Extirpation

This is the final installment of the Sailor's Wife series. It would probably be best if you've read the first four stories before this one.

Please bear in mind that the timeframe of this series in the early 1970's. There are some anachronisms here, and to judge the story by the standards of the 2010's would be, I think, unfair. And a point of comparison, $20 in 1972 money is equivalent to more than $100 today.

*****

The black water of the estuary seemed particularly calm as Stephanie prowled the Oakland marina. She'd needed to get out on this sunny Sunday, she realized, but when Joann had been unavailable (apparently shacked up for the day with her boyfriend,) there'd been no one to accompany her. Steph had dressed up a little, a faintly psychedelic blouse, mini skirt and high heels, and headed for Jack London Square, but she had little money for lunch and the street artists had failed to amuse. A guitarist had, unfortunately, reminded her of Rusty, and that dragged her mood even further into the trench she was digging for herself.

Things couldn't be going worse. Chuck called her every chance he could, begging her for additional liaisons, and even the threat of turning him into the police as a stalker seemed to be of little concern to him. Last night, he'd even showed up on her doorstep at eleven o'clock, and she'd had to drive him back to Alameda without letting him into the apartment; if she had, she knew, she wouldn't have the strength to resist his sexual advances. And she'd promised herself that, after Rusty, there would be no more men in her life until Glenn came back to her. In her inner heart, she knew that if Rusty was able to make it to California she'd break that vow, but no other man would touch her! She was sure of that.

Then there was her job. Mr. Donegal simply wasn't happy with her, even though she was trying her best. He couldn't understand that some days she just didn't have the strength to get out of bed, and that was the reason for her chronic tardiness. And it wasn't her fault that they kept giving her batches of alpha-numeric codes, was it? Everyone knew that keypunchers made more mistakes with those than other stuff. It just wasn't fair.

She missed Rusty. In the seven weeks he'd been gone, she'd only had five letters from him. He'd gotten the gig with the band, but Clapton hadn't signed on. They were in the studio now, putting an album together, and their agent was trying to paste together a tour starting sometime in the winter, but it would be through the south, he had written, no where near the West Coast. In the last few missives, he seemed to be getting more and more distant; Stephanie wondered if he'd found another girlfriend, someone to replace her.

And, thinking about letters, there was Glenn. Apparently, he hadn't been very clear, on one of the ship's stops in the Philippines he'd visited a prostitute. So there he was getting laid while she was being as good as she could be. She hadn't had any sex since Rusty left, and it was frustrating her. She masturbated often, almost every day and sometimes twice or three times a day on the weekend, but it was sort of like Chinese food, Joann had joked, an hour later you want more.

Thanksgiving had been a bore. Some of the wives got together to cook a huge feast, but it had turned morose quickly, the women missing their men, sometimes sniffling at their absence. Dawn and Jill were talking about how they were going to meet the boat when it docked in Hong Kong in February, and Stephanie was tempted to join them, but she simply couldn't scrape the necessary four-hundred dollars together - that was so much! Why couldn't the Navy send them over for free?

Christmas was coming up in just fifteen days, and Steph's mother was begging for her to come back home, but Mr. Donegal insisted he couldn't spare her for the whole week, three of the other girls were already taking vacation, and that was that. What did he want of her!

Steph gazed at the expensive yachts around her and wondered how it was to be so rich you could afford something like that just as a toy. If she had some money, it would solve all her problems, wouldn't it? She and Glenn could buy one of these boats and just sail anywhere they wanted. What would it be like to make love on board one, with the boat rocking gently below her? God, she was horny. She wanted Glenn or Rusty to come to her, stroke her naked body, push his thing between her legs and make her come, hard.

Then she caught herself. Did she want to make a fool out of herself, out here in public, thinking about sex? Silly girl.

It was then, as she was blushing with her ruttiness, that she heard the man on the boat call out, "Well, isn't that a pretty thing. Would you like to join me for a drink, sweetie?"

For a few seconds she took in the guy. Old, at least forty, with a bit of grey at the temples. Slightly overweight, small paunch exposed above the swim trunks. He seemed to be covered in fur, his chest was filthy with hair, and yet, somehow, he exuded a sense of sultriness. Perhaps it was in the way his eyes stared directly into hers, maybe it was the gold necklace he wore.

