When both of them were well asleep he slipped carefully out of the bed and out of the cabin. He'd been watching a blip on the radar for some time and was worried about it; it looked like a freighter coming up the Stream and they were going to pass close to each other.
He slipped on shorts and a shirt against the cool of the night and headed up to the flying bridge, getting some coffee going as he passed through the lounge. He was tired, from both the exercise and the day, and it was going to be a long night. He couldn't really assume that there wasn't anything on his course; he'd been keeping an eye on the radar during the entire scene. And he much preferred to be able to head up to the bridge without worrying about the girls' safety if he had to maneuver.
He checked all the instruments when he reached the bridge and everything was in the green, so he sped up, pushing the boat to its maximum cruising speed. The freighter was still on course to a close approach and he considered changing to pass astern. He probably would have to soon. But he got a cup of coffee first and considered the approaches. There was a way to calculate it, but he'd pretty much forgotten that particular equation over the years.
As it turned out, he only had to change course slightly to pass astern of the freighter. The wash was pretty heavy, but the yacht rode over it easily enough.
It was a couple of hours before dawn when he pulled into the protected harbor at Palm Key and dropped anchor. He'd considered continuing up the coast to Bimini and the Bahamas Customs Station where he could get his customs flag. That was going to be interesting. The Bahamas had an agreement about American officials carrying arms in the area, but they were generally death on firearms on ships. It was going to be interesting seeing how they reacted to his arms locker.
He got the anchors down, locked the doors against random pilfering, made his way to the cabin, got undressed, and snuggled up to Pam, wrapping an arm around her before falling fast asleep.
"God," Courtney said over a bowl of cereal, "I am sore in some of the oddest places."
"Me, too," Pam said, craning to look at her back. Both of the girls were wearing bikinis. "Are there marks?"
"Not as many as the ones that are still fading on Mike," Courtney said, grinning.
"They should fade pretty quick," Mike said. "We need to run up to Bimini to the Customs Station and get our flag."
"Flag?" Courtney asked.
"When you clear customs you fly a special flag," Mike said. "After that you can cruise anywhere in the Bahamas and not get stopped. But until we get the flag, if a customs or Coast Guard boat sees us, they'll stop us. I'll go weigh anchor and we'll get under way."
They cruised fast up the coastline of low-lying keys and shallow shoals, the girls oooing and aaahing in the tuna tower, until they reached Bimini and Mike slowed as they came to the entrance.
"Bimini's entrance really sucks," he said. "The Stream and storms can shift it a lot. And the Bahamas government hasn't dredged it in years."
"The channel markers are over there," Pam said, pointing to port.
"Yeah," Mike said, glancing over. "Only one problem, you can tell that's a shoal," he said. "Look at the sand. There it is," he said, pointing closer to starboard. "See where it's deeper?"
"Are we going to go aground?" Courtney asked, grabbing the railing.
"Hopefully not," Mike said, shrugging. The entrance channel had to be entered perpendicular to the Stream, which was a little tricky, and then the deeper water—it couldn't be characterized as "deep"—turned hard to port. He made the turn with a touch of bow thruster and continued up the channel, which was more or less straight, into the deeper water of the dredged harbor.
When they got to the customs dock, he had the girls help him with the lines and told them to stay on the boat.
"Why?" Pam asked, looking around the harbor.
"Technically, until you're checked in, you're illegal in the Bahamas," Mike said. "I have to go get us checked in."
He carried his scanty log, well aware that there should be more entries—exited Islamorada harbor, took two slave-girls . . . no—and headed for the customs shed. There was a small Bahamas Coast Guard cutter tied by the shed and he noticed that the crew seemed unusually alert and sharp for Bahamas troops.
The shed was a small building broken up into a couple of rooms with a counter at the front manned by a bored clerk.
"Yacht Winter Born, U.S., out of Islamorada," Mike said, handing over his log and passenger list. "Myself and two passengers." Then he started pulling out credentials.
The clerk took the passenger list and made an entry, then glanced at the log in disinterest and picked up the credentials. When he saw the Federal Marshal certification and weapons cert, his eyes widened.
