Chapter 5: The Hurricane

Dave awoke to dim daylight seeping through the blinds in his bedroom.  For a while he lay quietly, listening to the stormwinds moan in the eaves, now much eased from their screams of last night.  According to the glowing red numerals of his desk clock, the time was 6:05.  He nudged Creight, sleeping-over with his back to Dave.

“Wh-what?” mumbled the older boy.

Dave put his mouth close to Creight’s ear.  “It’s morning.  Let’s go.”

“M-morning?”  Creight stretched, arms and legs extended, turned to face Dave and rose on an elbow.  He studied the blinds, listening to the storm.  “Has it quit raining?”

“Probably.  Wind’s not nearly as loud.”

“Go look out the window.”

“Who cares if it’s raining?”  Dave giggled.  “We’re not made of sugar.”

He got out of bed, ignoring his morning stiffy, and pulled on the fresh clothing his mother had laid out at bedtime.

Creight watched him sourly.  “I’m still sleepy.  And you know this is a waste of time.”

“Don’t act all grown-up on me.  You’re not there yet, even if you do fuck Ms. Ruby now and then.”  Dave flung the older’s clothes at him.

Creight crawled from the double bed with obvious reluctance and concealed his nudity under shirt and shorts, grumbling the while.  Both boys sat on the floor to lace up high-top boots, surer footing than bare feet in wet woods.  Being well aware that early mornings on the island could be cold even in late summer, they pulled on long-sleeve wool overshirts, also laid out the night before, because they were warm even when wet.  At last they slipped down the staircase, walking carefully on the edges of steps to minimize creaks, and out the backdoor without disturbing the sleeping household.

This western side of the island was dim but the sky above was lit enough to discern still racing clouds.  The roaring rain of last night had ceased but strong wind gusts tossed treetops back and forth.  Pausing at the woods’ edge to empty their bladders, the boys studied the lighted stationhouse.  As expected, they saw no sign of activity, although a room light flashed on in the adjacent Partridge house as they watched.

“Who’s on patrol?” asked Creight.

“Lt. Klieger.  He took the cutter to help that ship in trouble.”

“He did!  How’d you know?”

“That’s all my folks talked about at supper.  You should’ve paid attention.”

“Huh!  Then my old man went along.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

“Not that I heard.  I’ve been staying with you for two whole days!  So that light is Lt. Partridge getting up.”

“Or Julie going to pee.”

“Nah.  That’s not her bathroom.  Shake it off and come on, though I tell you this is a waste of time.  We won’t find anything.”

Dave thought, Hell, it’s fun just looking, but didn’t express it.  Lately his good friend was changing before his eyes.

They pushed through the wet woods, soaking their shorts, to the paved road that led to the island crest.  The wind tossed groaning trees back and forth all around them.  Several had cracked and fallen during the night.  Trunks and leafy branches cluttered the road.

Climbing over a fallen pine, Creight said, “Damn, this was a bad storm!”

“Hurricanes usually are.”

“Hurricane?  I thought it was a nor’easter.”

“That too.  Dad said it’s Hurricane Jennifer.  As it passes, the wind’ll change to the north-west, which it did.”

“Yeah, you’re right.  Imagine that: a real hurricane!”

Dave giggled.  “What’s the matter: weren’t you scared enough?”

Creight frowned but pushed on.  At the crest they took the path to the ball field, a less cluttered avenue.  Few trees grew on the east side of the island and in the past the many bushes had survived even stronger winds.  Little hindered the two boys on their passage to Seaward Point, the island’s most eastward projection that formed an 80-foot cliff above the crashing sea.

They crouched on the rocky edge, hands spread wide to brace themselves, and stared down at the heaving, foam-streaked water.  Though much higher than normal, the wave tops failed to reach their pinnacle and the wind, quartering on their backs, blew the spray away.  But the crashing mountains of water were strong enough still to make the very rock tremble, and the thudding and hissing would even drown shouts.

Creight saw it first.  His eyes widened and his mouth formed unintelligible words but Dave followed the stiffly pointing arm.  To their right, not more than 200 yards along the in-curving rocks, a vessel was jammed into a crevice.  The boys, having lived around boats for years, estimated its length as 70 feet.  They guessed it to be a power yacht of the kind that occasionally put into the island harbor for fuel or emergency supplies despite the signs warning off pleasure craft.  It was perched high in the crevice, as if thrown there by one of the largest storm waves.  Its stern dangled into the churning water.  Now each large wave raised the after section, causing the boat to pitch at least ten degrees in the bow.

