The Old Fisherman’s Dream

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The Old Fisherman was pooped.

It had been a steamy day out on Denny’s boat; not a breath of wind, and the sea still and thick as day-old gumbo. He hadn’t been expecting the work. Had been ready for a day on the lanai with a cold Coors or three and the occasional dip in the cool pool. Sadie might make him a ham and swiss on a bulky with lots of mayo. Get in the pool without their suits and pretend they could do more than they did. Sadie was a fine kisser and her nipples perked up nice.

But he didn’t do that. Nope. Denny had woke him up in the wee hours with a sob story about Seminole Jim bailing on him, and couldn’t he do him just this one favor as how he owed him for that half a tuna he brought over just before Christmas. So there it was. Five-fifteen he was on the smelly old deck of the Marigold Sue testing lines and leader and bait and hooks.

Denny kept a sloppy boat, but he had a good personality and folks seemed to like him. Which was good, because he had no special nose for when or where the fish were eating. So sometimes it was feast, and sometimes it was famine. But people remembered how fun it was with the non-stop suds and the buckets of red-hot chicken wings and tater skins and they told their friends. Word got around. Denny never hurt for customers.

So this time it was a bunch of college kids, men and women both, Spring break thing or some such. He had the big old-fashioned coffee urn cranked , and buckets of donuts. They came on board looking like bears fresh from hibernating, but they perked up with the diesel swill in the coffee urn. Denny always knocked a little cheap whiskey into it, so it was potent brew.

They got out of the harbor without much fuss, ignoring the slow motor signs, leaving as much wake as they wanted to. Denny let him take the boat out while he chatted up the guests. Denny was good at that. They took to him, and with his pirate squint and skunk-colored beard he play the old salt just fine.

Three miles out they started fishing, some small poles over the sides and a couple of big rigs at the chairs in back trolling behind. They zigged and they zagged but spent the whole morning getting nothing but drunk. Finally, a couple of the guys pulled in some nice skipjacks. They played the old boot trick on one of the gals, making her think she was fighting some huge sea monster. When she pulled in that boot she put it on her foot and kicked Denny in the ass with it. He was rubbing his butt for some time.

They were talking about heading back to shore and doing some serious drinking at the Rusty Scupper when something hit one of the big lines. This one gal, Cindy, one of those gals with the red-gold hair that stands out in all directions and a pug nose over a great smile, she was restless and jumping around the deck all morning. But when she saw that line go she threw herself into the chair and grabbed the rod. Denny got her harnessed up with the rod butt seated nice in the socket and she started to put some drag on that line.

Cindy was not a pussy. She had nice strong freckled arms and some serious thighs and calves and some real sweet feet, tanned on the top and pink on the bottom. She didn’t need a lot of coaching to work that fish. He was still deep, but she hauled him toward the boat while Denny had the old fisherman run at a couple of knots to tire the fish out. Then Cindy let him run a bit only to draw him up short again..

This went on for quite a while and you could see the guys, especially one fella with a real blue chin and the kind of eyes that kill women in one look, they wanted to be working that fish. But Cindy would have none of it. She was sweating up a storm, her hair getting lank around her face, nostrils wide as she huffed for air in that heat, a slick on her chin and upper lip. She had that big rod socketed at her waist, pulling it in and letting it out, and every man on board and probably the women bahis firmaları too was thinking something dirty.

Cindy did her work and finally the fish breached, a big, glistening sailfish, fighting for his life. Once she had him on the surface he danced on his tail before crashing into the oil-dark water again. Everybody kept asking Cindy if she wanted relief but she would have none of it. Denny was feeding her a power drink through a straw. He asked, what the hell, where she managed to get the gumption to do what she was doing. She asked right back if he had a slalom ski on board and how many knots that old tub would do. Denny said he had a ski and the Marigold Sue would cut maybe 32 all out.

“That’ll about do. I’ll show y’all later on the way home.”

Strong as she was, she began to poop out. Anybody would. That old sailfish had no intention of joining the party. Three times they got him in close but before the Old Fisherman could gaff him he took off again like a torpedo. The last time he headed for Cuba, burning up the reel and taking it down almost to zip. Finally, Cindy brought him around but it would be a long haul bringing him in.

She looked around, sopping wet hair around her face, partly from sweat, partly from buckets of water she asked to have dumped on her. Nips on her high breasts were saluting even in the heat.

“I want someone to help … not to take over …just help.”

