Live Long and Prosper            by: Brandy Dewinter            © 2000, All rights reserved

 

Chapter 12 - "Cleansing Rain"

 

**************************************

Log of the Twilight Breeze
25 October 2004
Long 142.54 deg. W
Lat 11.12 deg. S

(At sea)

Not everything about being a man is good news. Nor is everything about being younger, and the combination has some even more discomforting aspects.

In yesterday’s entry to this logbook, I mentioned that I wasn’t sure my male genitalia were fully developed, specifically whether my testicles had fully descended. Well, I learned the hard way, a very, very unpleasant way, that they were indeed fully formed when I slipped and crunched my new equipment on a cockpit coaming. I thought I was going to die, and couldn’t wait for that blessed event - and the relief that came with it - to happen. Lord God above, I never would have believed how vulnerable that particular center of nerves makes a man! I knew in a sort of intellectual way from the standard self-defense lectures, but that academic knowledge was not the palest shadow of the real truth.

I should have understood, actually, but not from the formal lectures. Now I can see why ‘hitting below the belt’ is the standard description for a cruel, unfair, ‘unmanly’ thing. NO man who has ever felt that pain could inflict it without concern. To do so, one must truly be either cruel, or without any trace of conscience, or indeed unmanly and unaware of how bad it is. I know I will never again be so casual about my own equipment. Family ‘jewels’ indeed, to be protected at all costs. Ha! I just realized I had always thought that phrase was connected with their function as the source of male genetic information. I suppose that might be part of how that got started, but I think the idea of protecting them has more to do with the risk of pain than the risk of lost children.

The only not-terrible part of that particular event was when Anya tried to help me through it. I was helpless, totally unable to move for a few (but very long!) moments, and while I was incapacitated, she tried to see if I had done any real damage. The feel of her soft, gentle hands on that aching part of my body created the most intensely contrasting set of sensations I have ever experienced. It almost made it worthwhile, and I don’t mean for that statement to in any way diminish the sense of how bad it hurt, only to elevate her caress into the same stratospheric level of intensity.

But I didn’t want our first time, and dear God I hope there will indeed be a first time - and a millionth time - to be one where I was too aware of my own pain to see to her pleasure. So I, um, suggested she think about what she was doing. In some ways, of course, that was the worst thing I could have done. But I’d like to think I’m still an ethical, honorable person and I want her to be as happy with the decision, if we ever make it, as I would be.

But despite my protestations of nobility, I have to admit I’m not sure I could have kept things from proceeding if I weren’t hurting so bad at the time. Another social truth I’m only beginning to understand is that men are almost as unable to control themselves when their dicks are aroused as they are when their balls are whacked. ‘Thinking with their little heads’ is generous. In my case, at least, I wasn’t really thinking at all. It was as though my whole world were compressed to a few cubic inches of my body.

Ha! More than a few cubic inches, after Anya’s touch.

I’d like to think that was the reason for the next revelation in my new life. I did as I was told by the Captain and went below to rest after that so-undesirable event, and managed to get myself propped securely in our bunk. The weather must have been moderating almost from the time we put the second reef in the sails, because the Breeze really wasn’t moving around too badly. It was my normal time to rest, so I was able to fall asleep fairly quickly.

Some time during the night, I must have rolled over. In any event, near dawn I was dreaming. I remember the dream, because I woke up in the middle of it. Anya was wearing - perhaps I should say she was ‘almost’ wearing - that bright blue bikini that I, that is, Elaine had worn that one time in order to get Adam to wear his Speedo. That bikini looked a lot better on her that it ever had on me. A LOT better. In my dream, she was leaning against the mast, a challenge in her eyes that offered a matchless reward if I could ‘rise’ to the challenge, so to speak. It was those eyes that did it, I think, even more than that incredible body. She still has Adam’s eyes, a laser-bright cobalt blue that can peel the skin from your bones when she’s angry, but outshines the sky when she’s pleased. I would do almost anything to put that shine in those eyes.

Anyway, I did rise to challenge in her smile and in her eyes, at least as I saw them in my dream. Only, with my position at the time, my erection was pointed at the bunk, not at the sky, and, well, the pressure, and the motion of the Breeze, and that vivid dream of Anya . .

