her knees on either side of me, I felt her feet slide to the insides of my thighs, and thus firmly braced, she lowered herself onto my cock and began to slowly slide up and down the length of it, the remnants of my first orgasm coating her way with silky smoothness.
With her face above mine, I looked on in awe as I watched the full moon rise behind her head, the pure light of creation pouring in through the open hatchway above her. Her form was backlighted - though flashes of moonlight danced between strands of her hair - and her body took on a deep lavender glow as the moon drew in to our space. Her long hair swept across my face as she danced in the light, and I remember catching strands in my mouth, marveling that even her hair tasted like the essence of eternity to me.
I woke to the now familiar smells and sounds of Elise working away in the galley. As I cleaned up I wondered just what the heck Pedro had done all night; I had completely forgotten about him and felt a little put off with myself for that bit of selfishness. Even though Sabrina had two separate 'bedrooms' there was no way that last nights activities could have gone unnoticed. Being old enough - almost - to be Pedro's grandfather gave me some room for maneuver, I suspect, but I hoped to avoid this kind of awkwardness in the future.
I made my way to the galley and kissed Elise hard on the mouth; she responded gently but gave a little 'ahem', and when I pulled back could see that she was guiding my attention to the company we had in the cockpit. Ron and Pedro - my, what a surprise! They were hunched over the little fold-down table by the wheel studying their pieces on the chess board they had set up. I made my way up into the brilliant sunlight with a handful of glasses filled with orange juice, and sat down next to Pedro.
"Hey, Puddknocker," Ron merrily exclaimed, "how's it hangin'?"
Pedro kind of snorted out a giggle as he looked away. Oh, this was going to be a blast!
"Say, Ron," I retorted, "I heard you was a transvestite hooker once. Can I get some from ya'?"
"No thanks, Pudd, I'm tryin' to quit."
I shook my head.
"Anyone up for a sail today?" Elise said from down below.
"That sounds like fun, y'all up for it?" I said, looking out at the fresh breeze blowing over the sea.
"Better check into that first, sport. Cuban Coasties don't take kindly to nationals out taking boat rides . . . they might get the idea you're making a break off the reservation. Bad news if they do."
I could see his point. "Anyway to do it? Permits or such?"
"Yeah, go to the security guys at the gate, I think they can arrange it."
"Doesn't anyone go sailing around here?"
"Sure, sport, just not with the locals. Hell, even if you go out alone you're going to be boarded by the navy and your boats going to get tossed. They really don't want folks sneaking off, and they're serious about it."
Like I didn't know that.
O.K., so that explained why no one was out sailing on a day like today.
Elise handed an especially gorgeous breakfast up the companionway. Fresh fruit and soft-boiled eggs in their shells stuffed with lump crabmeat and tiny bits of fiery-hot peppers and garlic were heaped on a platter surrounded by slender planks of buttered toast. She came up a minute later with a steaming pitcher of espresso and the little cups I kept on hand for such treats.
Pedro had never seen anything like this meal, and had absolutely no idea that his sister was capable of such artistry. I was only beginning to fathom the depths of her accomplishments myself, despite the almost ten pounds I'd put on in a week. I looked at the feast spread out before us and did not want to thank God for this food . . . I wanted to thank Him for Elise.
When love comes to you, you'd better be ready to follow.
We ate, and Ron - God bless him - cleared up then cleaned the dishes down below. Pedro went off to take care of his marina duties. Elise laid herself down in morning sun with her head in my lap, and I stroked her hair, the memory of moonshadow still fresh in my mind.
"Jim, tell me what you're thinking right now," her gentle voice intoned.
I didn't know where to begin. My feelings were - to me, anyway - clear, but obviously not so to her. How could I make a life for us all in Cuba?
Couldn't be done, could it, wise guy. Reality check. No diplomatic relations, so no consular official to consult for bad advice. So, no legal way out. Getting out illegally almost a certain path to ruin for all concerned.
Then I was aware that Elise's gentle question still hung in the air.
"I was thinking about tomorrow," I said, putting it out there in the air apparent.
"Tomorrows are very complicated in Cuba, Jim. Perhaps we should concentrate on all of the todays we might have together."
"Yeah, well, that's the bargain this time, isn't it. Pay the price for tomorrow's wasteland in the currency of the moment; let it ride, boy-o!" I'm spoiled enough to let bitterness take hold of my emotions on even the best of days. I'm not sure Elise understood.
"Jim, I told you, you won't change the way things are in Cuba. This is Castro's game, and everybody plays by his rules. If you play the game you'll lose. That I will not allow to happen."
I heard footsteps coming up the companionway.
"Who says you gotta play by his rules," Ron Fuller the ex-CIA hot-shot said.
With that he jumped off Sabrina and walked off toward the shower. He didn't even bother to hide his grin.
It turned out that getting clearance to take Pete, as I now called him, and Elise out on Sabrina wasn't all that difficult as long as we remained within three miles of shore. We were told we would be boarded as we left the marina and papers would be checked, and our position monitored by the navy to insure we remained within the stipulated distance from shore. And we were cautioned not to violate the three mile limit, or the consequences would be swift and deadly. No more need be said about that, the smiling military-police guard had said.
