I sure didn’t want to distract her. I shut up. I braced my legs farther apart, leaning my weight against the bulkhead, and tried to concentrate on the sensations afforded by the contact between her large, warm, soft, enveloping breasts and my large, hot, hard, plunging penis.
It wasn’t easy. There were people all around us, bumping into us, pushing against us, occasionally spilling liquor over Sister Stella’s kneeling figure. One woman leaned over Sister Stella, kissed me passionately, and wished me Bon Voyage. But neither she nor anybody else in the throng, as far as I could tell, seemed to notice what we were doing.
So I stopped noticing what they were doing. I regained my concentration and focused it on Sister Stella. She was moaning now and grinding her erect, hot nipples against my thighs. The folds of the robe in her lap were parted widely now, and I could see her naked thighs opening and closing spasmodically as she simultaneously moved two fingers inside herself and caressed her clitoris with her thumb.
The sensitive underside of my scrotum bounced from one of her nipples to the other. A surge of passion swept over me and I squeezed her breasts hard between my legs so that I could feel their solid texture against the entire length of my instrument. We moved this way for a moment or two, and then we strained—-her breasts pushing hard against me, my joystick shoving hard against her.
“Bon Voyage!” everybody around us was shouting.
“Bon Voyage!” A tremor shook Sister Stella from the hem of her habit to the cowl.
“Bon Voyage!” I took the trip with her.
When it was over, Sister Stella returned my apparatus to its nesting place, buttoned her robe, and got to her feet. “I really must go and unpack now,” she told me. And she left.
I watched her wend her way through the crowd. Several people genuflected as she passed among them. She reciprocated by making the Sign of the Zodiac over them, but the discrepancy went unnoticed.
The farewell festivities continued until after dark. At about ten o’clock, the crew started to clear the visitors from the ship. Under Chief Purser Yenta’s diplomatic supervision, the last of them were hustled down the gangplank around eleven-thirty. At midnight the S.S. Lascivia slid from her berth and headed down-river toward the mouth of the harbor.
As we left the harbor, I was standing at a railing on the prow, just below the wheelhouse, digging the star-lit sight of the open sea. Suddenly a dozen or so vessels seemed to be converging on us from all sides. The nearest of them was flying the flag of the U. S. Coast Guard. Mister Jewish appeared on the deck of the wheelhouse above me. He peered at the ships through binoculars.
“What the devil is it?” Captain Maldemerde demanded from behind him.
“Just a minute, sir. One of them is signaling us with a blinker light.”
“Well? What do they say?” the Captain demanded.
“They’re asking what the trouble is.”
“What trouble?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Signalman!” Captain Maldemerde bellowed. The cry was relayed and a minute or two later a sailor carrying a blinker light came trotting up to the wheel- house. “Tell them to get out of our way!” Click-click. The Captain was fuming. “They’re costing us valuable time!” Click-click.
The light above me blinked frantically. A light from the Coast Guard ship replied.
“They say they picked up a wireless distress signal from us, sir,” the Signalman informed the Captain.
“Ridiculous!” Click-click. “Tell them we have no trouble. They’re mistaken! Tell them to get out of our way so we can proceed!” Click-click.
More blinking lights.
“They say if we’re not in distress, we’re in trouble.”
“What the hell does that mean?” the Captain wondered.
“They say we’ve broken international law by sending out a distress signal when we’re not in distress,” the Signalman translated. “All these ships picked it up and have come steaming to our rescue. They warn that if we try to proceed they’ll fire on us.”
“I don’t understand!” the Captain wailed. “This will cost us hours! We’ll miss the tide!” Click-click. “I don’t understand!” Click-click.
“I do,” "Mister Jewish said quietly. He reached into the wheelhouse, picked up the intercom and spoke into it.
A few moments later the young officer who had been promoted to Chief Radio Operator arrived on the double and out of breath. Captain Maldemerde confronted him in a towering rage. “Did you send out a distress signal, Mister?” he demanded. Click-click.
“No, sir.” The Ensign was quaking. “I only sent out the passengers’ messages like you said.”
“And then you signed off?” Mister Jewish inquired gently.
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did you sign off?”
“With the name of the ship and my last name, sir.”
“Now do you understand, Captain?” Mister Jewish asked him.
“What the hell do you mean, Number One?” Click-click. “Of course I don’t understand!”
“This is Ensign Mayday, sir,” Mister Jewish told him. “His last name is Mayday. That’s how he signed off. Mayday!”
There was a long silence while the Captain comprehended what had happened. “Mayday” is the international distress signal used by ships at sea. Finally he spoke.
“Mister!” Captain Maldemerde’s voice was death-soft. Click-click. “You will change your name immediately!” Click-click. “That is a direct order!” Click-click.
“Yes sir!” Ensign Mayday was shaking so hard that the wheelhouse deck was rattling.
“We’re going to have a re-dock and explain this, sir,” Mister Jewish told the Captain.
“Put about." Captain Maldemerde ordered the helmsman.
“Yes sir.”
“Mayday!” Captain Maldemerde said. “Shit!” he said. “Mayday!” he said.
Click-click!
CHAPTER FIVE
Queen Nimmfetah’s ermine-lined diaphragm had been stolen! The theft was discovered shortly after the S.S. Lascivia finally left New York Harbor just past noon the next day, approximately twelve hours behind schedule. Captain Maldemerde was frothing over the delay. I wasn’t too happy about it myself, since it put us at what might prove to be a crucial disadvantage in the race against the Queen William. Nor did I blame the Captain for overriding the objections of both Mister Jewish and Dr. Quotabusta in continuing to refuse to inform the port authorities of the death of the radio operator and the predicament of the glue-stuck newlyweds.
The corpse was still in the freezer with the red caviar. The unfortunate couple, covered with a blanket, had been made as comfortable as possible in a chaise longue on deck, the outside hope being that the salt air might affect them as a solvent. The Queen was in the wheelhouse raising hell about her purloined pregnancy preventer.
“What am I to do?” the seventeen-year-old ex-monarch wailed.
“I can prescribe some birth control pills.” Dr. Quotabusta tried to soothe her.
“No! They make me puff up like a cobra!”
“Abstinence,” Mister Jewish suggested.
“This is supposed to be a pleasure cruise!” she reminded him coldly.
“Are you sure you haven’t mislaid it, Highness?” Chief Purser Yenta asked respectfully.
“One does not mislay such an item! It is a priceless antique! It has been in the family of my ex-husband, the Shah, for six generations! It was imported from Egypt where it was hand-crafted by Nubian Slaves. Only the finest fur from the groins of wild ermine was used. The inscription on the inside was done by a diamond stylus dipped in molten gold.”