The Captain's Wife
By Dreamspinner



When I was stationed in Charleston, South Carolina, I rented a room on the
fifth floor of an old shotgun house at 61 South Battery. I could see Fort
Sumpter from my window. I also had a clear view of my new next door neighbors'
back yard. One Saturday in June of 1970, about two months before we were due
to leave on what we thought then would be a routine WESTPAC cruise, I was
having coffee in my little kitchen, looking down at Captain and Mrs.
Filiatreau. I went to open the window so I could hear what was going on, but
it got stuck about halfway up and I had to bang on it to get it all the way
open. Mrs. F must have heard me. She looked up for a moment and then went back
to what she was doing, which was digging up ground for a late planting.
Captain F was sitting on the deck in his wheelchair, wearing his baseball cap
with the scrambled eggs on the bill. He had a blanket draped across his narrow
shoulders. He was pointing all around, telling her where to dig and how deep,
but she ignored him and went on digging where and how deep she wanted.

After about ten minutes, Mrs. F took off her sweater, tied it around her waist
and went back to work in her white T-shirt. Almost immediately, Captain F told
her to put it back on. "You've got arms like a man!" he declared. "What if the
enlisted man next door sees you?"

"What if he does?" she said. She looked up in my direction, pushed her sleeves
up over her shoulders and flexed her muscles. "Hey, neighbor! Look here!" she
yelled, straightening and flexing her elbows.

She held my gaze for a moment and then turned to her husband. "He saw me. I
saw him looking."

"Oh, great," he said. "Now he knows my wife is a goddam freak." He turned and
struggled himself up his ramp and into the house.

Mrs. F turned to me again for a moment and then went back to her digging. I
went back to my coffee. My mind was racing.

At noon, I go out to get my mail. Among the letters and junk mail is a folded
note. It's from Mrs. Filiatreau. She says she wants me to call sometime. She
suggests I call next Friday at 2000. We should get better acquainted, she
says. After all, she says, we've been neighbors now for over two weeks. She
signs it "Evelyn," in flowing script.

I see her once the next day as they leave for church at 1000, and once later
in the week in passing. We wave politely. Like before when I've seen her, she
looks like she's got a secret.

Friday at 2000 sharp, I call.

It rings ten times. Then she answers. She's puffing.

"It's me, your neighbor," I say. "Did I call at a bad time? You sound out of
breath."

"I've been exercising," she says.

I begin to harden. "Oh?" I say, and try to imagine what kind of exercise she
meant. She'd always been wearing long-sleeves and slacks when I'd seen her
before, but I remember her muscles from last Saturday.

"Yes," she says. "I'm down in the basement. There's a pipe down here up
between two floor joists I do chin-ups on, and I do relevées on the stairs,
you know, going up and down on my toes a whole bunch of times. It's a ballet
exercise. Anyway, I was in the middle of a set of a hundred when you called. I
like it down here. It's quiet and I can concentrate. My husband is sitting
upstairs listening to the radio. He can't get down the steps, so I don't have
to worry about that, either."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you in a sec. Do you mind if I do some calves while we talk?" she
says. "I hate to stop when I really get going, and I was really going strong."

My mouth goes dry. "No, I don't mind." I unfasten my pants and push them down
to my knees.

I hear noises like she's got the phone cradled in her neck. Her breath gets
forced into rhythm. "My husband, The Captain, has always disapproved of me
exercising. He said my muscles are big enough already. My calves especially.
He forbids me to wear a skirt and heels."

"I notice you've always been wearing long things when I've seen you out."

"You've noticed what I wear?" she says between breaths.

She's got me and I see no satisfactory answer anywhere. I say, "Well, yes,"
and think I must sound like I'm either queer or really stupid.

Mrs. F doesn't say anything. By the sound of her breathing, she's really
pushing it.

"What are you wearing now?" I ask, trying to sound innocent.

"A plain sleeveless house dress and my Keds. No hose, of course. I don't like
to be confined when I work out." Her breathing is really labored now.