She looked around at all of them, finally settling on the Old Fisherman.


“Him? Why him, I could …?” It was the strong lad with the blue chin.

“‘Cause he knows how.”

She scooted forward so the O.F. could slide his wiry frame behind her, his legs on either side. He put his arms under hers and took hold of the rod. His chin was just over her shoulder, his cheek against her ear. It was hot, but it was necessary.

They became one creature. He followed her motion, pulling when she pulled, releasing when she released. They got lost in it. Mostly neither said a word. A few times he coached quietly in her ear:

“OK, let him go now. Keep the drag on. Ease back. That’s right. Turn him. Turn him. Make him work.”

The energy of the great beast vibrated through the line and down the pole into their joined bodies. He could feel her muscles shake with the effort as she strained against the fighting fish. Sometimes, without a word, she let him take most of the pull while she breathed, settling back into his arms. He used his legs, pushing against the gunwale, his thighs crushed against her round buttocks. He had never been so at one with a woman in his life.

Finally, the great sail was nearing the boat, still struggling.

Cindy was panting hard, like a woman giving birth. She gave a great cry, her whole body stiff against him. He matched her effort, growling in her ear. The great head lurched up next to the stern.

Denny on the fantail hooked one gaff into a crimson gill. It took two more gaffs to haul the monster up onto the deck, still flapping angrily and doing his best to skewer anyone who came close with his great sword.

Someone took the pole and as he lay back in the chair Cindy lay back on him, limp and exhausted. She took his blistered hands in her own blistered palms and placed them casually on her breasts. He could swear that he was never truly aroused, but at one point he felt a wonderful warm release, and didn’t care. He felt her whole body go limp in his arms. They slept.

When he woke she was gone and Jackson, Denny’s lazy third in command was handing him an Irish coffee and a couple donuts. Few meals ever tasted that good.

After a while he got up, a bit wobbly and headed down the gangway to the head next to the engine room. Normally he would just take a whiz over the leeward rail, but there was young women on board, and though they probably wouldn’t give a shit, he wanted to keep up appearances. kaçak iddaa As he came out of the can he heard a sound back in a little nook in the corridor by the engine compartment. Cindy and Bluebeard were going at it something fierce up against the bulkhead. She had one heel hooked over his shoulder, pink sole flashing, while she balanced on tiptoe with the other foot, Bluebeard’s sinewy ass slamming between those strong freckled thighs at a furious rate. He was down to the short strokes and she had one hand in the guy’s thick black hair and the other dug into his bony ass as she gnawed his shoulder.

The Old Fisherman didn’t pretend not to look, but he didn’t stare. Cindy caught his glance and that shining smile appeared over the dark shoulder. She lifted one hand and gave him a thumbs up. He returned her smile and gave her an OK sign in return. As he reached the end of the corridor their combined roar filled it, mingling with the loud growl of the engines.

A while later most of the guests and crew were on deck lying about other fishing trips when Cindy appeared in a bathing suit. It wasn’t a bikini. It was clearly built for swimming but it fitted her to a T revealing the fine contours of her more tender areas with no pretense.

“Where’s the ski?” she asked with a smirk.

Denny pulled it out of a locker.

She looked it over with mock horror.

“My god what a piece of shit, but I guess I can do something with this. You got a rope rigged?”

Denny nodded and she proceeded to the fantail where she climbed down into the water.

“Crank it up!” she shouted. Jackson fired up the (double Evinrudes,) and a little too slowly for Cindy’s liking, the Marigold Sue got up to speed.

Cindy started cutting back and forth behind the boat, leaping the wake, carving S curves that laid her out almost parallel to the water. She spun in a circle. She skied backwards. Finally she hauled herself up beside the boat.

“Give me a little more! Please.”

Jackson looked at Denny and Denny nodded OK.

The Marigold Sue added a couple of knots.

“Come on! See if you can get forty, just for a minute!”

Denny gritted his teeth but gave Jackson the sign.

Everyone could feel the engines trying to jump out of the water. A small surge.

Cindy skidded up beside the stern and lifted one foot out of the slalom ski, and placed it on the water until suds were flying off it. She kicked the ski up into her hand and flicked it onto the deck. She skidded along on those beautiful pink bare feet, water flying up like rooster tails behind her heels. Every inch of her beautiful body was braced against the water. As the boat approached the outer harbor buoy she signaled to Jackson and he slowed allowing her to sink gracefully into the water. She swam for the buoy where they picked her up.