"No, thanks," Stephanie forced herself to say. She'd really like a drink, but somehow she feared that if she let this man get close, who knew what might happen.

"Oh, come on," he insisted, "it's almost five o'clock . . . somewhere." When he saw Steph hesitate, he rose from his seat and held out his hand to help her climb aboard.

After arguing with her internal imp, Steph let her curiosity - she'd never been aboard one of these large boats before - and her thirst overcome her reluctance. Taking the wolf's hand (she had no pretensions about his ultimate intentions,) she promised herself that only one drink would pass her lips and then, hopefully after a tour of the yacht, she'd be on her way, unmarred by the incident.

"That's my girl," the man responded, holding her hand a moment longer than was strictly required, and handling her waist more than needed to assist her. "Now, what would you like?"

"What do you have?"

"For you, dear, anything you'd like. Anything." The final word was accompanied by a leer, one that Stephanie ignored.

"A screwdriver?" Steph's tenor was timid, as if she were suddenly overwhelmed by the situation.

"One screw coming up." A glimpse from him into her eyes, to ensure she got the entendre. "Do you prefer Russian or Polish vodka?"

"Either one's fine."

"Well, you just sit right down here." He led her to a chair bolted to the deck, once again holding her more than was necessary for the maneuver. Quickly he moved to the hatch leading to the interior of the boat, and soon he returned, bearing a silver tray on which rested a tall glass full of ice and a tiny crystal pitcher of orange juice. The glass was more than two-thirds full of pale liquid. Making a show of pouring the juice into the vodka and handing her the result, he toasted, "To pretty girls like you."

Steph sipped the concoction, choking on the strength of the alcohol and yet noticing how smooth it tasted. She craned her head, taking in the area of the boat she could see from her perch on the deck and marveling at the luxury. Suddenly, she realized she didn't know her host's name. "I'm Stephanie."

"Stephanie. What a wonderful name! Stephanie, I couldn't be more pleased that you stepped into my world, releasing me from my own morbid thoughts on this sunny day. Stephanie, I'm Bob Romer, and I'm so very happy to meet you." With this windy introduction, he once again took her hand in his and this time deliberately fondled it, even to the point of caressing the wedding band she wore.

After too much of the contact, Steph pulled her fingers from his grip, and began a safer conversation. "How big is this boat?"

"She's 48 feet, flybridge and pilothouse, two staterooms and salon, two heads, twin diesels. We could sail this puppy to Fiji, and one of these days we're going to. We're going to be needing a crew when I do, and honey, I'd love to have you aboard. You'd look great sunning yourself up on the deck, naked to the world, don't you think?"

"Well, I'd have to think about the naked part," she responded. But she did like the thought of sailing away to warm climates. She tightened the sweater she wore a bit more snugly, possibly to keep herself warm in the December breeze, more probably to protect herself from his almost indecent stare, but all she accomplished was to further define the globes for his observation.

Out of a nearby drawer, Bob withdrew a joint, lit it, and passed it to Steph. As if it was the most common thing in the world, to be smoking drugs in public, she took a hit. "So, what's a beautiful girl like you doing out here all by your lonesome?"

"I just didn't have anything else to do, that's all."

"Husband working today?"

"Well, actually, he's in the navy, his ship is out at sea."

"Oh, that's terrible! You're all by yourself. Or are you? Any boyfriends to keep you company?"

"No, nothing like that." The question brought to mind the two men she'd entertained since the aircraft carrier deployed, and a blush flushed her cheeks.

"Well, there's nothing to be worried about, is there? How long have you been married?"

For the next twenty minutes, he coaxed her life story from her, seemed actually interested in it. As she came to tell him about how they loved going into the City on a weekend afternoon, he excused himself to freshen their drinks, and in the gyrations of getting out of the captain's chair, he placed his hand on her knee and stroked the inside of her thigh. Before she could order him to stop or otherwise protest, he'd removed the infringement, and disappeared down the steps. Upon his return, he handed her the drink, just as potent as the first, and in the process caressed her wrist. This failed to upset Steph as much as his earlier forays. Now, it became her turn to be the interrogator. "What do you do?"

"I'm an insurance agent."