A picture of her forms in my mind. I see her going up on her toes and down
again, 'a whole bunch of times,' holding onto the stair rail for balance. In
my fantasy, the hem of her housedress comes just below the knee. Her Achilles
tendons are thin and she has the kind of calves that swoop out suddenly about
six inches above the ankle. The lobes of her calves come to a point, and when
she's up on her toes, they cramp up into two capital W's, the muscles
quivering, hovering about nine inches above her white Keds with the blue
rubber tag. Imagining it makes my head swim. I wish I was there in the
basement with her.

She blows her breath out hard and I hear her take the phone in her hand. "OK,"
she says. "I did a hundred more relevées. I'm going to sit on the steps and
catch my breath."

"Take your time," I say, thinking about how delicate the word relevée is, but
how strong they make the calves.

"You should see them," she says. "They're all swoll up!" she says, and laughs.
She's from the south, I can tell.

"Are they?" I ask, hoping they are.

"They are! Right now, I've got my feet pointed out and when I go up on my
toes, my calf muscles bunch up. I like them, but like I said, my husband
doesn't. Do you like muscley legs and muscley arms?"

My breath catches in my throat. I wonder if she knows I've been quietly
wanking ever since she told me she was exercising, balancing on the edge of
orgasm, prolonging it, ready to go at any moment, hoping she can't tell from
my breathing but at the same time, wanting her to know. I clear my throat to
stabilize my voice and ask, "Is it important that I do?"

"It is to me," she says.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you after I do a set of chin-ups," she says, and puts the receiver
down on the stair.

I hear her start rhythmically blowing out her breath and grunting with the
effort. I count ten, and then eleven. Then I hear her let herself down. She
picks up the phone and gasps, "I did eleven. Hold on, I need to catch my
breath." She puts the phone down again and I hear her panting for a few
moments.

Then I hear her hand take the receiver and she says, "OK. I can talk now.
Where was I?"

"You were going to tell me why it was important that I like muscley legs and
muscley arms."

"That's right. Because I'm tired and frustrated. Living with that dictatorial
prick of a husband makes me nuts in general, but especially when it comes to
his attitude about my muscles. Even when we used to fuck, he would look to the
side or keep his eyes closed. He wouldn't look at me. I wanted him to lust for
my body, to feel my muscley arms and insist I wear short skirts and heels and
marvel at my big calves and adore them. But, it wasn't to be. Now that he's
disabled, it's worse. He can't function in a manly way at all anymore, which
has taken away the only thing that made our marriage tolerable. Am I saying
too much?"

I've come all over the place and am in the process of wiping myself off with a
damp washcloth. I stammer, "Uh, uh, well..."

"Oh, I have said too much!" she gushes. "Look, let me put the phone down and
do another set of chin-ups. Don't hang up. Really, I apologize," she says, and
the receiver hits the stair and I hear her rhythmic grunting again.

I hear her let herself down. She pants for a minute and picks up the phone.
She can hardly speak. "Whew! Jesus! Man, oh, man, what a workout! Do you work
out?"

I can lie and say I do and run the risk of having her ask to see my muscle
sometime in the near or remote future, or confess and tell her I wish I did
and be embarrassed, because from the look at her I got last weekend, her
muscles are bigger than mine, maybe. So, I say, "No."

She's got her breath back now. "You should!" she declares. "Having muscles is
fun. Why don't you?"

"I do jog," I say. "And I used to swim in high school." I hate myself for
being defensive.

I hear her thinking. Finally, she says, "You're in good shape. Your butt looks
good in whites."

She's been watching me, it's clear. I'm in a horrible bind now. I have to say
something to redeem myself, but I make it worse. I ask, "You've seen me in
whites?" I am an idiot. Of course she's seen me in whites.

I hear her breathing hard. Minutes go by. Finally, she says, "You like the
ocean? Let's go over to Sullivan's Island sometime. I know a place by the old
BOQ where the surf is good. You know the BOQ?"