The boys studied the pitching action.  Faintly they could hear groaning and creaking, alien sounds in the rumbling wind and smashing water.  Dave caught Creight’s head, pulled the ear next to his mouth and shouted, “She’s hogging!”

Creight positioned Dave’s ear before his own mouth.  “Yeah, her back is broken.  Come on.”

He led the younger boy away from the precipice.  Ten feet from the edge the noise weakened so remarkably that he could almost speak normally.  “I see how we can get down to her.”

Dave’s face twisted.  “Do what?  You dummy, she’s liable to break up anytime.”

“So it’s a gamble.  That’s a rich man’s yacht, abandoned.  We’ll never guess what might be aboard her.”

Dave held back for a moment, finally saying thoughtfully, “She was put there by a wave a lot bigger than any of those, so maybe she’s been there a good while.”

“Yeah, half the night.  She may not break up at all.”

“Not right away,” Dave agreed.  “You think we can use Indian Perch?”

“I think she’s jammed right beside it.”

“Let’s go see.”

They hurried over the irregular boulders and past the occasional twisted bush, fluttering in the wind.  Years ago they had discovered a tall crevice in the rocks whose north side was a spire, rising ten feet above the surrounding jumble, with a peak broad enough for sitting and curious indentations on the landward side, large enough to be hand and footholds and spaced about right for climbing.  In fact it was Julie who had pointed out that suitability.  They had immediately named it Indian Perch, assuming long-vanished Indians had carved the hollows.

Overall the light was still dim but the sky to the east was bright enough to verify Creight’s conjecture.  Indeed the yacht’s prow was driven high and deep into the crevice beside Indian Perch.  The boys scampered up the rock face, ignoring the rainwater retained in some of their handholds.  At this close range the boat’s groaning and creaking were loud as the water sounds.

From the crest they could see its entire length.  The foredeck was painted white and was a tangle of ropes.  The cabin roof and gunwales were light blue.  The bridge, above the fore cabin, was white.  Its windows gaped darkly, having been smashed.

The entire forward section pitched slightly when a wave lifted the stern, but the after section suffered by far the greatest movement.  Most of the groaning seemed to derive from midships.  Indeed the boat was “hogging:” broken in the middle, although the two halves had not yet separated.

“I guess we can jump down to the foredeck,” said Dave, “but how’ll we get off her?”

“I’ll jump first,” said Creight, “then throw the longest line up to you.  You tie it around this rock.”

The slowly tilting deck lay about ten feet below them.  “That might work, if you can actually throw it up here.”

“I’ll tie it around one of my boots and swing it up.  Don’t lose it.”

Without waiting for agreement, Creight jumped down to the white deck.  He landed with an easy thump and immediately began sorting the tangle of ropes.  Having removed a boot, he wrapped the selected one several times around it.  On the second try he swung the boot within reach of Dave, who caught it, untied it and dropped it back to the boy below before looping the line around the shoulder of the rock and securing it with a deftly-tied bowline knot.

As a test, he walked backwards hand-over-hand down the rope to the queasily moving deck.  A glance into the forepeak revealed a hatch sagging open, from which dangled lines of various sizes, once obviously the rope locker.  Beside him Creight sat on the deck to relace his redonned boot.

Dave looked around.  “I guess the cabin is where we ought to start.”

“Yeah.  We need to find the captain’s papers.  If she doesn’t fall apart, we can claim salvage.”

“Listen to that groaning!” Dave scoffed.  “Pulling her off this rock would bust her in half.”

Creight rose to his feet.  “You’re probably right.  Let’s just see what we can find.”

The forward cabin door would not open, although the latch operated.

“Locked?” guessed Dave.  “We can break a porthole,” he added, recalling the row along the side of the cabin.

“Or jammed,” suggested Creight, smashing his booted heel vainly into the door latch.

“This ain’t a house,” sneered Dave.  “It opens out.  Come on.”

At the cabin corner he jumped up on the broad rail, turned backwards and kicked the center of the nearest porthole.  A second kick broke the glass, knocking the curtains aside.  After cleaning out the remaining shards, he dropped through the hole backwards, feet extended, and found himself on a water-soaked, built-in bed in a small interior cabin.  Creight followed and, being the tighter fit, scratched his arm on a glass splinter.

“That was easy,” said Dave.  “It might explain how the storm could break the bridge windows — cheap glass.”