The reason I woke up in the middle of that dream was because I made a mess on the bunk. My first ejaculation, and I slept through half of it!

That’s what I meant when I noted that being younger is not without a few problems, despite the overall benefit. Having a ‘wet dream’ is not something that had been a problem for Adam as long as I had known him so I assume it is something that one grows out of, or at least learns to control. I may have to train myself not to sleep on my stomach. At least it would seem to indicate that all my new equipment is in working order.

Of course, we didn’t have any clean sheets. I stripped the bed and washed the ones I had messed - thankfully it was raining so I could do it without using up our fresh water - and covered the bed with the ones we had already taken off because they had needed to be washed. Still, Anya would not have wanted the ones I ‘slept’ on.

I couldn’t explain why, though, and as a result we’ve had a minor argument. Or maybe the truth is that I ‘wouldn’t’ tell her. Whatever. The result is a bit of distance between us, just when I might have wished for us to become closer.

At least the weather has improved. It’s still cloudy, and we’re still getting occasional rain showers, but we’re back under our normal sails and making good time toward Tirce’s Island. A part of me (Ha! What a Freudian slip! I didn’t really mean THAT part of me. At least, not ONLY that part of me. I was talking about my emotions.) - a part of me wishes we weren’t going there. But Anya still can’t really accept what has happened, and while I know we will manage if we cannot be changed back, and in my heart I know that is what I want for myself, I know just as surely that she will not be at peace until she knows we have done everything possible to restore her to who she was.

I think I’ll spend a part of her watch on deck with her tonight. She’s so conscientious when she’s ‘on watch’, especially at night, that I think she’ll accept a bit of closeness because she’ll know it won’t lead to anything. And that’s okay. Regardless of what happens when we get to the island, the most important thing is that we are happy being together. Since I’m the one who has been screwing up so much lately, I’ll make sure I do whatever I can to, um, remind her that I’m not really a bad guy.

Which means, of course, that I’ll truly have to be a nice guy tonight.

 

sigh

End log entry
Ethan Bridger

*************************************

I still didn’t know why Ethan had decided he had to wash the sheets he slept on the night before. With the clouds and rain, it hadn’t even been hot; certainly not so hot he might have sweated enough to leave a damp spot on the sheets or something. Goodness, the times either one of us had crawled into bed wet during a storm, leaving a damp bed for the next one when the watch changed, well, there had been too many to count.

About the middle of the afternoon I had decided it didn’t matter, though. When you’ve been at sea as long as we had, acting a little weird every now and then is not only excusable, it’s inevitable. In any event, after I took my afternoon nap, I decided I’d wear a ‘real’ bra and another of Lainey’s tops. It would still be at least one more day, maybe two, before we reached Tirce’s Island and I figured I might as well act a little more cheerful in the interim. In any event, I dressed to accept my new physique, not hide it. Okay, maybe flaunt was more accurate. Not that I had a lot of choice, if I wore one of Lainey’s tops. I was quite a bit, um, they were quite a bit tighter on me, and there wasn’t really anything I could do about it.

Even though I kept trying to lie to myself about it, I knew part of the reason I decided to dress more ‘like a girl’ was that I was, um, fascinated by what had happened when I had touched Ethan. He was HUGE! Intellectually, I could tell myself that he was within the ‘normal’ range, even if on the generous side of average (WAY on that side), but . . . Even if I had considered . . . ‘doing’ it with him, at his size, I knew I’d be ripped in two. I was truly frightened by the idea.

But I was fascinated by it, too, like a bird and a snake. My mind kept replaying that scene. My hands on ‘him’, and the way it grew. And grew. And every time I thought of it, my own little tattletales grew, and grew, until they burned with an ache that should have made me want to think of something else, but instead made the image even more compelling. And my nips weren’t the only place that ached. I’d had to change panties twice already today. It’s a good thing that Lainey and I seemed to have the same size hips, even if my waist were a lot smaller.