I do, actually. One of the guys in my division had a place there. It was built
for the bachelor Union officers. A beautiful place. Fifteen-foot ceilings,
nine-foot windows. Pine floors. View of the Atlantic. Fabulous, really. I
wanted to take a woman there and fuck her, but I didn't know one at the time.
"Yes," I say, after about ten years.

"I rent one of the units," she says. "I need a place to get away from The
Captain. Let's go over tomorrow morning. We'll swim and then I'll make us
lunch."

My mind is empty. I search for a thought but come up empty-handed.

"Hello?" she says. "Are you still there?"

I want to be smooth. "But you're married," I say instead.

"Silly boy. Of course I'm married, but I'm not 'married' married. By the way,
you never did answer my question. Do you like muscley legs and muscley arms?"

I start to wank again, very quietly, very slowly, trying not to shake the
receiver, trying to put off having another orgasm, but I can't delay it and I
come again, splattering it everywhere. Like always when I come twice, it's
deeper, bigger and makes me kind of ache up inside me, past my asshole. I make
a little noise.

"Are you OK?"

I clear my throat, pretending that the reason I didn't answer before was
because I had something caught in my throat. "I had something in my throat.
Sorry. Yes, I like muscley legs and muscley arms." Goo is all over the place.

"Good! Meet me at the BOQ at 0545 tomorrow," she says, and hangs up.

I don't get to sleep until about three in the morning. The alarm goes off at
0500. I get up and look down at Captain Filiatreau's house. Mrs. F has the
bathroom light on. I hear her singing "Anchors Aweigh' in the shower.

I get to the BOQ at 0530. I turn off my car and promptly go to sleep and have
a dream about Mrs. Filiatreau and me wading in the surf. The sun makes her
look like a goddess. I move in to kiss her and see the dorsal fin of a great
white shark about three feet beyond her. I try to speak, but like in a lot of
my dreams, I'm paralyzed. I feel the shark hit my shoulder and wake up with a
start.

Mrs. F is shaking me. "Hey, sailor, you slept through reveille." She looks
inside my car and sees me in shorts. "I'm going inside to change. Meet me at
the beach," she says, and goes up the steps to her unit. On the porch, she
turns and I see her 'I've got a secret' expression. She's wearing slacks and a
long-sleeved blouse. I wave and she goes inside.

I shake off the sleep and get my stuff and trudge my way around to the seaward
side of the BOQ. When I get right in front of her unit, I look around and see
Mrs. F at the window. She's naked. She stares at me for a moment, then goes
away from the window and into the interior of her unit. Three minutes later,
she comes out carrying a beach bag and makes her way to where I'm still
standing like a post. She's got a robe on now, and it comes to just below the
knee. Her calves are as big as I'd hoped and the muscles in them are moving
around as she the trudges through the sand. I get hard.

She comes right up to me and grabs it. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are
you just glad to see me?" she says in a Mae West voice.

I've never had a woman just come up and grab me by the dick. All of a sudden I
feel very young and way over my head. "What do you think?" I say, trying to be
suave, but my voice quavers.

She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "Relax. Let's have some fun today."
She lets go of my crotch, turns and lays her bag down on a deck chair I hadn't
seen until just now. She motions to the other chair (which I hadn't noticed,
either) and says, "That one's for you."

I just stand there like I'm waiting for instructions. I lose my hardon.

Mrs. F takes off her robe and flings it on her deck chair. "You like my suit?"
she says, and twirls around like a ballerina, with her arms in a circle over
her head and standing up on her toes, which makes her calf muscles bulge out.

It's a two-piece. Black. No straps. Up close, I see she's at least fifty, but
muscled like a gymnast, but taller than a gymnast. She's as tall as me, I
think. I can't tear my eyes off her. She sees me staring and makes muscles
with her arms, sucking in her stomach and showing off like a bodybuilder on
Venice Beach. I get my hardon back.

She smiles. "You do like muscley legs and muscley arms! I'm so glad." She
steps close and pulls my face to hers and kisses me hard on the lips. In a
moment, my tongue is in her mouth, rushing around like somebody looking for
something.