"Hold on, mon," he said, getting up. "I gotta get an officer."
"That's fine," Mike said.
Two officers came out of the back with the clerk, one that was clearly the station chief and another, a colonel of the constabulary if Mike remembered his insignia, who was a big, broad man in stiffly starched khakis.
"Mr. . . . Jenkins," the colonel said, shaking his hand. "Colonel Horatio Montcrief, Constabulary. Glad to have you in Bimini. Business or pleasure?"
"Pleasure," Mike said. "I have a couple of college coeds with me who have never been to the Bahamas. I hope to show them a very good time."
"Yes, I'm sure," the colonel said, grinning as he came around the counter. "May we, perhaps, step outside?"
"Much prefer it," Mike said, following him out.
The colonel waited until he was outside and then lit a cigar. "Even here in the Islands, the stupid antismoking people reign," he said, sticking the stogie in his teeth. "Those are interesting credentials. You are not here on business?"
"Not at all," Mike said. "I'm effectively retired. The materials I carry are purely for reasons of . . . past experience. I hope to have no future similar experiences."
"You were DEA?" the colonel asked, tilting his head to the side.
"Bite your tongue," Mike said. "I don't do the War on Drugs."
"There is another war, however, that you don't mention," the colonel said, waving his cigar. "No matter. We have no problem with terrorism in the islands."
"As I said," Mike repeated doggedly, "I'm here for pleasure, purely."
"And can I enquire as to the nature of the material?" the colonel asked delicately.
"I could show you a manifest," Mike said. "But you'd shit a brick. I carry heavy."
"For defensive purposes?" the colonel asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Sometimes the best defense is a good offense," Mike said. "Colonel, I'm not planning on using anything here in the islands. They're in a locker. I'm not planning on opening the locker in the islands. And if I have to, you'll be the third to know."
"The third?" the colonel said, interestedly.
"The first will be whoever I use them on," Mike said. "The second . . . well, I'm sorry, you don't have the need to know," he added with a chuckle.
"Very well," the colonel said dryly. "Try not to open your locker. Two college coeds, eh? Pretty?"
"Fricking gorgeous."
"Have a very good time in the islands, then," the colonel said, smiling. "I do ask one thing. We occasionally have situations which . . . are difficult to deal with alone. Frequently, we ask the U.S. government, quietly, to assist us in such things. Are you . . . ?"
"Not at this time," Mike said. "But if you ask me, and I get an okay, anything for a friend."
"And are you . . . formidable?"
"I'm pretty good," Mike said. "I've got a 'still alive' track record. My enemies don't."
"Very good," the colonel said, nodding. "I hope to meet you again some time. Hopefully, under equally good circumstances."
"Agreed," Mike said, smiling. "Have a good day."
"All days are good days in the islands," the colonel said, waving his cigar. "Hadn't you heard?"
Pam was cleaning up in the lounge when she heard a faint beeping and followed it to something that looked like a small laptop on the closed bridge. It had a phone on it, though, so she picked it up.
"Hello?" she asked.
"Hello," a man's voice said. "Who is this?"
"Pam," she said. "Are you looking for Mike?"
"Yes," the man answered dryly. "I was a little worried I'd dialed the wrong number."
"He's over at the customs shed," Pam said.
"Okay," the man said. "When he gets back, ask him to give Bob Pierson a call, would you?"
"Sure," Pam said.
"I take it you're a . . . friend of Mike's?" the man asked.
"Yeah," she said, sighing. "I think the term would be 'very good friend.'"
"Ah," the man said and paused. "Where are you from?"
"Can I ask why you're asking?" Pam said curiously.
"You sound Midwestern," the man answered.
"I'm from Missouri," Pam said. "Why?"
"Just curious," the man replied. "Please ask Mike to give me a call right away when he gets back."
"Will do," Pam said. "Bye."
"Mike," Pam said when he got on board. "You're supposed to call somebody named Person or something like that. I forgot to write it down and he didn't leave a number."
"Oh, great," Mike said, shaking his head.
"Problem?"
"One of my former customers," Mike said, shrugging. "The sort of people I do contracting for. But I am most definitely on vacation at the moment."
