“Thank you, Liam. That’s very considerate of you.” There was a pause, and then she opened the door. “I was just about to take a shower and dress,” she said, eyeing my bare chest with a hint of appreciation. “Would you like to come in and wait? I'll only be a few moments.”
“That I would.” I was returning her look, and much more boldly. Mavis was more feminine than I'd ever seen her before. Her blonde hair was fluffed out, and she was wearing one of those white terrycloth robes that reached to just above her knees. She was barefoot, and I judged that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. Her figure still looked slender, but it seemed more voluptuous now with the robe hugging it so that the curve of hips and bosom was accentuated. Once again I revised my estimate of her age, this time downward, guessing it at somewhere in the mid- or late twenties.
“Make yourself comfortable.” She flicked the latch on the stateroom door as she closed it behind us. “I’ll just have a quick shower.” She went into the bathroom and left the door ajar about a third of the way. “There’s some Scotch on the dresser,” she called over her shoulder. “Help yourself to a drink.”
“Thanks. That I will.” I turned to the dresser and found myself looking into a large mirror with my one uncovered ye. The angle of the mirror gave me a clear view into the bathroom. My first glance was just in time to see Mavis, her back to me, drop the terrycloth robe to the tiled floor and step into the tub. From the rear she was all sleek ivory. She didn’t seem bony to me any more, merely slender. And her derriere was surprisingly high and plump and well-shaped. I fumbled with the Scotch on the bureau and kept right on staring into the mirror.
There was lots to stare at. Mavis hadn’t bothered drawing the shower curtain as she stepped into the tub. Now, as she turned on the faucet and adjusted it, she was standing so that her image in the mirror was facing me head-on.
Where had I ever gotten the idea that she was angular? Or spindly? Or flat-chested? Wherever I’d gotten the idea, I knew now how wrong it was. Mavis’s breasts, now that they were free of the flattening tweeds she wore, were round as basketballs, not as big, to be sure, but large enough to fill half a hoop anyway. She was slim-hipped, but there was still a demure and balanced jutting from under her tiny waist, and slender as her hips were, they were well-padded with flesh rather than bony. Her legs were long and tapered and thoroughbred English. And, I couldn’t help noticing, she was a natural blonde.
Now, as I continued staring in the mirror, she lathered the proof of her blondeness. Then she leaned back against the wall, her shoulderblades against it, her breasts thrusting upward, her feet wide apart, and her eyes met mine in the mirror and deliberately prolonged the contact. Her hands moved over her bosom as she soaped it. Then she put the soap aside and massaged the lather into her breasts with her hands. She palmed the tips and squeezed them as the water cascaded down in front of her face and washed over her bosom. As her hands slid farther down to her flat belly, the last of the suds was rinsed from the breasts and their tips stood out like twin bright-tingling red spear-points. Still holding my eyes with hers, she arched even more and began laving the soapsuds from the blonde triangle with her hand.
Mavis was very thorough, very hygienic. Proving this was the systematic way she soaped up two fingers and used them strenuously. Only then did her glance drop so that she was no longer looking into my eyes. It slid lingeringly over my chest to my bathing trunks and stayed riveted there. Her tongue peeped out between her lips as she concentrated on the fast-enlarging and straining tell- tale bulge.
That did it! I forgot all about the Scotch. I turned around and took one long step toward the half-opened bathroom door. I’d just reached it when she stopped me.
“No!” she exclaimed. “Don’t come any closer. Just stand there.”
I did as she asked, and her gaze returned to my trunks. Her hand moved faster and faster.
“Let me see it,” she moaned after a moment. “I want to see it.”
I slid my hands down my hips and slid the trunks off. They tumbled to my ankles in a heap. My manhood leaped free and crossed the invisible line she’d drawn at the bathroom doorway.
“Ahh,” she sighed, her eyes no longer watery, but very bright and glittering now. “The Irish really are a mighty race of men.”
She fell silent then. I was quivering like an arrow, but I made no move toward her. If this was the way she wanted it, my aim was to please. Finally a high-pitched laugh burst from her lips, and her hand seemed to disappear from view. Her eyes shut for a long moment, and when she finally relaxed, she almost lost her balance and fell.
I started for her then, but again she stopped me. “I’m all right, Liam,” she said in that same old even, unemotional tone of voice. “Why don’t you have that drink now while I get dried off and dress?”
“I’m needin’ somethin’ right enough,” I told her, “but I’m not sure it’s a drink.”
“Help yourself,” she answered meaningfully. “To whatever it is you want. A drink, or—” She left the sentence unfinished and closed the door in my face.
Her suggestion not being my way, I settled for the drink. By the time I finished it, she emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed. The tweeds, the slicked-down hair, and the rimless glasses again; it was decidely no improvement.
“Pull up your bathing suit,” she said briskly, “and let’s go look at Suez.”
I pulled up my bathing suit, and I went and looked at Suez. An impressive view, but not as impressive as the one in the mirror a short time before. I had the frustrated gut-ache of a high-school boy left hanging in his girl-friend’s hallway after an incomplete necking session. Silently, I cursed Mavis for a selfish bitch.
I was still cursing her the following evening as we passed through the Suez locks. Traffic had been heavy, and we’d had to wait before being allowed to enter the canal. We were about halfway through now, and it was very dark, a moonless, starless night. The Captain had invited me up to the bridge to meet the Egyptian pilot who would take the helm for the Canal crossing. I’d stayed on the deck just outside the wheelhouse to watch the lock mechanisms being operated as we were raised and lowered from one level to the next. The Captain was standing at the door to the wheelhouse, talking to the pilot and me by turn. The Mate was farther up the wheel-house deck, keeping an eye on the prow of the ship. I was leaning on the railing just over the stairway leading down to the deck below. The Captain had just asked me if I was able to see much in the darkness when it happened.
“Not a helluva-—” I’d started to reply.
What stopped me was a sudden sly and very light touch on the zipper of my pants. Slow y and cautiously, the zipper was pulled open. A hand fumbled over my jockey shorts.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. O’Ryan?” the Captain said. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“I’m havin’ no trouble seein’,” I assured him.
Sharp fingernails scraped across the tender surface of my skin as the shorts were pushed aside. I winced at the touch.
“Is anything wrong, Mr. O’Ryan?”
“Nope. Everything’s just ginger-peachy. . . . Sure an’ it is,” I added as a hasty Irish afterthought.
My manhood was waving in the sea breeze now. A fist encircled it and moved energetically. A moment later the fist was replaced by warm lips, and I groaned gratefull .
“Perhaps you’d best go below, Mr. O’Ryan,” the Captain suggested, his tone concerned.