The water noise was much eased, but the groaning remained, transmitted through the boat’s timbers.  The light was dimmer, barely enough to recognize a wall switch that Creight flipped to no effect.  He found a knob and readily opened a narrow door into an even darker passageway, running fore and aft.  The passage brightened significantly whenever the deck pitched upward.  Near them it terminated in the outer door that wouldn’t open while the after end exhibited the boat’s structural disintegration: bulkheads and overhead gaped when the stern sagged, to close again when it rose.  Water frothed aft.

Creight’s chin sagged.  “God, it’s really going to break in half!”

“Anytime!” Dave agreed.  He slipped into the passage past his larger friend to reach the stubborn outer door.  It proved to be secured by two dogs that the lad easily slid aside.  A stout kick swung the door out over the foredeck, admitting more reliable light.  “Locked, not jammed,” he said over his shoulder.  “Wonder who locked it.”

“Who cares?” scoffed Creight.

Four intact side doors remained, opening into cabins, two on either side of the passageway.  The two closer to the crumpled wreckage were open wide, allowing debris to spill into the passage.  The door was closed opposite the one through which they had come.

Creight pressed the latch.  When it resisted, he snarled over his shoulder, “No luck!”

“Try kicking this one,” Dave suggested.

Bracing his shoulders across the narrow passageway, the larger boy swung a booted heel with all his strength.  To his wide-eyed surprise, the door flew open.

Dave pushed into the room beyond with Creight hard on his heels.  This cabin was much larger than the first one.  Morning light seeped through curtained portholes.  It contained two double beds with water-soaked mattresses.  The bedding was strewn about the carpeted deck, partly covering a tangle of cushions and clothing draped wetly on the aft bulkhead, which had apparently served as a bar.  The remains of a broken mirror perched over smashed bottles.  Glass crumbled under their boots.  In the opposite forward corner a canvas tarpaulin was crumpled.

Dave looked around carefully.  “‘A rich man’s yacht,’ you said.  Huh!  Not even any liquor left.”

“Bound to be some drawers or compartments or something …”

“Yeah, under that mess where the bar used to be?  You’re welcome to look, but don’t take too long.”

“Shit!” declared Creight.

“And the companionway to the bridge must be back there where everything’s busted.”

“Shit!” Creight repeated.

Suddenly the canvas tarp heaved.  Part of it folded outward.  A shapely bare arm and shoulder appeared, followed by a head of tangled black hair and a smooth face whose best feature was a pair of striking blue eyes.

A feminine voice croaked, “P-people?  Am I dreaming?”

The boys froze, staring at the apparition, which stared back and said reasonably, “You are real, aren’t you?”

The pitching of the deck caused Dave to stagger.  The girl watched him doubtfully.  “If you fall down, does that prove it?”

“You’re alive,” cried Dave, “in the wreck!”

“Shit!” declared Creight.  “That means she owns it.”

“It does?” asked the girl wonderingly.

The tarpaulin edge moved again.  Another human head appeared, sliding upon the shoulder of the black-haired girl, this one enclosed in a tangle of reddish-blonde hair.  The tarpaulin fell farther away, revealing that the girls had been lying in each other’s arms and exposing two sets of conical tits, one pair with dark nipples, the other with pudgy pink ones.  The strawberry-blonde said, “Flubbie, are we dead?”

“I don’t think so,” said the dark one, adding towards Dave, “Are you really there?”

“While the boat holds together,” he answered, adding over his shoulder, “Come on, Creight: let’s give them a hand.”

He and Creight together lifted the tarp clear of the girls.  Each took a girl’s hand and brought the owner to her feet, although neither girl would give up her arm lock on the other.  They were stark naked and youthfully pretty despite a few zits.  “Flubbie,” the dark one, was the same height as Dave but a few inches shorter than Creight.

Nevertheless she said positively, “You’re only boys!”

“You’re not much older,” said Dave.  “You don’t either one have any bottom hair.”

“We shaved it!” she declared.  “How’d you get on this yacht?”

“From the rocks.  We can take you safe ashore.”

“I’m th-thirsty,” complained the blonde hoarsely.

“No fresh water left?” asked Dave.

Flubbie pointed aft.  “It was back there with the refrigerator.  Can you really get us out of here?”

“Yeah.”  He glanced at his companion.  “You can pull, Creight, while I push.  Come on, let’s go.”

He still had the dark one’s hand, but she held back.  “Before we go, you got to promise us something.”

“Don’t be silly.  This boat could bust apart at any time.”