On the dock she proudly got her picture taken with her great catch, but before the camera was put away she insisted that the Old Fisherman be included in one shot.

“You’re more man than all of these,” she whispered in his ear next to the leviathan. She gave him a kiss that wasn’t polite at all and lasted as long as he wanted and as long as she wanted. He was aroused for sure. But she headed off laughing with Bluebeard while he limped home, stiffly, to Sadie.

He drank a couple of beers fast and devoured a T-bone barely scortched and a baked potato hot off the grill. The night was muggy, so he jumped in the pool after dinner and then stretched out on his favorite chaise with a bottle of Wild Turkey. Finally, a breeze began flapping the signal flags he had on the pole in front of the bungalow. The hardware beat a percussion on the aluminum. He fell asleep.

That night the storm that had been too lazy to come onshore during the day moved in with a vengeance, but the O.F. was out. Still,in his dream he felt the spray and tasted it on his lips. There was an odor kaçak bahis of fresh fish in the air with a little funk to it. At first he couldn’t place the smell, but he was getting a serious hardon, and so he knew then that he was smelling fresh woman conch. His eyes were closed and it was dark, but even so he began to make out two luminous columns on either side of his head. Gazing upward he realized he was staring up the sleek wet body of a young woman. Above her head, surrounded by pale green-blond hair whipping in the wind, a bright half moon ducked in and out of the storm clouds.

She gazed down at him and her eyes were large and luminous, her smile glistening with small sharp teeth. But then he recognized her. His nubile ‘baby-sitter’ friend of a few seasons ago. She was a bit more mature, breasts of a full-grown woman thick in the moonlight.

“I still have your things.” He whispered.

She nodded and released a small moan-growl, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Without ceremony she slowly lowered her hips until her sweet mossy parts were tickling his lips. She began to dance them over his mouth. Gradually, the lips opened and the sea musk grew a bit stronger, small drops of her personal dew falling on his lips. She was waiting for his tongue, but when he was reluctant to give it she reached down and webbed her long cool fingers under his neck, pulling his lips hard against her, scrubbing her tenderness against his three-day bristle, insisting his hard lips deep within her folds.

Giving in, he raised his hands to cup her firm, cool, damp ass and crush her tender parts into his mouth. He sucked the grape-sized button tight between his lips and as he did she lifted her fine pointed chin to the moon and crooned a wail like nothing he had ever heard. It had whalesong in it and the cry of the gull and the wind in the rigging. His spine turned to silver liquid.

Her legs vibrated against his ears and her hips bucked against his mouth again and again and again. That belly deep cry went on and on. Then with a shuddering spasm, like a great wave striking the thin hull of a boat she released cool liquid into his mouth and he drank it and drank it willingly, feeling as though he was filled with light.

The shuddering subsided and he thought she might curl up against him as she had done before. But instead she leaped away with great energy, grabbing his hand. He found himself on his feet, flying across the lanai and then falling toward water. He thought it was the pool, but as they swam hand in hand he realized they had gone too far. He also knew that he had not taken a breath in more than a minute. Yet he felt no pressure to do so. He was drawn on, through clouds of phosphorescent fish.

She drew him onto her back, his naked hips tight against hers; her strong legs undulating in a powerful dolphin kick. He felt a warmth gently open under him and his twisted knob slipped right in. They rolled through the water like this, swimming and mating in one smooth motion. The churning of her hips became more fierce, and that penetrating moan filled his ears and all the ocean for fathoms around. He gave her everything he had in him.

He woke on the beach, waves tickling his feet. A wrack of seaweed was under and around him, and palm fronds littered the sand. A shadow crossed his body. Sadie was scowling down at him.

“There you are, you crazy asshole. I’ve a mind to hide every bottle in the house and warn every bartender and liquor store owner in a fifty mile radius not to serve you. Scared the shit out of me.”

She kicked a cloud of sand onto him.

“Get yourself up to the house. I got Canadian bacon, buttermilk biscuits and black coffee. Damn fool!”

She stomped up the beach without looking back.

The Old Fisherman lay on his back and let the sun rise on him and the water kiss his feet. Wished he had a stogie to stink up the beach.

He uncurled his cramped left hand. Twisted around his fingers were a number of strands of long, fine golden hair.

If you enjoyed this story …or if it wasn’t your cup of grog … leave a brief note. Thanks. LK

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