Mike went down to the sat phone and found Pierson's number on the speed dial.
"Pierson."
"Jenkins, what's up, Bob?"
"Mike, clear the room please and go scramble," Pierson replied.
Mike frowned and hit the scrambler combination.
"There's nobody in here at the moment," he said.
"I guess I should have mentioned that you're under very casual surveillance," Pierson said. "And if you go out of the country you need to check in."
"I wasn't aware I was under surveillance at all," Mike said angrily.
"The Coast Guard just has a general 'keep an eye on' on you," Pierson said. "Half protection for you and half because if you go out of the country you're treading in waters you're not really familiar with, legally. The Caribbean is no big deal; we own it. But if you go to Europe or something, give me a call first, okay?"
"Sure," Mike said, sighing. "Just another example of change of life, I guess."
"That's what it is," Pierson said. "The young lady who answered the phone. She's not from . . ."
"Nope," Mike said. "Missouri, University of. And, lord, she's good looking."
"Glad to hear it," Pierson said honestly. "I'd been getting a little worried about you down there doing your Travis McGee imitation."
"Travis who?" Mike asked, confused.
"Oh," Pierson said, chuckling. "I'd assumed it was intentional. Look up the Travis McGee books, some time. And have fun in the Bahamas."
"I will," Mike replied.
They stayed in Bimini that day and into the night, the girls dancing at one of the clubs, then made their way back to the boat. Mike had reciprocal rights at the Bimini Big Game Club and was docked there. The Game Club had good enough security that he didn't feel he had to leave an anchor watch. Not that there was much theft in Bimini. The island was so small that if anything turned up missing, everyone knew who had stolen it.
That night they had a pleasant and casual ménage with only occasional, joking, references to master and slave. At one point the girls tried to pin him down and he proved that he could take one of them, more or less against her will, while simultaneously controlling the other. It wasn't easy, but he could do it. They all were pleasantly exhausted, as well as a little drunk, when they went to sleep.
Mike had the boat moving before dawn, though, slight hangover and all. At the Game Club he'd heard that the sail were moving and he really wanted to have the girls hook into a sailfish. By dawn he was floating in the Stream and rigging the kites.
Courtney came up on deck, and her eyes widened when she saw what he was doing.
"We're flying kites today?" she asked, looking at the bird-shaped, collapsible, kite he was rigging to fly in the wind.
"It's a fishing rig," Mike said. "The shadow of the kite looks like a bird and that attracts game fish. And you can get your bait well away from the boat."
He rigged a live ballyhoo on each of four lines and floated them out on kites, then went downstairs to get breakfast.
"I'm hunting for sail today," Mike said. "We might get wahoo or dolphin, but I'm hoping for sail. The lines are rigged for sail. If we get dolphin, just muscle it in. But we should get up on deck pretty soon to watch the lines."
When the two girls joined him on deck, he looked at them for a moment, the bottle of sunscreen in his hand, and waved.
"Take off the suits," he ordered.
"Uh," Pam said, looking at Courtney. Then they both stripped off their bikinis.
"Pam, do my back while I do Courtney's," Mike said, getting a handful of Bullfrog on his palm. "Courtney, kneel down, knees together, wrists crossed in front of you and on your thighs."
Courtney breathed hard for a moment and then complied, turning around so her back was to him.
Mike got down on his knees and spread the sunscreen across her back, liberally. There was, as he intended, plenty left over and he reached around, rubbing it on her breasts and stomach.
"Head up," Mike ordered. "Chin up. Back straight, little slave."
"Yes, master," Courtney said.
Pam was rubbing down his arms, her breasts pressing into his back, as he reached down and spread Courtney's legs, rubbing the last of the sunscreen onto her inner thighs and then sliding his finger up against her clit. He pulled her arms around her back and crossed her wrists there, then reached back around and gently pulled on one nipple while massaging her clit, running his finger in and out of her opening.
"Stay still, slave," he ordered, roughly, as she began to squirm and moan. "If you move from that position, you will be punished."
He continued to stroke her until with a gasp and a clench she came. Then he grabbed Pam and pulled her around, simultaneously twisting Courtney to the deck. He pulled his bathing suit down and then entered Courtney, hard, pulling Pam's head down to her breast.