"Business must be good," she remarked, glancing at the yacht.

"Not bad, not bad at all."

"Are you married?"

"Oh, I keep a wife around someplace. We're at that point in our life where it doesn't seem that important."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't been married long enough to realize what's going to happen, I guess. One day you wake up next to each other, and the old spark is just gone. You still love her and all, but you've got your things to do, and she's got hers. So, you just don't get hung up on it, that's all." From the puzzled look on her face, it was obvious Stephanie wasn't reading between the lines, so Bob filled in the blanks. "For example, yesterday she took off for a party up in Napa, and didn't bother coming home."

"And you don't care?"

"Why should I? It's not like I own her or anything. What she does doesn't hurt me, so what's the big deal? Actually, it makes it easier. She doesn't depend on me so much."

"But what if you wanted to be with her last night?"

"Oh, we talked about it before she left. She told me if I wanted to do anything, she'd stick around, but I just told her to go have fun."

"And she doesn't mind . . ."

". . . if I have friends of my own? No, she doesn't care. She wouldn't mind at all that I'm having this drink with you."

"Just having a drink shouldn't be any problem."

"And it isn't. So, Stephanie, what do you like to do? Any hobbies?"

For another half-hour or forty minutes they yammered, and Steph took stock of this man. He wasn't particularly attractive, and he seemed a good four or five inches shorter than she. And yet, there was something alluring about him. He chattered in a rapid clip, and when he became excited about a subject, his hands flew throughout the air. As he was making a point, he'd gaze directly into her eyes, and his hand might lightly contact her arm, knee or shoulder. Steph figured it was simply a product of his personality - he may have been Italian - and forgave the impingement.

There came a point at which the conversation slumped, and the glasses were drained. "Another?" Bob asked.

"I shouldn't." But she didn't say 'wouldn't'.

"Well, at least let me show you around the boat. You'd like that?"

Steph admitted she would, and allowed herself to be escorted into the interior. The first stop was the salon, a room perhaps eight feet by twelve in shades of greens and subdued yellows, with a wrap-around couch, an easy chair and even a television. At the far end of the room was a bar, which led into the small galley, where Bob filled the glasses again. "Make mine light," she insisted, but his idea of potency and hers, apparently, was quite different. Then it was the grand tour. Up a flight of stairs to what Bob called the pilothouse, the place where you steered the boat from, with seating for the Captain and four or five other people, depending on how close they got. Then down another flight of steps to the stateroom level. The one aft had a double bed and it's own head, the one forward built into the front of the boat, the bed was a good seven feet wide. "You've got to see this," Bob remarked, and he clambered on his knees to one of the forward portholes. Steph followed him, and kneeling beside him, saw a magnificent view of the estuary. As she marveled, she felt Bob's hand upon her waist, and she recognized the dryness in the mouth and pounding heart that is the first manifestation of sexual arousal. For a split second she considered resisting the advance, and then, just as quickly, caved to her craving. She felt no surprise when they kissed, and even less when she was on her back, he above her, his hands upon her covered breasts, between her legs. Quickly, her cotton panties were drawn over her knees and she was able to unbuckle his belt, unbutton the waist, pull the slider of his zipper. He briskly forced the pants over his hips, and rapidly placed his tool at the entrance, and without further undressing, she spread her legs and his penis was buried within her dank slit. Steph raised her waist, positioned herself for maximum penetration, and Bob battered into her. More quickly than ever before, Steph felt the surge of orgasm bolt through her. Through the roar of blood through her ears, she heard him, dimly and far-away, demand, "You want me to fuck you hard, don't you? You really want me to fuck you, don't you."

And even more surprisingly, she heard herself echo, "Yeah, fuck me. Harder! Harder! Fuck me!" Incredibly, she found that even though he was in and out, in and out of her, he wasn't spilling his seed into her. In fact, he seemed to be controlling his hips, varying the speed of his thrusts, so that as she felt the lightning advance through her body, he seemed to be playing with her. Somehow they fumbled with buttons and clasps, and without ceasing the merrymaking, first a shirt came off, then a sock, next a bra, until they were both quite unclothed.