That makes her laugh so hard she bends over and holds her stomach. "Slow
down," she says after she stops laughing and stands up.

"Mrs. Filiatreau, I don't know what to say except I'm sorry. I've never seen
anyone like you, and anyway, your husband, The Captain is...Well, anyway, I
could get in a lot of trouble. Maybe I better go." I turn away, hoping she
tries to talk me out of leaving, but not knowing for sure what I'll do if I
stay.

She takes me by the hand and turns me around and sits me down on my deck
chair, then sits on hers facing me. She crosses her legs. Her calf muscle
bulges out where it's pressed against her other knee. She sees me looking at
it and points her toe, which makes the muscle spread out even more.

"My name is Evelyn, not 'Mrs. Filiatreau,' and you are not going to get in
trouble," she says.

"OK, Evelyn, what should we do?" My dick is throbbing.

"Do you want to lie here in the sun or go in the surf?"

I remember the dream I was having. "Go in the surf," I say. I don't think
there are sharks in the ocean today. At least I hadn't heard any warnings.

"Take off your shirt," she says, tugging at the waistband of my white T.

I do and she looks me over. "Nice," she says. "You're nice and lean. Make
muscles," she says. "Show me what you're made of."

Even though I'm shy about it, I do. "Very nice," she says, feeling my right,
then my left biceps. "I like. I approve. Come on, let's get wet." She jumps up
and breaks into a dead run for the water. Her big calves yell at me. Before I
can uproot myself, she's waist-deep and bouncing in the breakers.

In slow motion, I get to the waterline, then go out to where she's laughing
and splashing around like a girl in the warm Atlantic. She sees me and makes
muscles again.

She's made me want to fuck her. I want to feel her hard muscles, kiss her all
over, devour her. Seeing her has turned me into an animal. My balls are as big
as grapefruits. Pure testosterone flows in my veins. My penis has the con and
I am putting into port. I feel the tugboat guiding me, easing me slowly along
to my place at the quay where my hot cargo will be discharged.

Evelyn's strong arms are around me, her mouth presses to mine, my tongue
touches hers and she grinds against me. We put our feet wide apart to keep the
waves from toppling us over. Her hand gets inside my shorts and on my hard
dick and squeezes it. She knows what she's doing. "Let's get to dry land," she
says, and leads me by the hand and the dick towards the shore.

When we get to knee-deep water, she says, "I'd like to get a look at that,"
and slips her hand under my waistband and pulls it out so she can see in. Her
eyes bug out and she reaches in and grabs hold of it. "Jesus, this is one nice
dick, sailor. You come here often?"

"I haven't come here yet, but I'm about to," I say, and feel real proud of
myself for coming up with such a snappy line.

She takes me by the waistband and pulls me up to just beyond where the high
tide line is, sits down and pats the dry sand beside her. I sit and we are
silent until the onshore breeze dries us off, then she starts in telling me
her story. She's thirty-five years younger than The Captain, she says. They
met at her daughter's cotillion. He was the CO of the base near where she
lived with her daughter. It was near Pensacola, she says. They needed young
officers as escorts for the girls and he came along to chaperone his young
officers. She thought he was handsome then and he was obviously attracted to
her, at least he seemed to be at the time, she says.

Things soon cooled off. "He is one controlling prick," she says. "A regular
asshole." She says it started within a few weeks of getting married. He became
a dictator overnight, she says. It was 'do this,' 'do that,' and do it 'on the
double.' And as far as muscles were concerned, she says, he didn't want to see
them, let alone show the kind of interest she wanted him to.

"My first husband, on the other hand, was a big fan of my muscular build. He
loved to watch me flex," she says.

She'd been looking out to sea as she spoke, but right after she says her first
husband loved to watch her flex, she turns to me and asks, "Would you like to
see me flex?"

I've had nothing else on my mind ever since we sat down. My dick is as hard as
a bicycle tire. I just nod.