“I don’t care.  You’ve got to agree.”

Dave took a breath.  “Agree to what?”

She looked into his eyes.  “Maybe it’s lucky you’re just boys.  We’ll do things you like — or you will like — if you don’t turn us in to the authorities.”

Creight’s eyes narrowed.  Always the suspicious one, he said, “How’d you two get on this boat?”

“Dumb asses worrying about that, both of you!” declared Dave.  He pulled harder on the girl’s hand.  “Let’s get off her while we can.”

One blast of the cold outside wind sent the girls shuddering back into the cabin.  Impatiently the boys transferred their overshirts to the girls’ torsos, from which they draped the round hips and mostly concealed the furrowed pubes.  Creight, pushy as usual, fondled the blonde’s puffy breasts.  She twisted her torso away.  “That makes me colder!”

“What were you doing naked anyway?” Dave demanded, stretching the itchy wool over Flubbie’s pointier tits.

“Everything — all our clothes — got wet when the water surged through.”

“Must’ve been when she hit the rocks,” mused Creight.

Now the girls came willingly onto the foredeck.  Creight looped the end of a line around the blonde’s plump waist and taking the other end, scampered up the dangling rope fixed to the rock above.

“Push hard, Dave!” he called above the crashing waves and groaning boat.  Bracing himself, he pulled on the line to the blonde’s waist.

Dave said to her, “Walk hand-over-hand up the rock, the way he did.”

Clumsily, leaning back against Creight’s hauling, she started up the rock.  Dave’s hands lifted her butt cheeks.  Once she was off the deck, he reversed them to push, getting his back under her.  Her flesh was soft and beaded with goosebumps.

Though soon out of Dave’s reach, she came into range of Creight’s.  He caught her wrists and tugging hard on her 130 pounds, pulled her the remaining distance atop the rock.

“Squat down and brace yourself against the wind,” he told her, detaching the waist rope and throwing the end of it down to the deck.

 Flubbie, the brunette, tied it on her own waist, grabbed the secure rope and started up the rock while Dave enjoyed comparing her wirier buttock muscles to the feel of the blonde’s.  Her progress was faster.  When she was safe, Dave followed her with a monkey’s grace.

It was crowded atop the spire.  Dave pointed out the hand and footholds cut into its landward side and descended first as an example.  All four youths were soon ashore.  Though still strong, wind and waves seemed somewhat milder.

“You boys are whizzies,” admitted Flubbie, hugging them both.  “You saved us!”

“What’s your name?” asked Creight.

“Call me Flubbie.  Everybody else does.”  Her arm went around the blonde.  “This is Cissie.  We’re both — um — seventeen.  What’s your name?”

“I’m Creight and he’s Dave.”

Flubbie giggled.  “Crate like a bottle crate?”

“Short for Creighton.”

“Oh.”  She looked down at the wrecked yacht.  “While we’re on names, that’s the Long Island Belvedere.”

He frowned.  “The Long Island what?”

“Belvedere.  Don’t ask me what it means.  We’ve been on it almost two weeks.  We had three super studs with us but when we woke up last night they were gone.”

“Gone?  You mean they’re in the stern?”

“Might be.  The crash woke us up.  Water came flooding in.  It was horrible — and pitch dark.  Good thing Cissie and me were in the same bunk.”

“I guess.  And your luck’s holding.  What was that you said about doing something we’ll like?”

She said testily, “Can’t we go somewhere out of this wind?”

“I’m thirsty,” complained Cissie, the blonde.

* * *

Bent double and hurrying, the foursome skirted the “ball field,” dodging the wind-whipped bushes.  They paused at the devastation on the paved road.

“Wow!” exclaimed the girls.

“What a mess!” added Flubbie.

With boys’ help they navigated the blown down trees, though not without screamed complaints of scraped legs and cold toes.  Faced with surmounting a large pine that seemed to have been twisted out of the ground, Cissie asked plaintively, “Can’t we just go back to the boat?”

“No, silly!” declared Flubbie.

Dave explained more kindly, “Your boat could break up any time.”

“And if she doesn’t,” Creight said, “somebody’ll try to pull her off the rocks as soon as the waves calm down.”

Dave hopped atop a smooth area of the pine trunk.  “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

“You’re a sweetie,” Cissie said.  Helped over the tree and standing beside him again on the pavement, she bent slightly and kissed his cheek.  Thereafter she stayed close on his heels.

Flubbie of the black hair was unconvinced.  “How’ll they know it’s there?”

