Dreamboat Ch. 06

Usual standard declarations about age, ownership etc. apply here.

Salutations my droogies, and welcome back. Take in some moloko and turn your rassoodocks towards the newest episode on this ongoing tale. Okay, that's as much Russian slang as I can put together, and that's all courtesy of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange. The reason for me going there will become apparent as you read on.

This is a way longer chapter than any of the others so far, but for those who came for a quick dip, relax - there are a couple of break points for your convenience.

So far, you've all been very kind in your comments, and I appreciate it all. Thank you.

But enough of that - on with the show!

So settle down, no talking in the back, and we'll begin...

*****

CHAPTER SIX

Mr Smith was still sweating, despite being back at his home office and away from the CEO.

The reason was sitting to one side of him, relaxed and easy as he perused the reports and print-outs that Mr Smith had prepared for him.

"So we've got our salesmen in all the harbours along this coast looking out for the missing asset, and..."

He was interrupted by the slightly harsh accent of Mr Hashamura, who looked up from reading to stare at Mr Smith.

"You are certain the asset is on a boat? Still on a boat?"

"As far as we can tell," Smith said, sweating even harder as his voice squeaked into a realm that would interest dogs and bats, and dragged to a halt. Mr Hashamura was a small, slight man with coffee brown skin and a small, toothbrush moustache that matched his carefully slicked back grey hair. He was the reason Mr Smith was sweating buckets and ready to shit himself at the slightest provocation.

Smith tried again. "As far as we know. The asset has certainly not been seen, only the boat. But we only have the description from Mr Brown who was in charge of the back-up crew when... on the night the asset went missing."

He pretended to refer to notes. "Apparently when Mr Black and his associates were put out of action, Mr Brown got them to the scene as fast as possible, but by that time the boat in question was well beyond range of any details such as a name or number. However, Mr Grey, after he was extricated from the lobster pot and taken to hospital, managed to give us a description of the boat and that has been circulated to all points to the north, south and south east. Unfortunately even that description is a little hazy."

"Does Mr Grey need some help in remembering, do you think?" asked the Asian man.

Mr Smith shook his head - a drop of sweat flying across his desk. "No, no! Chato - I mean Mr Grey - saw the boat clearly, but to him it was just another boat - a small cabin cruiser, possibly with a flying bridge on top."

"Colour?" Mr Hashamura asked.

"I afraid he seemed to remember only grey. It was late, sir. Past twilight."

"I am aware of that, Mr Smith." Mr Hashamura thought for a while. "I think you need to take a trip. Talk to every one of our employees, and make sure that they understand the need to recover our asset."

"I'm sure they understand that, Mr Hashamura."

"You make sure!"

"Yes, sir."

"You should also check with the coast guard and local sea rescue volunteers."

"Of course," said Mr Smith, who had never considered those sources before. "Our people are on it."

"You are the manager of this investigation," Hashamura said with no inflection in his voice. "You would know."

The sweat turned into a torrent. Just how much did the auditor know?

"But even so, I think that the company's aims would be better served if you were checking things at the point of interest," finished the little man.

"But... but I have to also take care of the King's interests." Mr Smith mopped his brow with a shirt sleeve. "That takes time..."

"No!" Hashamura stated. His voice was not loud, but it shocked the other man into silence. "This takes priority over the needs of a local supplier. Mr Cole must promote one of his associates to take your place."

"But-"

"This is a company directive from the board," the Asian man said with a note of finality in his voice.

"Mr Hashamura, since the retirement of Mr Black and Mr Green, and the need for Mr Grey to take sick leave, there have been several incidents in the ranks of local employees that have led to several other retirements."

"Retirements?"

"Uh... Retirements due to thwarted ambition, I suppose you might say. Several unfortunate accidents involving guns, three involving knives, one hit-an-run and a truly unpleasant accident of an exploding car. Those employees still on our books are somewhat without leadership at shop floor level. I'm needed here."

"No, I think we need to bring a team of auditors in to alert the staff to the need for discipline and curtailed ambition, while ensuring productivity returns to the high levels expected. I will see to it."

"Yes Mr Hashamura." Mr Smith looked gloomy. King Cole would have even fewer Merry Men very soon.