She makes a muscle with the arm opposite me and then twists at the waist which
brings it right in front of my face so I have a close-up view of it. Evelyn's
one of those people whose muscle has a groove between the two heads of it. You
see that on someone who works hard labor for a living, or someone who's lifted
weights their entire life. She's obviously one of those in the latter
category, I think. It looks hard.

I reach out and touch it with the tip of my finger.

"C'mon, really grab it," she says. "Get a feel of it."

There's no give to it. It feels like a lump of hard rubber with skin on it. I
make a muscle and feel it, then feel hers again. Mine's about the same size as
hers, but hers is harder. I flex mine tighter and feel it again, then feel
hers.

She reaches over and feels my muscle, then feels hers. "Mine's harder," she
says, then flops down on her belly in the sand and digs her right elbow in.
"Let's arm wrestle?" she says. "I bet I can beat you." She moves her arm back
and forth like she's struggling with an invisible opponent. "I bet I'm
stronger than you. Come on! Show me what you're made of!" She licks her lips
like she can taste it already.

For me, it's a dream come true. Years ago, I arm wrestled a girl in the school
cafeteria during study hall. She lived on the next farm over from ours, and
I'd been entranced by her popping-up biceps all year. I'd been sitting across
from her, feeling my muscle while looking at hers. She'd caught me and invited
me to see who was the stronger and put her elbow down on the study table. We
went at it and were deadlocked for fifteen minutes. I had the advantage
because my arm was slightly longer and finally pinned her down, but knew that
pound-for-pound, she was stronger than me. The thing was, pitting my strength
against hers had given me a boner, and I had to wait after the bell rang until
it went down before I could stand up to leave. I'd replayed that scene a
thousand times, hoping for another similar situation, and now, here it was in
front of me like a Christmas present.

I lay down in the sand facing Evelyn and took her hand. My hard dick is
throbbing so I scoot from side to side to make a depression in the sand it
will fit into and not get bound up crosswise. On the count of three, we start.
Again, my arm is slightly longer than my opponent's and I think I have the
advantage, but this time she has more than enough strength to make up for what
she gives away in leverage.

"Don't hold back," she says. "You won't hurt me."

I'm not holding back. I'm giving her everything I have. And, I can't
concentrate. The sight of her bulging muscle is totally distracting. There's a
vein that runs over it and up to her shoulder I can't take my eyes from. I
keep thinking about how her balled-up muscle felt and how I want to feel it
again but under different circumstances, like between the sheets with me on
top of her, humping away.

My arm is inches away from the sand and Evelyn is flushed with the strain. I
think she's beautiful and to make it worse, she's got her knees bent and she's
pointing her toes with the effort, which makes her calf muscles look like two
big capital M's next to each other, and with that observation, my strength
goes away. She smashes the back of my hand down and declares, "I win!" and
rolls over on her back, laughing like she's the happiest person in the world.

I crawl around so I can look down on her face. One of her hands gets me by the
dick and the other pulls me down by the back of the neck. She hesitates for a
second, then pulls my face to hers. She knows what she's doing. In seconds,
she's got her hand inside my shorts. I tell her I'm afraid I'm going to go off
and she pinches it off at the base. She tells me not to go yet, and with that,
lifts her foot up and hooks a toe in the waistband of my shorts. They're down
to my ankles in one swift movement. In another, she pulls her suit down and
slips me in, still holding on to it at the base so I don't come too soon.

And then she starts moving. She's a dream, fucking with confidence and
experience that I've never known, kissing me at just the right moments,
holding me around the waist with her free arm, feeling my ass, telling me how
sweet I am, looking at me wide-eyed, young and old at the same time.

She puts her free hand behind her head and contracts her biceps. I feel it.
It's hard as I remember. I can't make a dent in it. The skin slips around on
it under my fingertips. The groove between the two heads excites me. She knows
I can't wait any longer and takes her hand off and wraps her arms around me
and lets me feel how strong she really is. At last, I am at the quay and I
unload my hot cargo, and feeling it inside her, she goes too, arching and
jerking like a bronc, pulling at her hair, kissing and kissing and kissing me,
biting my lips and scratching my back.