In any event, when the time came for me to take my overnight watch, I was wearing a soft blue tank top, stretched as taut as the mainsail, over a bra that created enough cleavage I felt I’d be able to sell burro tours down the canyon if Tirce didn’t change us back. White shorts made my hips seem a bit bigger, more in balance with my bosom, and there wasn’t much doubt that there was a girl inside my outfit, regardless of who was inside the girl.

"Stars are starting to come out," Ethan observed as he came on deck after writing in his so-mysterious journal. He had a couple of cups of coffee and some cookies, and sat beside me while we shared them.

I smiled my thanks and said, "The breaks in the clouds started about an hour ago, but I don’t think we’re done with the showers completely yet."

"Good," he said. "I, for one, have not gotten tired of free fresh water showers yet. The tank is almost full, but somehow knowing I won’t have to pedal to refill it makes an on-deck shower even better."

"Is that what you did while I was napping?"

He nodded, and then laughed. At least this time he explained what was making him act so peculiar. Or, maybe I should say he showed me. Ethan stood up and took off his shirt. Under it, he had the most interesting tan lines, fading a bit, but still very distinct.

"Oh, Ethan," I snickered. "You are definitely going to have to work on your tan."

He nodded with good grace, obviously already aware of his ‘condition’, then I could see an idea pop in his eyes. The leer that formed on his rugged features told me this idea was not one that Lainey might have considered.

"You could always avoid that problem, you know, if you go for an all over tan."

"Yeah, right," I said.

"Why not?" he asked, grinning. "It never used to bother you to go topless."

"That’s because before, I was always ‘topless’, even when I was wearing a shirt."

"Um, yeah, well, you have a point."

"Besides, you’re the one who always told me that Lainey needed support to keep her bosom from riding on her navel. And she didn’t have nearly the ‘challenge’ that I have."

"Ah, but you’re young!" Ethan said expansively. "You’re got LOTS of time before you have to worry about that."

"Perhaps, but I have a feeling that if I didn’t worry about it, you would. Or at least, think about it a lot."

"Uh, yes, I expect you’re right. Though, I’m not sure that would be any different."

We had finished the cookies and sat in a very nice silence for a while, just comfortable in each other’s presence. At some point, I felt Ethan’s eyes on me, and he must have seen some echo of what was in his own eyes, or at least what he wanted to see. He set the plate on the leeward seat, then moved back by me, taking my coffee cup and placing it in one of the cupholders we had next to the wheel. Without saying a word, he sat next to me again and started to caress my hair. Whatever other changes Tirce had caused in us, she had done nothing to reduce the sensual pleasure of having my hair stroked. His other hand lifted slowly to brush my cheek, then cup it and lift my face to his with a touch so tender that I wondered if I imagined the pressure.

My lips felt so swollen I found myself kissing him seemingly inches before we should have touched. His own were thinner than I remembered, but no less gentle. And patient. For long minutes he just caressed my lips with his; a soft pressure slowly rising, then fading; a slow shift, a slight tilt, and then the pressure rose again. I don’t know if it was two minutes or twenty before I first felt the dance of his tongue on mine. Lordy, I don’t even remember when I let my lips part.

My hands slid up and around that naked torso, feeling the boulders of solid muscle sliding beneath taut, supple skin. Even as his arm slid down behind my shoulders to support me, my own lifted me to be closer, tighter, warmer though the heat of his body was no match for the burning fires in mine.

I guess I’ll claim sufficient distraction that it was no wonder I didn’t hear the patter of rain on the sea as we sailed into another light shower. My first hint it was happening was when we started to get wet, a warm, gentle shower that seemed to cleanse away any cares, any . . . guilt.

But Ethan lifted his head and said, "If that top gets any tighter, you’ll need scissors to get it off." Reaching for the hem at my waist, he pulled it up past my unresisting arms. His hand, offered an excuse to unwrap from around me, seemed in no hurry to return. Instead, the fingers glided lightly over my quivering tummy, tracing small, meaningless figures in the trails of rainwater they found there.

Then they drifted on, cupping a new target now with more pressure than they had granted my cheek - wonderfully welcome pressure.

I gasped when his thumb found a dark red button that discharged a captive lightning bolt of energy into me, then moaned when he caught it between two fingers and determined if there was any possibility it could get even larger. Any possibility at all.