"Lick it, bitch," he ordered Pam, pressing her lips against Courtney's nipple. "Lick her tit!"
Pam resisted for a moment, then her pink tongue flickered out to touch Courtney's nipple, eliciting a moan of despair and pleasure from her friend.
"Play with her tits," Mike ordered, pinning Courtney down and holding himself up, then thrusting into her again, hard.
Courtney came, again, as he pounded her, moaning and crying at the waves of pleasure from his taking her and having Pam play with her at the same time. As her shudders eased, Mike pulled out, to a moan of sadness, and pulled Pam around, roughly, to where her tits were in Courtney's face.
"Now it's your turn, little slave," he said, pushing her back down so that her nipple dangled above Courtney's lips. "Pleasure this bitch," he said, grabbing Courtney's hand and lifting it up to Pam's pussy.
"Wait," Courtney said, as Pam flinched.
"You can do it," Mike said, much more gently. "You know what feels good for you. Do it to her," he added, pulling her hand into position and manipulating her finger against Pam's clit. At that Pam whimpered and bucked, but didn't back away. He rolled Pam down onto her back, keeping Courtney's hand in place, then put Courtney in position to play with her nipples and pussy.
"Stay together," he added, sliding his finger into Courtney's opening and his own mouth to her lovely breast. The position left him with his head on Pam's stomach, Courtney lying on Pam's arm and Pam on her back, spread-eagled, pinned by his body and totally in the moment.
They stayed like that until Pam came and then he rolled over to her, entering her and thrusting hard; Courtney backed away, but he pulled her back to continue sucking on Pam's breasts. He reached over and slid his hand back into Courtney's vagina, playing with her clitoris as Pam moaned and shrieked into a hard climax. Courtney came at the same time and he followed shortly after.
"Okay," Courtney said, rolling over to lie on her back, panting. "I'm not too sure about that one. It was fun, but . . ."
"You don't want to become a lesbian," Mike said.
"No," Pam replied tightly. "And that felt a little . . ."
"You're not a lesbian from having a touch of fun with each other," Mike replied, pulling them both to their feet and setting them in the bridge couch. He sat down between them and gently rested his arms across their shoulders.
"Kleee-nex," Pam said, desperately, flipping open one of the glove boxes and diving for a tissue.
"You both prefer guys, in general, right?" Mike continued when Pam had the flood under control. He hugged them both to him and then let them up so they could be comfortable.
"Yeah," Courtney said, looking over at Pam a bit shamefacedly. "But I . . . sort of enjoyed it. I don't want to lick Pam, though. Ever."
"You won't have to, then," Mike said, nodding. "A bit of sex play with the same sex is not the same thing as being homosexual, especially when you're in a threesome like we are. Now, if there were two guys and one girl, it would be different. The sexual wiring is a bit different, for one thing. While women are sensual in various places, most guys are just sensual in their penis. Two guys and one female, it's the two males, generally, working on the woman . . ."
"Now that has a certain . . . something," Pam said, grinning.
"In a way that was what was going on," Mike pointed out. "You were, each, helping me to bring pleasure to the other. Maybe you'll take it further, between you two. I know several girls who take the position of 'girls for comfort, boys for pleasure.' It doesn't make you a lesbian." He paused and grinned. "Okay, maybe a touch bi."
"You are evil," Pam said.
"The very devil," Mike admitted. "And the one who has to keep his head about him, despite your lovely nipple staring me in the face. We need to finish really putting on sunscreen and then get ready to fish. We're just lucky we didn't get a hit while we were in play; it would have really ruined the mood."
Courtney was sitting on the port fighting chair, sipping a Fosters, when the nearest line unclipped from the kite and began screaming out.
"That's not sail," Mike said, hooking the harness on her naked body. "Probably wahoo."
"Why's it called wahoo?" Courtney asked, picking up the line and settling it in her holder.
"When I hit the drag, give it a good yank," Mike said. "Then hang the hell on."
When the hook hit the wahoo, it took off like a rocket in a three-hundred-yard run, the line screaming out of the reel.