I want to roll off but she pushes me to one side and tells me to stay inside
her. She puts spit on her fingers and starts doing herself. In seconds, she's
off again, her pussy reflexively gripping my dick with the strength of a
strong man's hand. "Stick it all the way in again and go back and forth!" she
screams and pulls me back on top. I make it go in and out and she goes off
again and again, and she's louder and stronger in her passion the second time
around. And again, she pushes me to the side and brings herself off again, and
again, I'm on top, humping her like there's no tomorrow with her screaming and
thrashing like an animal. I am not in charge and I like it.

Evelyn makes us drinks and we move out to the living room. She sits
cross-legged on the couch. I sit in a matching chair opposite her. She's in a
blue silk robe, tied loosely at the waist. One of her tits hangs out. She runs
her fingers around its nipple absentmindedly as she speaks, making it stick up
like a pencil eraser, but she doesn't act like she even feels it.

"How old do you think I am?" It's noon, and sunlight fills her apartment.

"Fifty," I say. I think she may be older, but don't want to say so.

"Fifty-two, actually," she says. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"I have a son your age." She sips her drink. "Am I your mother's age?"

"About," I say. I picture my mom's doughy butt and fat legs, trying to imagine
her in a two-piece. "You're nothing like her, though."

Evelyn smiles radiantly. "I hope not."

She puts her glass down on the floor, gets up, goes to the window and pulls
her robe up to just above the knee. She faces away towards the ocean. Even
standing still, her calves twitch and ripple as she adjusts her posture, but
then, like a ballerina, she puts her feet pointing radically out and starts
going up and down on her toes and that's when the real action starts. She does
a few of what I now know are relevées very slowly so it looks like the
swelling up happens in slow motion and then does about fifty so fast that it's
all a blur and I realize how strong her calves are. She's not a small woman,
but she squirts up so fast when she points her toes she nearly comes off the
floor. It looks like she's on a pogo stick. And the big muscles of her calves
that made M's when she was lying on her belly now make great big W's when her
toes point, now that she's right side up. I'm hard again for watching her, to
my amazement.

"Get your dick out and jack off," she says.

"OK," I say, and do.

"Do you like my muscley legs?" she says, going up and holding it, making her
legs very hard.

"Yes."

She puts her heels together and goes up again so the inner muscles squeeze
against each other. "Do you like me to do this?"

I'm about to go off. "Yes," I squeak out.

Hearing my squeak and sensing what it means she spins around and rushes over.
In seconds flat, she's got me in her mouth, bobbing away. I fall back on the
couch and quick as a mink, she's gone end for end, lowering her pussy down. I
put my tongue on it and let fly. She pushes her crotch against my face with
all her might and seconds later, spills her hot stuff. Then I go off.

When the aftershocks pass, I decide Evelyn's too heavy and push her off. She
scoots up so she's more comfortable, but we stay end for end. In minutes, she
falls asleep. I run my free hand along her leg from her ass to her
deeply-arched foot and back up again, pausing at mid-calf and returning there
to admire the mass of her calf muscle. I imagine I can't get both hands around
it, it's that big. I go to sleep marveling at the heft of it.

I get back to my place about 1700, set the alarm and go straight to bed
without cleaning up. I dream about Evelyn.

My alarm goes off at 0530 and by 0600, I'm aboard, making my rounds, loaded
.45 on my hip. We have nukes, a fact everyone knows but no one admits, and I
take my job guarding the missile house very seriously, but today I'm
distracted.

About 0800, I get an outside call up on the quarterdeck. I go up and take the
phone from the OOD. It's Evelyn. She wants to know if I can get a car and
drive her and The Captain to this big party over at the base commander's house
tonight. If you can, she says, bring another sailor with you who can help my
husband into the car. I don't have to even turn around, she says. It'll be
fun, she says. The Captain won't know it's you if you don't turn around, she
says. Think of the tension in the car as we drive along, she says. Doesn't
that sound exciting, she asks. We're due there at 2000, so pick us up at 1930.
She says to call her back when I find out. Just let the phone ring twice if
it's a 'go,' she says. Call at 1600, she says. If you can't arrange it, don't
call and I'll know to make other plans, she says. But do try, she says, and
hangs up.