“Coast Guard checks the east shore after every storm,” said Dave.

“Then some grown-ups — I mean, the Coast Guard would’ve rescued us.”

Creight grinned sardonically.  “Yeah: authorities.”

Dave added, “Unless your boat washes out of the rocks.  Didn’t you feel her rocking?”

“Yeah, but it was rocking for hours.  Why do you two keep talking about it like it was a girl?”

Dave grinned.  “Boats are girls.  You’re lucky we got there before she broke up.”

“I guess so!”  She shuddered and changed the subject.  “What state are we in anyway?”

“State?”  Creight sniffed.  “The shipwrecked state.”

“I mean like New York or Connecticut.”

“You’re in Maine,” said Dave, “only this is an island.”

“An island?”

“Yeah.  Seaward Island, 20 miles off the coast.  When we crossed the ridge back there, you could’ve seen that, if it wasn’t so stormy.”

“An island!” Flubbie repeated, as if trying to imagine the consequences.

Helping Cissie over another fallen tree, Dave asked her, “What port did you sail from?”

“Sail?” said the blonde.

“From Port Jeff—” Flubbie began, hesitated then continued, “From a yacht basin on Long Island Sound.”

“Were you going to England?”

“No.  Just … just cruising with some guys.”  She giggled insincerely.  “We were having so much fun the storm took us by surprise.”

Dave asked incredulously, “You mean you didn’t even monitor NDS?”

She blinked at him.  “I guess not.  What is it?”

“National Distress System.  The law makes you at least listen on Channel 16.  Who was crewing your boat?”

“The three guys?  I don’t know what you mean.”

“Jesus!”  He shook his head and sighed.  “You girls don’t know how lucky you are!”

Cissie smiled at him.  “We’re glad you came along.  Can we get something to drink now?”

“Yeah, another 500 yards and we’ll be …  Where are we taking them, Creight?”

After a moment the larger boy suggested, “To my house?  The old man’s out on patrol right now.”

“That’ll work till we figure something out.”

“I hope it’s soon,” said Cissie.

Suddenly Dave froze.  She bumped into him.  “What’s wrong?  Oh.  Who is it?”

They heard masculine voices around a curve in the road.  Dave murmured, “Sounds like my pop.  Get in the bushes, quick!”

The boys shoved the girls off the road, but penetrating the bushes was easier said than done.  At this point wicked briars were thick in the vegetable wall.

“Here,” ordered Dave, “hide behind this big bush.  Sit down, bend over, pull the wool shirts over your legs and keep your heads down.  Cissie, you turn with your blonde hair the other way.”  He said to Creight, “We got to meet them.  Let me do the talking.”

“You will anyway.”

The boys crossed the roadway into the woods on the other side, turned and reappeared on the pavement just as the men came into view around the curve.  They were seven, all in dark blue work uniforms adorned with backpacks, belted canteens, bloused boots and loops of rope in some cases.  One of them, marching somewhat apart, wore Chief Warrant Officer Insignia and a pistol holstered on his belt.  As he approached, he shouted, “Dave, dammit, what are you doing out here?”

“Hi, Dad.”  Dave shuffled forward.  “Just looking around after the storm.”

“Hold up a second,” the man called to his detail.  “You boys been to the point?”

“We … we were sort of heading that way.  What’re you guys doing out here?”

The man sniffed.  “And wearing short-sleeved shirts.  I thought you were smarter than that.  Don’t you know it’s always cold after a storm?”

“It’ll warm up.”

“Later rather than sooner.  You boys get along home.  Tell your Mom I said make you some hot cocoa.”

“Can’t we … go with you?  What’re you scouting for?”

“You can’t go with us.  This is official business.”  He considered a moment.  “Don’t see why you shouldn’t take a look.”

The man pulled a printout from his shirt pocket.  The boys examined it with interest.  Viewed from directly above, it showed a rocky shoreline, foaming surf and a slim boat jammed into the rocks.

“Wow!” cried Dave.  “Is that at the point?”

“Just below it.”

“Aircraft photo?”

“No, a lucky shot from one of the milsats, during a break in the cloud cover.”

Dave nodded glumly.  “Yeah, official business.”  He returned the printout.

“Go on home, Dave.”

“We’re heading that way.”

Raising his head, the man shouted, “Detail, let’s go!  Route-step march!”