So, about two that afternoon, off we went on Sabrina with the Three Amigos on board just for good measure. We motored out of the marina and I checked in by VHF with the patrol boat that always seemed to be on station off the approaches to Havana. They sounded bored and told us to have a nice sail. Ron and the Amigos shot each other quick glances at that bit of lassitude. As we cleared the breakwater, and with Ron on the wheel, we pointed into the wind and raised sail, then bore off heading directly away from shore under full sail. Ron looked at his watch, the other Amigos, both retired PanAm jet-jockies, hunched over their approach charts and started doing time/distance calculations. All of a sudden, the Three Amigos were acting like a covert operations team; they made little marks on the chart, made knowing glances and comments to each other as the time ticked by.
Pete and Elise had picked up on the military demeanor quicker than I had, though Pete seemed to think things were going along pretty fine. The sea wasn't rough at all, and the sky was crisp and clear for as far as we could see. We were getting, after about twenty minutes, very close to three miles out from shore.
"Uh, Ron . . ."
"There he goes," Ron said, and the two Amigos hunched over their chart looked up and over at the patrol boat. "Mark the time as 1438 hours." The patrol boat was belching thick brownish-gray smoke from its single stack, and it was changing course to run parallel to Sabrina's heading away from the shore. "Oughta be anytime, now. Jim, go down and flip on the radar, would 'ya?"
The display up by the wheel flickered then jumped on; the range was set at five miles and the shoreline was now looking to be close to three miles away. One of the Amigos went over and flicked the range markers out to 24 miles. "Bingo, there he is," he said as looked at the radar. Then, "This oughta be real close. OK people, cover your ears . . ."
The roar was not simply deafening, it was palpable through to the very core of my body and penetrated some deep primal awareness that screamed "RUN!" Within milliseconds awareness to external stimuli kicked in and I was peripherally aware that a Cuban Air Force Mig29 had just cut across Sabrina's bow about thirty feet above the sea. I guessed it's speed was in the neighborhood of 500 knots.
Ron swung the wheel and took up a course taking us straight toward the patrol boat. The patrol boat throttled down, its bow wave dissipated into the surrounding sea as the boat changed to an intercept course toward us. The Mig had gone ballistic and had disappeared vertically into the sky. The Amigo working the radar picked him up: "There he is. Looks like he's going to come by for another look see. O.K., his speed is way down. What do you think of those reaction times, Ron?"
"About what I expected."
I looked around and took note that Elise and Pete were gone, and I saw them down below. Elise looked pale and uncomfortable; Pedro looked up at me with happily excited eyes.
I felt like I needed to vomit.
The pale gray Mig flew drifted overhead like a shark with its flaps fully extended, its nose slightly high, and the two Amigos looked at the racks of missiles and bombs hanging under the wings and furiously scribbled notes on their chart.
I was now very, very interested about these clowns' activities.
They were calculating response times of Cuban naval and air forces and the weapons employed during that response. In short, they were conducting an espionage operation.
And on my fucking boat!
We closed on the patrol boat, and they contacted us by VHF, asking us to heave to and prepare for boarding.
Oh, I was a real happy camper right about then.
Life on Sabrina after our little excursion had taken on a nervous though somewhat happy routine. Pete worked during the day and generally hung out on Ron's boat playing chess at night. It seemed that Rosalita had a daughter about Pete's age who was now staying on board Blade Runner, and puberty being puberty everywhere in the world, things were merrily taking their course with or without my interference, thank you very much.
Ron and the Amigos had retired after our little excursion and sat around in the shadows with their slide rules and sat-phones calling the mother-ship. I had no clue, and didn't want one, either. The Amigos would retire to their boats, to their women, after these little clandestine meetings, and I noticed their boats were little family affairs too. Hell, as I looked around I began to notice lots of Cuban families living on boats with divorced-white-guys. Some girls had their parents living aboard with them, and one was rumored to have a grandparent on board in addition to the normal complement of mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters. If I found it difficult to imagine screwing Elise with even the thought of Pedro on board, I couldn't fathom what was going through these guys heads.
Just what the hell was going on in the Marina Hemingway?
Hadn't these guys ever heard of Islands In The Stream?
During dinner that night I voiced my opinion to Elise that the Three Amigos were planning on making a dash for Florida, and taking a whole bunch of Cubans with them.
She dismissed the thought as worthy of a paranoid schizophrenic. She worked away on her curry and salads, not missing a beat. We ate dinner - as usual - in the cockpit, with the ever-present warm tradewinds blowing softly through the palms. We had some chilled Sangria; well, actually, I had a lot of chilled Sangria and Elise sipped at hers in amused silence. She cleared, I cleaned, we put things away together, all on the automatic pilot lovers develop as they slip into the dangerously comfortable shoals of domesticity.
As I cleaned dishes, in my thoughts I dismissed the idea that Elise could have had anything to do with such a wild-assed plot, that until recently she had been so far gone - according to Ron - that she had been incapable of making a cup of coffee, let alone be in on the planning of some hair-brained operation to slip a bunch of Cuban families out of the country in the dark of night!
Then I felt her hand. She was looking at me with those eyes, her hand was drifting down to the buckle on my belt while the other rubbed the front of my shorts. Did Mr Vesuvius want to come out and play?
We both had our answer to that question in about three shakes of a, uh, well, you know.
She had my shorts down around my ankles before you could say 'men think with their dicks' three times. And I swear to God she took my dick in her hand and pulled me to the forepeak. It was almost humiliating. Fun in a way, though. I recommend it if you don't have anything else planned for a Sunday afternoon.