My brains go to my dick. I hang the phone up and ask the OOD if he's seen the
captain's driver. He says he thinks he's down below and tells me where he last
saw him. I go below and find the driver sitting in the mess decks, smoking. I
ask him if he knows of a spare car on base I can use for official business. He
wants to know what 'official business', of course, so I tell him about the big
party at the base commander's house. He says he knows about the party and
thinks he can arrange for a car. Of course, he wants a favor. I tell him I'll
fix him up with this girl I know in San Juan next time we're down there. He
agrees and we shake on it.

I call Evelyn's number at 1600 and let the phone ring twice. Then I hang up.

At 1930, I pull up at Captain and Mrs. Filiatreau's house. A buddy of mine who
I've bribed to keep his mouth shut about the car gets out and goes up to the
door. Evelyn answers the knock, and when she opens the door, my mouth drops
open. She's got a black sleeveless dress on, and it's short. Real short. Like
mid-thigh short. And heels. I get a hardon watching her walk to the car.

My buddy lets Evelyn in behind me. Her perfume fills the car. He heaves The
Captain himself in the back seat on the passenger's side, then folds up the
wheelchair and puts it in the trunk and gets in himself and slams the door. We
pull away from the curb and within a block, I feel Evelyn goosing me with her
foot, pressing up from under the seat. I catch her eye in the rearview mirror.
She's got her secret expression on.

The next thing I know, she slides her foot up between my seat and the door and
starts kicking my elbow with the toe of her shoe. I catch her eye again in the
rearview and she looks in the direction of her foot like she wants me to look
at it. I look over at my buddy. He's jawing with The Captain about the war in
Vietnam and what President Johnson should do next and how he ought to let the
military do its job and quit paying attention to the fucking anti-war
demonstrations and where we're going to go on the upcoming WESTPAC cruise and
I see he's totally preoccupied with trying to impress the old bastard. Most
importantly, The Captain's totally preoccupied with blowing off and sounding
authoritative, so I look down between my seat and the door.

Evelyn's got her leg shoved up real far between the door and my seat and she's
pointing her toe so her calf muscle bulges real big. I catch her eye again and
she nods her head a little like she's giving me the go-ahead to feel it. I let
my hand flop down unobtrusively and let it land on her big calf. She tenses it
a few times and I see she's looking at me in the mirror. She runs her hand
over her hair and I see her biceps roll underneath the skin of her upper arm.
I'm aware of the tension in the car. It's very exciting.

Fortunately it's only about fifteen minutes from the South Battery to the base
commander's house. My buddy gets out and struggles to get The Captain's
wheelchair out of the trunk and him in the chair, and while they're busy,
Evelyn asks if I'll hang around while she and The Captain are inside partying.
She says it might be nice to sneak away and meet me behind the bushes, she
says. "I'll let you feel my muscles," she whispers, and runs both hands over
her hair, making her biceps roll. "I'll suck your dick," she says.

My brains have been there ever since I hung up the phone on the quarterdeck
this afternoon, so I say, "Sure thing. I'll be watching for you to give me the
high sign."

My buddy finishes with The Captain and comes around and opens the door for
Evelyn. A 1st lieutenant in whites appears out of nowhere and escorts Evelyn
up the walk. Another Louie pushes The Captain along in his wheelchair.

My buddy gets back in and says, "Did you see the muscles on that woman?"

I nod.

He lights a cigarette and blows out the smoke. He takes another puff and
thinks for a minute, then says, "Would you like to fuck a woman with a build
like that?"

I'm across the bridge in the sand on Sullivan's Island, riding her, feeling
her vast expertise, going off like I'll never stop.

He turns to me and hits me on the shoulder. He says, "Hey! I'm talkin' to you!
I said, 'Would you like to fuck a woman built like that?'"