The coastguardsmen resumed their ascent of the island.  Creight and Dave proceeded slowly along the descending road, watching over their shoulders in case anyone looked back and spied the girls.  When the men had rounded the curve out of sight, the boys reversed themselves quickly.  They found the girls, heads tucked between their legs, wool shirts pulled down around their hips.

Dave chuckled.  “Well, you were serious about hiding from the authorities.”

“You know it!” Flubbie acknowledged, looking up and blinking.

He caught Cissie’s arm and helped her to her feet.  “Come on.  The coast is clear but we ought to hurry.”

“I’m still thirsty.”

Flubbie said, “They’re going to the boat, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Dave admitted.

Several yards further along she said, “They’ll find our stuff.”

“So what?”

“Will they think we’re dead?”

Dave shook his head with a wry chuckle.  “Who knew you were ever passengers?”

“Nobody.  Just the guys.  But our backpacks have our names on them.”

“Worry about that if they’re found.”

“You’ll hear about it, won’t you?”

“Sure.  My dad will have the whole story.”

“Okay.”  She perked up visibly and smiled at Creight.  “You got any food at your place?”

“I’m thirsty,” declared Cissie.

“And drink?”

“Cokes.  Sure.”

“God, I’d do anything for a cold, sweet coke,” said Cissie with a sigh.

“We’ll see if you mean that,” Creight promised, leading them off the pavement onto a path through the woods.

The wood line encroached into Creight’s backyard.  Dave felt that anyone seeing the girls from the windows of his own or Ms. Ruby’s home was a minimal risk, so urged them quickly to the unlocked back door and inside the house.

They were in a kitchen that showed little use.  Creight pointed to the refrigerator.  “Help yourselves to the drinks.”  He flopped into one of the four chairs tucked under the kitchen table.  “Get Dave and me a coke too.”

“Such a gracious host!” Flubbie commented.  She opened the refrigerator and studied its contents before transferring four bottles of soda to the table top.  “Got any bread?”

He pointed to a breadbox on the counter, where the girl found half a loaf.  While Cissie swilled her cola in swallows punctuated by unapologetic burps, Flubbie found silverware, condiments and packaged meat and proceeded to make two thick sandwiches.  The girls joined the boys at the table and devoured the food enthusiastically.

When she had swallowed the last morsel, Flubbie sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair.  “God, that feels better!”  She grinned puckishly.  “It’s nice to be saved.”

Dave smiled at Cissie.  “Want another coke?”

“Only one left,” warned Flubbie.

“See that carton?” said Creight, pointing to the floor beside the refrigerator.  “Put some more in.”

Flubbie nodded as if reaching a conclusion.  “You didn’t expect company, did you?”  Kneeling, she transferred the carton’s bottles into the machine.  Creight pushed his chair back, the better to see into the exposed crack of her buttocks.

As if feeling his gaze, the girl stood up and regarded him wryly.  “You got something else for us to wear?”

“Where’s your bathroom?” asked Cissie.

“Upstairs,” said Creight.  He stood up and turned away.  “Come on.”

At the top of the staircase he pointed into the bath.  Cissie pushed past him and plopped onto the toilet.  A blissful smile spread on her face as water hissed into the bowl.

Creight nodded.  “She had to go!  Give that shirt to Dave and follow us to the bedroom.”

Cissie flung off the wool shirt without disturbing her flow.  Dave caught it and leaned against the doorjamb with raised eyebrows while the other two continued down the hall.  He wanted to ask Cissie if she minded him watching her piss nude, but obviously she didn’t.  A better question was why didn’t she mind, but he withheld it.  Long blonde hair draped half her back beyond interference with his frontal view.  Shortly he was lost in the contemplation of bountiful rosy flesh and full breasts on swollen bases from which protruded puffy pink nipples.

Watching him watch her, she spread her legs wider and arched her back, thrusting out her breasts.  She noted curiously, “I didn’t think boys your age liked girls.”

“I don’t know about the rest of them,” said Dave with feeling, “but I sure do like you!”  He took a breath.  “You’re beautiful!”

She smiled invitingly while tearing off toilet paper.  “Can you do anything?”

“You mean like sex?”

“Maybe I can pay you back by sucking your dick.”

He grinned slightly.  “I wouldn’t mind, but I can do a lot more than that.”

“Who sucks your dick — your friend, Creight?”

“Who?  He might’ve —  That’s a stupid idea!  I only let girls do that.”

She chuckled condescendingly.  “You do, huh?  You ever fuck a girl?”

“One.”

“One time?”

“Lots of times.  She says my cock has got thicker.”

“The girl next door, eh?”

