“I don’t think-—-” she started to say. But she cut the words off when I squeezed her hand, and instead of finishing the sentence, she squeezed back.
After that, things picked up. There were developments. And the developments were interesting. Very interesting. Not that anybody would have guessed from the conversation which continued between us.
“Why are you going to Manila, Mr.—Liam?”
“’Tis a writer I am by profession. I’m after some background material.”
“I should think there would be enough of that in Ireland.”
“An’ right as rain you’d be. But I had a bit o’ trouble in Erin with the British landowners. You might say I was asked to leave the country—after a fashion.”
“You don’t sound as if you like the British very much.”
“Well, not the men.” I shot her a lecherous grin. “But I’m right partial to the ladies.”
“If that was meant as a compliment, then thank you.”
“It was indeed. An’ well-deserved.”
At this point the steward paddy-footed up the deck. “Sir, Mrs.,” he said, “Captain says tell you dinner in one hour. You dress, I laid out clothes already. Should go now if you wish shower. Half-hour, we cut water pressure for more steam. You go now, yes? ”
“Yes.” Mavis answered got both of us. “Not this moment, but soon. That will be all.” She dismissed the man haughtily.
Mavis had a reason for not getting up right away. Her hand had slid down my chest while we were talking. It had slid under my belt, well down into my pants. It had shoved my underwear aside and grasped the object of its quest firmly. And it had been manipulating it rhythmically all the time we were conversing.
Nor had she lost so much as one stroke when the steward interrupted us. Cool as ice, she had continued the rotary rubbing while she answered and dismissed him. And she showed no signs of relinquishing her hold or the rhythm after he had gone. She kept right on talking and right on caressing. It was as if her hand had nothing to do with the rest of her. It was as if the mind which produced the words she was speaking had nothing to do with the actions of that hand.
“Regardless of your opinion of the British,” she was saying, her hand moving like a piston and with lightning speed now, “I’ve always had great admiration for the Irish.”
“Erin go bragh!" I replied, shouting. “Erin go bragh!" And I lunged so violently with my release that I fell off the deck chair. “Erin go bragh! ”
chapter six
IN A WAY, that first afternoon set the pattern for the relationship—if you can call it that -- between Mavis and myself. The trip from Malta to Manila took twenty-one days. During those three weeks, we engaged in constant erotic activity. But never once did Mavis consciously acknowledge what we were doing.
It was weird. At dinner that first night, for instance, she picked right up where we’d left off on deck. Under cover of the tablecloth, she pulled one of my hands into her lap. She’d worked her rough tweed skirt up over her thighs, and the flesh of her upper legs was burning as they locked my hand just where she wanted it. She wasn’t wearing any panties. Her hand on top of mine moved the fingers until she’d established the rhythm she wanted. Then she left it there, took her own hand out from under the table, and reached for the butter.
“Will you pass the bread, please?” she asked the Captain in that precise, dry, schoolteacher-ish voice of hers.
“Of course.” Both he and the Mate were completely unaware of how I was providing Mavis with her kicks.
“Have you ever been through the Suez Canal, Mr. O’Ryan?” the mate asked me.
“Yes. But it was many years ago.” I was nowhere near being able to carry it off with as much detachment as Mavis. My voice was a little raspy, and I tensed up so that I stopped moving my hand against her as I spoke. Indeed, I almost forgot my Irish accent altogether.
The pause irritated Mavis. She wriggled impatiently until I resumed the rhythmic pressure. Then, still cucumber-calm, she joined in the conversation. “I’ve never seen Suez,” she said.
“Then you should make a point of being on deck to-morrow toward dusk,” the Captain told her. “The approach to the Canal is one of the sights of the world. We’ll anchor outside the locks and go through first thing in the morning-—just as soon as the Egyptian authorities clear us.”
“I certainly shall make a point of being on deck when we come within sight of Suez, then,” Mavis assured him. She had contrived to raise herself slightly off her chair and was surreptitiously rotating against my stroking fingers. “I’m so sorry I don’t have a camera. I would like to take some snapshots of it. Do you have a camera, Mr. O’Ryan?”
“Tis sorry I am, but no, I don’t.” I didn’t miss a stroke that time. I was getting the hang of the game.
“Is the meat to your satisfaction, Mrs. Wheatley?” the Captain asked.
“It could use a little more seasoning. Otherwise it’s” -she paused delicately-“satisfactory. She punctuated her choice of a word by clamping my hand firmly in place. Even under the tweed jacket I could see her breasts inflate as she caught her breath. A moment later her whole body shuddered visibly and her knuckles were white as she grasped the edge of the table.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Wheatley?” the Captain asked, staring at her as her face flushed a bright red.
The flush receded almost immediately. “I’m quite all right, thank you, Captain,” she said with perfect control and equanimity. “A sudden chill, that’s all. I’m not used to the sea air, I suppose.”
My hand was slippery with the results of that “sudden chill,” and I started to remove it. Mavis tightened her thigh muscles instantly and shot me a quick but insistent glance from the corner of her eyes. She started moving again, and I realized she was demanding an encore.
I went along with the demand. And she went right on with the conversation through dessert and coffee. Her second “sudden chill” became evident as she drained the last of her java. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your brandy now,” she said primly when it was over. “No, please don’t get up.”
I was the only one who'd started to rise, but once she’d said it, the Captain and Mate both picked up the cue and got to their feet as she left. By that time I’d changed my mind about being courteous, though. I was trying to surreptitiously wipe my hand on the tablecloth, and this necessity made me decide to stay glued to my seat. Mavis shot me a very disapproving, upper-class English look as she went out.
But I didn’t let the look discourage me. I waited a decent interval after dinner and then went straight to her cabin. I knocked on the door, and when there was no immediate answer, I tried the knob. It was locked. I knocked again. This time Mavis responded.
“Yes? Who is it?” she called.
“Liam. I thought you might be enjoyin’ a nightcap with me afore we turn in.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve already undressed for bed.” Her voice was icy. The tone said I was taking too much for granted.
I refused to be discouraged. “Sure an’ I could bring the spirits here,” I told her.
“No, thank you. I’m very tired. I really would like to go to sleep.”
“All right, lass. Some other time, then.” I turned away, feeling like a rejected suitor. It seemed the kookie lady had no intention of following through in the hay. I wondered if she had any intention of following through at all.
The next afternoon I was relieved on that score -- relieved in a way, that is—in Mavis’s own peculiar way. I’d been up on deck throughout most of the afternoon, but she hadn’t come out of her cabin. I was in my swimming trunks soaking up some of that incomparable Mediterranean sunshine when I spotted the hazy outline of Suez approaching over the horizon. I decided it might provide an opening for re-establishing rapport, and so I went down to Mavis’s cabin and knocked on the door. “We’re comin’ in sight of Suez,” I told her. “I thought you might be wantin’ to see it as we approach.”