"Too rough?" he whispered. I couldn’t answer. That breathing issue again, irrelevant right then except to support speech I didn’t need anyway. But he took my silence in whatever way he chose and suggested, "Perhaps I should kiss it, to make it better."

I felt his fingers working the clasp to the bra I had struggled so to put on, but when he quickly worked it free I felt grateful, not cheated.

"Oh, Ethan," I murmured, shuddering with desperate gasps that couldn’t replenish the air that my body had finally demanded. "We can’t, I can’t . . . I won’t be able to . . "

"Shhh," he whispered in my ear, "I’ll do everything that needs to be done." His tongue traced an icy hot line down my neck, then further, until it guided in on a target grown too large to miss.

"OhGod, OhGod, OhGod, Ohhhhhh. . . ."

The magic his lips worked on my nipples was so compelling I didn’t feel the first touch of his now-free hand. Nor maybe the first dozen. But I became aware that his strong fingers were delicately tracing new patterns, now on the dampness soaking my tight, white shorts. My body began to move in concert with his hand, lifting to cling to the pressure when it fell, swaying from side to side in an undirected attempt to focus his touch in my true center, my boiling core.

"Lift, beloved," he urged, and I found my hips rising from the seat like they were hooked to the cloud that still bathed us in warm rain. My shorts joined my other clothes in oblivion, and I felt his palm on my mound, gently pressing me back to the seat.

Now his fingers danced their tease within the fringe that hid the guard to my haven. His lips returned to their duty at my breasts, but if he felt that heavenly assault would once again lift me into a plane of single-sensation focus, he was mistaken. The instant his finger brushed the jewel in my haven, I screamed!

But he didn’t stop!

Dipping lightly into pools of moisture that were partly rain, partly me, he painted a sheen of pleasure on my nubbin, sending shocks that resonated from there to his lips at my nipple like we were part of a continuous circuit. Current flowed from his fingers to my nub to my nips to his lips and then back again for another cycle, each more intense than the last.

He stopped, and I cried out again, this time in the agony of a withdrawal more consuming than any chemical demand and started thrashing my arms in a mindless demand for what had been taken away.

"Shhh," he whispered again. "It will be okay."

He was wrong. Because what he had been doing was rearranging my legs so that they laid along the seat cushion, then slipping them over his shoulders. He replaced his lips on my swollen nipples with his fingers, then replaced his fingers in my burning center with his lips. And it was infinitely more than merely okay.

I exploded with the first lightning flick of his tongue over my nubbin. Again I was thrashing about, arching my back into a taut bow, then slamming back onto his shoulders, then lifting again. I don’t know where my own hands were. I don’t know where my feet rested, or if they were flailing in mid air. All I knew of was his lips, and his fingers, and the straining part of my own body that connected them.

After a while, I knew also that I was screaming. At some time after that, I knew I was not. It wasn’t really relevant. Not even when I did it again. Eventually, what did become relevant was that I was unable to lift anymore, unable to move except to quiver in random spasms, jerking to the touch of his lips and his tongue in a way that was wonderful, but not . . . right any longer, not in comparison to what had been.

"Please," I whispered, finding one of my hands tugging at Ethan’s hair.

He didn’t say anything, but he was instantly beside me, helping me to sit up. I curled into a ball within his arms, letting him hold me while I learned how to breathe again. My head was on his shoulder, my arms pulled up to my chin, my knees pulled up to my elbows with my legs lying across his.

The rain fell down on us for a time too important to be measured, and Ethan just held me, as solid and patient as the rocks his chest seemed to contain. I shifted my legs a little, and felt another rock, this one not in his chest. He flinched at the touch of my calf, and tried to shift away.

You’d have expected me to be . . . sated at that point. I know I did, but at the reminder of . . . him, my mind flashed back to what I had seen the day before, and I just . . . had to see it again. It, um, pulled at my mind like a half-forgotten melody, whirling around and distracting all other thoughts.

I moved my legs down just a little, and let one hand search for its own swollen target. My fingers found it quickly, straining to be free of a fabric cage that forced it into a shape it was never meant to hold in its present condition.