“But not a little kid.  She’s younger than you but old enough to have periods.”

Cissie stood up, flushing the toilet.  She was slightly shorter than his five-foot four but much heavier.  “I think you’re about twelve.  How old do you think I am?”

“Seventeen.  That’s what you said.”

“That’s what Flubbie said.”  She giggled.  “But we’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not seventeen.”

He waited but she gestured at the doorway.  “Aren’t we supposed to follow the others?”

He reached around her and lowered the top toilet seat.  “Sit down again.”

She grinned saucily.  “You got something in mind?”

“It’s the way you smell.”

“My piss?”

He toed off his boots and shoved down both sets of shorts.  A small but fiercely erect penis became visible.  “Lean back.”

Her eyes were on his equipment.  “That’s big enough!” she declared.

His hands parted her legs.  He knelt between them and bent forward with extruded tongue.

“Oh, heaven!” gasped Cissie, sliding her butt forward and spreading her legs until they creaked.  “I love a good licking on a full belly.”

He chuckled nasally and redoubled his efforts.  She began to moan.  Her feet, stained with grass and mud from her morning walk, descended onto his back.  Cool, soft thighs tightened on his ears.  Her cries increased in pitch and volume.  Painfully she grabbed a handful of his hair.  She shuddered as his tongue ravaged her clit.  Neither participant had attention to spare for the shadows that fell in the doorway.

Creight sneered.  “You call that trouble?”

Flubbie said defensively, “I didn’t know!  She makes the same noise when somebody beats on her.  Who taught a kid like that to lick a pussy so good?”

“You think he’s good?  I’m even better.”

“Oh, yeah?”  She sneered back.  “All you do is rag.”

“‘Rag?’  What’s that?”

She turned back up the hall, adding over her shoulder, “Don’t you speak Street?  Where’re those clothes you mentioned.”

He rushed after her, slipped an arm around her bare breasts and halted her.  “I’ll show you who’s better.”

“At squeezing boobs?”

He rotated her slightly, thrust the other arm under her buttocks, lifted her feet clear of the floor and marched back into the bedroom, where he dumped her, bouncing, on his unmade bed.  Raised on her elbows, she watched with interest as he speedily undressed.  Her eyes rose from his half-erection when he stopped beside the bed, fists clenched.

“You going to let me?”

She didn’t laugh, though her eyes twinkled.  “I’ve heard that.”

“Huh?  Heard what?”

“That a gentleman asks.  Guess I never met many gentlemen.”

She parted her legs.  He dropped between them and applied the treatment Ms. Ruby had painstakingly taught him.  Unlike Cissie, Flubbie was not audibly demonstrative, but she shuddered and shivered and eventually caught his hair and forced his head back.

“Oh, god.  That gets too good!”  She sat up, hitched her buttocks away and grinned.

He also sat up.  “Wasn’t it better?”

“I can sure tell you’ve done this before!  It’s your turn.  Lie back.”

Her warm mouth eased his painfully hard cock.  He had enjoyed Ms. Ruby briefly two days ago, before the hurricane’s arrival.  Now he emptied overfull reservoirs.  The girl’s hand tugged him out of her mouth, which remained open to catch the continuing spurts.  Her eyebrows rose and she giggled, smiling at him.  When he finally concluded, she smacked her lips and said, “Bejesus, that was a butt load!”

He watched in fascination as she rolled semen over her bottom lip.  The excess streaked her chin before she swallowed and showed a clean tongue.

“It was a lot?” he asked.

“You know it.  Good stuff!”  She took a deep breath and regarded him expectantly.  “A good head man like you knows what I want now.”

Her acknowledgment pleased him.  “I can guess.”

Smiling, he rolled forward as she lay back.  They were soon fucking energetically.

After awhile he said, “Hey, Flubbie, is this what you mainly did on the boat?”

“Three guys and two gals, what do you think?”

“For two weeks?  Wow!”

She laughed.  “We had to rest a lot, silly.  Three guys aren’t enough to keep it going all the time.”

“You wanted to keep going?”

“Sure.  Once you get used to it …  Beats the hell out of card games.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.  If we can keep it quiet.”

“You don’t mean you and Dave!”

“I mean just about the whole Coast Guard station.”

“Oh, goddamn!”

“You don’t like the idea?”

“Don’t I?  It gave me a little-O.”

“A what?”

She giggled.  “You never heard of little- and big-O?  This really is an island! …  With how many men on it?”

