If anchored, we stayed there. 'There' being pretty much anywhere there was 12" of water under our bottom. My boat 'drew' only 12" when fully loaded, so we could (and did) anchor where other boats just could not go. If the water was 'tidal' (that is, if the tide came in and went out), the boat would settle on its flat bottom and Angie or I could put on knee-length rubber farm boots and literally walk ashore, to spend time in marsh, woods or a nearby green pasture area.
Or we could sail round in the small dinghy that rested on the cabin-top. I could put the little sail/row boat in the water and take her out, using the electric winch, mounted on the stubby mast and swing-out boom (the same one she exercised upon).
But, if we decided to move on, it was only a few minutes to up-anchor and head back out the way we came in (always adjusting for tide, of course). Then I would pilot along at about 9 mph (8 knots), while my black hottie rested at the dinette table, or on the couch or back in the cockpit.
We didn't 'hail' (greet) other boats and didn't have other boat folks over 'for drinks'. At about a weekly interval, we could usually pull up to a dock or marina and get an overnight hookup of fuel, electricity and water. I could shovel out the head into a waste bin and dispose of the accumulated piss there. If not, well, over the side it went, at night, there to add to the compost at the bottom of a river, canal or bay. Refills came from the bale of peat moss I carried. I carried a couple of old, rusty-appearing bicycles, and we both used these, when and if. We could go to a movie, take in a show or have a dinner out, as we wanted. Long walks, holding hands, happened often.
If we were out in open water, I could head into the wind, put out a 'sea anchor' (to prevent wind-blown drift), and we could swim ... with me attached to the boat with a line. Now think of a large, slow barge, being played with and circled by a stunning, nude personal watercraft. That tell you how well I swam?
We read, watched DVDs, or just drifted. I maintained the boat, teaching Angie how to do things as they came up. Unexpectedly, she became an excellent coastwise navigator, radar operator and and diesel mechanic.
A couple times a week, when at anchor, I'd get out my Ulleann Pipes and I would practice my music, which Angie always said that my choice of tunes gave her goosebumps. OK, the instrument is unusual, and reputed to be difficult to play. But no more difficult than the violin, cello, piano or the Chapman Stick. Some curmudgeons insisted it took 21 years to learn it well, but this was utter nonsense. Otherwise, how to explain the various children and teens who played well. Did they start playing while still in their mother's wombs or before conception?
Come on, people. I was in Bagdad while they were still in their Dad's bag!
But some of the music was haunting. Take my favorite piece, 'Caoineadh Cu Chulainn'. A lament for a mythical hero of Old Ireland. Soaring falsetto motes, descending into tenor low ones. A deep, soulful expression of sorrow. The music evokes the casting of a fantasy dream, wherein the hero lies in a mystic cave, waiting for the magic words to re-awaken him from his final sleep, to perform further heroic deeds. The cave echoed with the soulful notes, as each shivered upon the crystal hangings surrounding the hero's place of rest.
From this I launched into tunes of my own devising: 'The Arc of Dawning'. 'Driftwood Ashore'. 'Lament for a Lost Kitten'. Then closing with a couple of known selections, 'The Bonnie Swans' and 'King of the Fairies'.
She had goosebumps by the end. As she usually did.
About half the time, after I played (with her), she cooked dinner, because I'd be too weak to stand. After dinner, we'd watch a DVD on the TV or read, play with each other, or watch a porn flick, to see if we could get any ideas on how to make more and better love. At about 11:00 PM, she'd take off her no-cover-up bra, I'd leer at her and play with her tits some more, while she writhed and came. We were in bed, asleep by 11:30 PM.
About every other night, I'd wake about 3:00 AM, to find my slutty fuck-buddy girlfriend slithering all over me, and jamming my suddenly hard cock back inside her, for more breast-dangling, grunting, gurgling, explicit sex-talking, orgiastic fucking.
She heaved and thrashed, screaming about sex and breast orgasms, and demanding to be fucked until she passed out.
So I obliged, and did my best to rape this woman. Of course, I failed, mostly because you can't rape a willing woman.
We both had a lot of fun as I attempted the impossible, jamming my erection deeply into her and then withdrawing with a wet 'plop,' only to re-penetrate, over and over. There was only one way this could go, and I went there, dumping a load of jism into her sweat-slithery body, as I screamed and came.
I was under orders, though, if she passed out while sexing, to continue fucking her and to dump my load into her limp body. When she came to, she'd look down, see the jism oozing out of her cunt, and grin at me, calling me her perverted, passed-out, slut-girl fucker.
We usually managed to crawl back under the covers, and both slept until time for morning exercise.
I have never in my entire life shot so much pleasure-juice into a willing woman before. Angie loved the very idea of penetrative sex, and adored performing sex, when- and wherever she could.
Best of all, she seemed to get a real 'charge' out of watching my initial penetration of her slippery body, as well as my white cock-head and shaft plunging into and pulling out of her dark-skinned, almost blue-black body.
It seemed, the more jism I shot, the more there was; the more there was, the more she came; drooling out her cream-pies for my delighted eyes.
END of PART 4