"I shall start personally visiting prospective sites where the asset may turn up tomorrow then," he said, his face reflecting defeat. There would be no chance to continue skimming whilst on this business trip. His mistresses would have to go without their sugar for a while. They would not take the news well.

"There is a car waiting outside," Mr Hashamura replied, his attention once again on the printouts.

Mr Smith stood, made an awkward attempt at a half bow that in the end looked more like a curtsey, and left the office.

Sad.

*****

Lachlan Reid shot out of bed and started dragging on his robe, leaving a surprised Wren lying in the bed, staring owlishly at him in confusion.

"It's the alarm - the boat must be drifting near rocks, or another boat is near."

"What can I do?" she asked, sitting up and giving him another view of her lovely little breasts as the sheet dropped to her waist. Despite having just had the best orgasm of his life, Reid paused for a moment to admire them, feeling his cock respond to the fillip her curves provided. Then he shook his head and put them out of his mind. He sprinted out of the cabin and up the short set of steps that linked the rear deck to the bridge, cursing the fact that he wouldn't have the time to shower.

He really loved the strange little shower. Okay you had to almost stand astride the toilet bowl and then unfold and snap together several tubes, but it worked so easily and so well, he was astonished at the level of engineering. Even luxury camper and RVs didn't have this sort of technology - unless it was really new in the marketplace. Most of all it provided a wonderful, and surprisingly plentiful, amount of hot water at a good pressure.

He put the shower out of his mind as he mounted the steps to the bridge, scanning the horizons quickly and then again more carefully. Apart from one white dot on the horizon that might be a sail, he couldn't see any ships. The opposite horizon looked to have a grey smudge all along it. A storm? he wondered. Perhaps the radar picked up bad weather as well.

Once he was in the chair at the helm, the reason for the alarm quickly became apparent as the edges of a jagged coastline appeared in shades of green across the left edge of the radar. Shit! They were heading for land.

He thought about that. With an enormous amount of luck it might get them onto dry land - although as there would in all probability be rocks, riptides and cliffs to face, there was no promise of getting there safe and sound. Even if they did manage to get ashore and back to the anonymity of the streets, there would be a manhunt out for them. Cole had been sufficiently pissed off enough to send a squad of goons after them over the loss of five kilos of heroin - heroin that had made Reid silently cheer when Wren had slit the bag and let it all blow away over the rear of the boat, before conscientiously storing the empty bag in the recycling bin, which made the watching man snort with laughter at the absurdity of it. So the permanent loss of two lieutenants and the likely crippling of another would send Cole into an absolute rage that would allow no forgiveness this side of hell. There would be hit squads watching out for them.

That was one downside of them leaving the boat. There were a couple more. Everything they discovered about this boat pointed to very high end technology, which meant money. And nobody was more reluctant to lose money than the rich. There would be a search going on at sea for the boat, but the sea was a big place. Leaving the boat meant it would very quickly be reported and found - and might point to them stealing it. They had both been moved on or picked up as vagrants often enough by the police that their prints were firmly on file, and even if they wiped the whole boat down, it would only take a partial print...

And perhaps most importantly to him at this moment, they would have to leave this comfortable, warm boat; full of the smells of good food and drink, fresh clothing and bedding, hot showers, fresh air and salt seas, and above all - the sight, smell, taste, warmth and pleasures of a naked Wren.

He knew she was naked because as he looked out of the forward windows, he saw the very top of her blond head pass below onto the foredeck. She must have explored the little gap between the cabin and the starboard railings and found the way forward, he realised.

Her face bobbed up at the window with a big grin. Then she must have leapt into the air, as her shoulders, chest and unbearably cute breasts came into view, the latter bobbing upward as she started to descend once more, and then disappeared again. He heard a faint giggle and couldn't help smiling broadly, even with their increasingly desperate situation.

If they were to stay on board, he would have to find some way of steering them out to sea once more.

For over an hour, he pored over the controls, trying to find some way or combination of moves to start the engines, or free the steering wheel or whatever it was called. Previous attempts to make it turn had revealed it to be locked in position.

Nothing worked.

Desperately he jabbed at buttons, fiddled with switches, turned dials and then tried to use brute force on the wheel.

"Don't break it," Wren said behind him.

