“Mr. Victor! If you please!” Miss Amanda Lowell-Cabot reacted to my leg brushing against hers with outraged virtue. “I do not engage in shipboard flirtations!” the old biddy told me frostily.
“How about porthole peccadillos?” I inquired.
To which she turned a wrinkled, but decidedly cold shoulder.
Finally dessert was served. Peach cobbler in brandy sauce. Also espresso laced with cognac. Sister Stella bolted hers down and then apparently dropped her napkin. She stooped under the table to retrieve it.
“Have you ever thought of becoming a member of MENSA?” Binny Stanford asked Buddy Fluker. Under the table, Sister Stella quickly removed the shoe and sock from my right foot.
“He’s not dumb enough!” Ogden Stanford told his wife.
Sister Stella worked my naked foot under her habit until it was lodged solidly in the burning dampness at the juncture of her thighs.
Buddy Fluker ignored the Stanfords and successfully stalemated himself.
Sister Stella impaled herself on my big toe and moved her fulcrum in small, cautious circles.
“Do you know Count FinGemanni of Naples?” Miss Lowell-Cabot inquired of Mario Brandino.
Sister Stella’s hand released its grip and was immediately replaced by her mouth.
“The Count used to be in my employ,” Brandino replied.
I bucked and almost went over backwards on my chair!
“Really? The Count worked for you, you say? What is the nobility coming to?”
Sister Stella contrived to synchronize the movements of her tongue and my impaled foot.
“I do hope Zwing Toy is all right,” Queen Nimmfetah remarked.
Thank goodness I’d remembered to cut my toenails!
“He certainly should be, Highness.” Mister Jewish reassured her. “After all, he has a de luxe stateroom all to himself.”
“But he gets so lonely. . . .” Queen Nimmfetah sighed.
Yes-yes-yes! . . . It wouldn’t be long now! . . .
“The Steward has instructions to look in on him regularly,” the Captain interjected soothingly.
“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah . . .”
“What did you say, Mr. Victor?” Zelda Poppins stared at me.
“Nothing.” . . . Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh! . . .
“There’s something fleshy going on!” Blaze was openly suspicious.
Sister Stella tensed on the verge of orgasm. Likewise yours truly. . . . Now-now-now-now-now-now-now . . .
“The Sister seems to be having trouble finding her napkin,” Mister Jewish observed. “Perhaps I should help her. He got up and started to stoop under the table.
“No-no-no!” I bounced up and down frantically, an ecstatic gush of release.
Sister Stella’s head bounced off the underside of the table as she received it and matched it with her own eruption. Mister Jewish stared at me, surprised by my hysterical reaction. The others also stared.
“She’s found it!” I babbled. “She doesn't need any help! She’s already got it! Haven’t you?” I pleaded.
Sister Stella came out from under the table, looking pure and demure and sexless as ever in her voluminous nun’s robe. “Oh, yes.” She held the napkin up triumphantly.
“Then if you’ll excuse me, I have to check over some charts in the wheelhouse.” Mister Jewish bowed and left.
“I too must attend to the duties of navigation.” The Captain shot Zelda Poppins a look that said he’d catch up with her later and bid the rest of us a formal good evening.
The others left right after him. Now I was the only one left at the table. I had problems.
There were still plenty of people left at the other tables in the dining salon. Without any of them noticing, I had to retrieve my shoe and sock from somewhere under the table and put them back on my foot. I also had to replace my penis in my jockey shorts, tuck the shorts back inside my pants, likewise my shirttail, and then zip up my fly. With waiters, busboys and guests all around me, that wasn’t going to be easy!
Still, I managed it right up to the final movement. Everything in place. Good. I groped for the zipper and found it. Good. One clean pull and—- *
“HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT!”
I’d caught myself in the zipper!
Everybody turned and stared. Tears of pain poured from my eyes. If that zipper had moved one silly millimeter longer, I would have come up a soprano!
I pulled the zipper back down. I tucked everything into place very carefully, making sure my tender flesh was shielded with an abundance of shirttail. Then I pulled the zipper up once again.
Getting to my feet, I started across the dining salon to the exit. There was a sudden clamor of dishes tumbling to the floor. That hadn’t been all shirttail I’d tucked into my fly. I’d snared the corner of the tablecloth along with it! And now I was trailing the tablecloth and sundry dishes in my wake as I passed among the diners dawdling over their coffee!
I grabbed a steak knife from a table and snipped off the tablecloth at the root—being careful, of course, to leave the root itself intact. Then I continued toward the doorway, smiling winningly at the stares and open mouths of the onlookers. The smile was intended to prove that my savoir faire was intact. As I exited, I bumped into Chief Purser Yenta.
“You have a large piece of asparagus stuck between your front teeth, Mr. Victor,” he informed me.
I stopped smiling.
Yenta fell into step with me as I started up the deck. “What happened back in the dining salon?” he asked. “I thought I heard someone yelling in pain.”
“That was me.”
“What happened, sir?”
“I got nipped in the bud!”
Yenta looked at me questioningly.
I offered no further explanation.
He let it go. “There’s Bingo in the main recreation hall,” he told me.
“No thanks. I think I’ll just take a stroll around the deck and turn in.”
“Looking for new portholes to conquer, Mr. Victor?” His Oriental face was all tolerance. "
“I’ve given up on portholes since formally meeting Miss Amanda Lowell-Cabot at dinner,” I assured him.
I was feeling the chill by the time we drew abreast of the main recreation hall. I didn’t want to play Bingo, but I did want to get out of the cold night air for a little while. I went inside, Yenta affably staying with me.
As we entered, the Bingo emcee was making an announcement from the stage. “. . . and the winner of our next drawing, ladies and gentlemen, will receive a special surprise package as a prize. I can assure you that this mystery gift will be a luxury item to tickle your fancy! . . . Are we all ready? . . . Very well!” He spun the birdcage and withdrew a small, numbered tile. “N-23,” he announced.
I saw Knute Summerknut, naked as always, reach over to his grandson Eric’s Bingo card to cover a numbered square with a blank tile. Then he checked the card on the board across his own lap. The board provided only partial modesty to the fantastically well-hung old Dane. He shook his head philosophically. The number didn’t appear on his card.
“G-17.” The emcee called out the number from the second tile he’d drawn.
Blaze Buxbocks squealed delightedly and covered a number on her card.
“N-9.”
Miss Lowell-Cabot, playing six cards, capped squares on three of them.
“O-32.” The drawing continued. Six more numbers were called and you could feel the tension building in the room. “G-2.”
“I only need one more, Grandpa!” Little Eric Summerknut was bouncing up and down with excitement.
“I-20.”
Queen Nimmfetah clapped her hands.
“G_43.”
“Getting warm!” Zelda Poppins blushed at the laugh which greeted her enthusiasm.
“B-12.”
Mario Brandino moved a tile impassively.
“BINGO!”
All eyes turned to focus on the source of the dual shout marking the winner. It was the unfortunate newlywed couple. The husband was seated on a chair facing the back of the room. His wife was on his lap, facing him. She balanced the board with the Bingo card on his shoulder. A blanket was wrapped around them.