Bob gruffly turned her over, forced her unto her knees, and from behind, repenetrated the still ready aperture. Again, as Bob reached around, grabbed a breast and roughly tormented a nipple, Steph came again, even harder. Another shift, she was on top of him, his hands at her waist, pulling her then pushing her, and she desired, more than anything, to feel him disgorge. But, in some strange fashion, he was able to deny himself the surge of completion. Still the two used the word, over and over again, repeating themselves, "I'm going to fuck you," and "Yes, fuck me." Once more they shifted, again he was on top of her, one of her long legs over him and behind his ass, pulling him further into her, and he abruptly rose above her, implanted himself once more as far as he could, and moaned, "Oh, god, yes, yes, I'm coming," to which she crooned, "yes, baby, all the way, yes," and she felt her recess flooded with his solution. For long moments the world was still, no movement was felt except for the gentle rocking of the boat on the tide, and then he slid from her, landing hard on the bed beside her. Elated sweat dripped from their pores, in the heat of the cabin their entire bodies seemed as drenched as the much used repository between her legs.

When the panting diminished, and he was able to take a deep breath, Bob exclaimed, "Babe, you are one great fuck!"

Steph smiled, for she knew with this man she had indeed been that. And even though her yearning for a cock within her was completely quenched, and she didn't think that she could possibly come even one more time, some impulse within her didn't want the romp to end. With kisses on her new lover's ear, neck, chest, nipples, navel, she descended until her face was next to his soft, flabby dick, and she took it into her mouth. She'd given blow jobs before, and she knew the general flavor of sperm, and certainly the pungency of his recent eruption was present, but there was some other seasoning, sharp but not unpleasant. She realized, soon enough, that for the first time she was tasting her own juices on his skin. This was something new, something exciting, and she slurped, sucked and licked until she was rewarded with the return of a perceptible rigidness in the organ. With his hands, Bob stroked the skin of her back and belly, the tenderness of a boob and nipple, and the silky passage of love. The longer she sucked the harder it got, until the wand once again was of a consistency that would allow incursion. During the interlude, Bob scooted to the bedside compartment and got a bag of white power. "Want some?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay." He poured a line onto a table, got a straw, and sucked the cocaine into his nose. Steph watched as his body jerked - she'd never seen anyone do that before - and then he turned to her and said, "Okay, bitch, now you're really gonna see something."

Suddenly, his face was between her legs, and she was pleasured by his tongue on her most sensitive area. She knew the gap was dripping - she could feel his sap on her upper thighs, between the cheeks of her ass - and she felt uncomfortable with his oral attention. But then he commenced gentle nibbling and licking of the button, and she quickly forgot her embarrassment, absorbed in her jubilation. This, of course, was followed by more fucking, this time in a more relaxed position, and in time both were treated to another, simultaneous, sweeping orgasm.

This time it was clear that the festivities were winding up, and they dressed, a little shyly considering their previous state of joint passion. Steph was hoping he'd invite her to dinner, but when they got to the dock, he simply asked, "Where's your car? Need a lift anywhere?"

"No, I'm fine, it's just a couple of blocks. I'll be fine."

"Okay, well, it was a great afternoon, wasn't it? I'd like to get together again with you, soon."

"I don't know," Steph hedged. The guilt she always felt after a fling was surfacing, and, truth be told, although this guy was great in bed, she didn't know that she wanted this to be an ongoing thing. It wasn't like he was loving and sensitive, like Rusty. In fact, he was rather crude.

"Oh, come on. Tell you what, give me your number, I'll call you, and then we'll figure it out. You're really something, you know." He wheedled, Steph resisted, but in the end she gave him the digits. 'After all,' she thought, 'I can always say no, can't I?'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steph really didn't want to get out of bed the next morning, she was sore from screwing the day before, and the vision of Glenn through the cracked glass of the frame seemed to be disapproving. When she got into the office ten minutes late, Mr. Donegal gave her his usual disapproving look. 'He's really starting to be a jerk,' Steph thought.

The day went slowly by, and in the mailbox that evening were four letters from Glenn. When he'd written them a week to ten days before, the ship was out on the line in the Gulf of Tonkin, and the notes were almost boring, they could have been written in any sequence. But his words of love touched her, and she wrote him a five page letter, telling him everything that was going on. She told of the problems at work, and of course left out the story of the yacht. He didn't need to know that.