"That’s gotta hurt," I said softly. "I can help, at least . . in one way."

"I’ll be okay," he claimed, but the tightness of his voice showed the lie.

"I don’t mind," I said, realizing even as I said it that it was true.

He didn’t say anything, but like he had done before with me, I took that as all the consent I needed. The shorts he wore were Adam’s, and too large. All he had to do was lift a little to get them clear of the seat so I could slip them down past his narrow hips without bothering with the button or zipper.

Which he did, and I did, and . . . there it was. Dear God, there it was. All of it. More of it than I had remembered.

I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to repeat a bit of my previous encounter with this tower of heat. I cradled his swollen sac in my hand, lightly lifting them as I assessed their weight. Whatever criteria Tirce had used, she seemed to have been consistent. Like the basic organ itself, these were well above the size of what I had once owned.

I started to caress the tower, running my fingers lightly over the length, feeling a velvet hardness that was at once familiar yet new and unique. Ethan leaned back against the seat, breathing in great, deep gulps of the damp sea air, his eyes clenched in tight concentration on an inner vision that eyes would merely have distorted. I let my legs slide down along his, leaning forward because my own eyes were curious. My thumb began to play back the melody he had defined, though the only other similarity was that the instrument was red and gorged with blood.

I had played a similar instrument before, of course, but not for some time, and not from this particular perspective. Still, I had some experience I considered relevant and proceeded to try and apply it.

Not very successfully. The warm rain that had seemed so comforting was keeping my hand from sliding over his . . . I guess I need to accept the word at least in my own mind, his cock. I don’t know if the water rinsed away some natural body oils, or what, but instead of a smooth, snug rub, my hand was pulling, and pinching. I could see the evidence in a frown line between his brows, and in flinches at times, but the irrefutable proof was when his tower started to settle onto its foundation.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. For him, I mean, not for me. I had received the most wonderful pleasure I could ever imagine, and I couldn’t give him even one tiny portion of it in return. And that really bothered me. I truly loved him, just as I had loved Lainey, now and forever. His pleasure was important to me, enough that I would gladly put up with a little inconvenience, maybe even do something that made me uncomfortable if it gave him pleasure. Without the promise of even the smallest share of that glorious ecstasy he had just given to me, I’d have taken him into my body right then. But he was just too BIG! I was afraid to try. If only there was something I could do.

Well, duh! Like a light bulb going off over a cartoon character, I realized there was indeed something I could do. I suppose it’s not fully stupid of me not to think of it right away, since only a week or so before it would literally have been unthinkable, but I knew what I could do, so that made it clear that I would do it.

Slipping down beside him, I knelt on the deck and moved between his legs. Ethan roused, and looked at what I was preparing to do.

"You don’t have to do that," he said hoarsely.

"No, but I want to do it, my love," I said.

Maybe Tirce had left too much of the analytical in me, because I was so focused on my ‘job’ that I sort of lost focus on the objective. Ethan, not surprisingly, kept a very sharp focus on that though, and the team of Bridger and Bridger triumphed again. I was clearly no expert, but it IS a pretty effective technique with plenty of margin for the errors of amateurs.

I suppose I should have ‘seen’ what was about to happen so I could get out of the way. But the proof of my success was in my mouth before I knew it and - I know this sounds stupid to anyone who’s not a boat owner - I just couldn’t spit on the teak deck. Suffice it to say that the taste wasn’t bad, but the texture was . . . unpleasant. I managed to get it down, but that was never going to be my favorite source of protein, even at sea.

The aftershocks took a few more moments. I knew enough to take it easy when he reached the hypersensitive point so he was moving languidly and showed a very pleased grin when his arms lifted me to sit beside him again. It just felt natural to sort of cuddle up with my hands resting lightly on his chest and my legs drawn up and lying across his. We didn’t feel the need to say a word as the warm rain continued to trickle over and between us, washing away whatever had gone before and leaving only the new truth we had found behind.

 

(continued in Part 13)

 

 

*********************************************
Live Long and Prosper © 2000 by Brandy Dewinter. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.