“I never counted.  60 or 70, maybe.”

“Oh, wow, Creight.  Let’s fuck!”

“I thought we were.”  Nevertheless his hips increased the pace to match hers.

A man or boy’s second climax can be a long time arriving.  Though she barely moaned, Flubbie dissolved often in shudders and shivers, ceasing to rotate her hips though soon recovering, taking full advantage of his endurance.

“Move over,” ordered Dave, standing beside the squeaking bed with Cissie just behind him.

Creight caught Flubbie’s hips and hitched their bodies closer to the wall.  “Where’ve you been?”

“Fucking on a toilet is uncomfortable.”  Dave guided the plump blonde to a reclining position and promptly crawled upon her.  Now the bed squeaked at a faster rate.

* * *

When both boys finally expressed — in curious synchrony — their second pleasure of the morning, Flubbie slithered out from under Creight and crawled over the panting Dave to stand on the floor, where she tugged on the blonde’s arm.

“Come on, Cissie.  We need showers.”

First the blonde stretched to full length.  Then she grinned, reached up, cupped Dave’s facial cheeks in her hands and arched up to kiss him soundly on the lips before saying, “I told you it was big enough.  Now let me out.”

He rolled off her and helped untangle their legs.  The boys watched as the girls departed the room.

Creight sniffed, “I never fucked anybody with such dirty feet.  They got mud on my sheet.”

“When did you notice?”

“Not beforehand.”

Dave laughed.  “Not when it made a difference.  What a morning, eh?  Have you thought how they’re like wives?  What’ll we give ’em to wear?”

“You mean, what’ll I give ’em to wear!  I’m not sure my jeans’ll fit Cissie.”

“Steal a pair from your Dad.”

“That might work.  And I’ve got a shirt that’s too big.  Say, you getting hungry?”

“Why not?  It’s about lunch time.  You got enough here to feed us?”

“I don’t know.”

Dave stood up, looked around and recalled that his clothes were in the bathroom.  “Get dressed,” he said, “and go liberate some sandwiches from the mess.”

Creight brightened.  “Okay.  I know Bailey’ll give ’em to me.”

Dave smirked.  “And we know why, don’t we?”

Creight looked away.  “Who told you?”

“Told me?  You mean you let him suck you?”

The older boy took a deep breath.  “He likes blonds.”  Creight’s eyes flashed.  “But I didn’t do him back!”

Dave grinned.  “You sure?  Wouldn’t the contrast be interesting?”

“Contrast?”

“Between his and mine?”

“Damn, you’re a skank!  Besides, his dick’s about like mine, just hairier.”

Dave’s grin became a knowing laugh.  Suddenly his eyes widened.  “Damn, the girls are walking on my clothes with their dirty feet!”

He left the room in a flash.  Creight crawled out of bed and gathered his carelessly castoff garments.

In the bathroom Dave rescued his shoes, shorts and shirt, set them outside on the hall floor and returned to the shower stall, where he pulled the curtain back enough to peek at the steamy contents.  The girls, eyes clenched shut, were rubbing each others’ bodies with soapy hands.  He realized they had not found washrags or towels.  Of course not — at Creight’s house the linen closet was in the other bathroom.  Upon his return he passed washcloths through the curtain but decided reluctantly that Creight’s tiny shower stall was too small for three bodies to fit.  Besides, he had enough sex for the present hour anyway.

When the girls emerged, he handed them towels and helped them dry off with special attention to tits and ass.

Flubbie grasped his small cock’s crinkly shaft.  “You need a shower too.”

“I’ll get one after Creight comes back.”

Cissie leaned in and kissed his cheek before announcing, “I’m hungry again.”

“Where’d Creight go?” asked Flubbie sharply.

“To get lunch.”

“Awesome!” said Cissie.

“From McDonalds?”

“Huh?  From the mess hall.”  Dave chuckled.  “Seaward’s too small for restaurants.”

Cissie said, “Oh, I’d love a Big Mac.”

“Didn’t you hear him?” said Flubbie.  “No McD’s.”

“Oh, bof!”

“Don’t be so upset,” said Dave.  “You didn’t have Big Macs on the boat.”

“Yeah, and I missed ’em.”

“Fast food’s tasty,” he admitted thoughtfully, “but so are Bailey’s sandwiches.  Let’s go down to the kitchen and wait for Creight.”

“What about clothes?”

“They’ll have to wait for Creight too.”

As the girls followed him to the stairs, Flubbie said, “Tell us more about life on the island.”