"Waaaaaahoo!" Courtney screamed, fighting the bucking rod.
"Now you know," Mike said, grinning ear to ear.
Wahoo weren't sustained fighters, and lighter than most sail, so in twenty minutes it was onboard and pictures taken. They were, however, good eating, and it went in the cooler. The fight hadn't even disturbed the other kites, so Mike got the whole line rerigged pretty quick.
"Mike, I gotta know," Courtney said. "What's in the Bluebeard Room?"
"Get used to disappointment," Mike said, chuckling. "Okay, I'll tell you. I have locks of hair from each of my conquests, with date and time, up on the walls. It's a little bizarre, so I stopped showing them off and now I keep it locked."
"That I can almost believe," Pam said. "Are we going to do a scene tonight?"
"How do you feel about it?" Mike asked.
"Nervous as a virgin," Pam admitted. "Eager as one, too. I'll admit, I really, really enjoyed the scene the other night. And, okay, what we did this morning."
"I've got one problem with it," Courtney said, frowning. "I hate to be petty, but you've had more . . . in time with Mike than I have."
"Pam, do you mind if we adjust that a bit, tonight?" he asked. "It might mean you get a bit shortchanged."
"I can handle that," Pam said.
Mike turned to a control and hit a series of keys, and steel guitar started to ring from the speakers.
"What is that?" Courtney asked.
"A one-hit wonder from the '70s," Mike said. "It's off an MP3 collection from my CDs. This piece is called 'Thunder Island' by Jay Ferguson. There's probably a bunch of stuff you won't recognize. Generational thing, and I'm also into Goth and industrial. On the other hand, there's also Pink, Enya, Evanescence, stuff like that. I like a lot of modern music." He looked up as one of the lines dropped loose then nodded. "Fish on. Pam's side."
Pam got up and put on the harness and lifted the rod, stepping back and then hitting the drag.
"Holy cow!" she shouted as the fish began its initial run. Suddenly the sail burst out of the water and tail-walked from port to starboard, shaking its head.
"Keep pressure on it," Mike warned. "Otherwise it will throw the hook."
"It's strong," Pam yelled.
"That's what the harness is for," Mike said. "Let your back do the work."
He got the other lines reeling in with electric motors and halfway back one of them hit.
"Damn," he said. "Courtney, get it. Try not to cross the lines."
Fortunately, the two sails stayed well apart and both girls had one hell of a fight on their hands. Pam got hers in in about thirty minutes, bringing it into the transom where Mike pulled it up onto the deck.
"I'd like to make sure we can release it," Mike said. "Can you get the camera and get down here?"
They took pictures of Pam with her sail in the flooded flush deck and then Mike fed it some raw wash and a ballyhoo and got it back running with a tap on the tail.
By that time Courtney had brought hers alongside and he landed that one and got pictures. All in all it took about an hour to get the two sails to the boat and off, and by that time both girls were elated and exhausted.
Mike got the lines back up and soon after there was a dolphin on board. He climbed up to the tuna tower and noticed that, by luck as much as anything, the kites were dropping by a weed line. Shortly after the dolphin, Courtney hooked up to another tail walker—her first one hadn't left the water—and she fought it for about three minutes after its first run and then the line went, mostly, slack.
"Probably threw the hook," Mike said, letting the kites back out. "Put it on the winch and let that reel the line in."
When the line came alongside it was clear the fish hadn't thrown the hook. The sail was gone from just behind the head with a big, crescent, bite mark just past its gills.
"Oh, wow," Courtney said, looking at the head as Mike pulled it over the side.
"Want a picture of this?" Mike asked, grinning and unhooking the head.
"Yeah," Courtney said. "And you want us to go swimming in this water?"
"Any time you enter the water you're in the food chain," Mike said. "But snorkelers and divers hardly ever get unprovoked attacks. It's safer than driving in Springfield."
"Maybe," Courtney said. "But if you're in a wreck, they don't eat you."
They landed a couple more sail and dolphin by noon, then the run pretty much ended.
"Let's get lunch," Mike said, reeling in the lines. "They probably won't start hitting again until this evening."