"Agh," he groaned, frustration evident in his whole posture. "I need to somehow turn the boat. We could end up on the rocks. Probably will. There are only a couple of safe landing places on this coast, and this is where we're headi..."

He broke off. During his wild fiddling he must have turned something different on, as the radar now showed a clear dotted line from the front of the boat symbol towards what seemed to be a harbour. At least it looked like a harbour - there weren't normally that many straight lines in nature.

"Jesus, Wren!" he gasped. "You have to be the luckiest mascot in the world. Although in your case I think you might be the figurehead as well. You're certainly glorious enough. I couldn't get anything to work, then you appear on the bridge and hey presto. You sure you're not some sort of sea witch?"

He turned to look at her. As always, seeing her naked caused a marked response in his groin.

"Not the last time I looked, but who knows..." She raised her arms, made a spooky noise and swooped in to sit on his lap and kiss him. "Perhaps the boat knows where it's going."

"I don't know whether that was a joke or not, but I think you might be right. This is only a guess, but that certainly looks like a set course to me. I've seen that same sort of indication on military radars showing the course of drones and missiles. So this little number here should be the boat ID, in the same way that that one is called the Right R. Annabelle, which would be the sail I could just see on the horizon. What sort of a name is that? Is there a Left L. Annabelle?"

He paused and thought. "I wonder why we only have a number, and even more importantly whether we can use that to work out who owns this thing."

"Then we could try and contact them and explain things," chipped in Wren. She had been silently looking at the instruments with a dreamy expression.

"Now that would be an excellent outcome. Especially if we could claim salvage rights. A percentage of the price of a boat like this would be a very sweet deal."

"I thought salvage was when you manage to raise a wreck or the things on it from the seabed," Wren remarked.

"No. Well, yes. But salvage is also rescuing any ship that is in such difficulties that it is likely to sink. And a boat drifting aimlessly fits that bill."

"Like the Marie Celeste," she said, wriggling happily on his lap, feeling the erection beneath his robe slot in between the cheeks of her butt and enjoying the little swoops of pleasure it gave her.

"Exactly," he said

"But if the boat knows where it's going, that means there's a preset course, so it wouldn't really be drifting."

"True. Now I'm tempted to just let things happen and see how it works. I really need to think about this, because if it's on a pre-programmed course, then how come it appeared at my pier and then left again."

"Maybe it was just a marker point on its route," she said with a frown.

"A waypoint," he agreed. He added that to his theory. "So what if this is the equivalent of a new driverless car out on a test run?"

"Ooh, good thinking. Although why would they then stock it with fresh food?"

Reid tried to juggle that thought into his idea and keep all the balls in the air, and then sighed. For a moment it had all started to make sense.

He looked at Wren thoughtfully. At times she seemed like a beautiful, happy little airhead, almost the stereotype of a college cheerleader out to experience all the pleasures in life. But at other times she revealed some serious intellect. She had surprised him several times during their street corner chats with a sharp insight on things that he hadn't expected. He had learned not to underrate her.

She had had an education up to a point, although it was spotty at best. So, not university or college then. But she had a mind that he was sure would have swept through any higher learning institute, and he was convinced she came from money. So why had her family left her to the streets? Or, if they were tired of her addiction, why had they not forced her into rehab? None of it made sense. She was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Damn, Churchill had all the good lines.

"Okay, that theory needs tuning," he conceded finally.

"Well, just going along for the ride has been good for us so far. Although I know that we can't really apply it fully in our case, the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour. Besides, what else do we have?"

There she went again, thought Reid. He wasn't sure where the quote came from, but she was obviously well read.

"Besides," she continued happily. "I found that a funny shaped piece of the deck on the front of the boat folds up and out into a very nice sun-lounger, and I was hoping to drag you there so you could fuck my ass again."

She stared at him with such innocence in her eyes that he almost fell for it.

He hugged her so that she would know he wasn't angry at her.

"Wren," he began. "You have to know that anal sex is not a safe alternative if you have an STD. I should never have done that to you before, even if it was completely mind-blowing. Who told you it was safe?"

"Doc Anderson," she said with a disappointed sigh. "He checked me over, told me I had crotch-rot and not to allow any cock in my pussy. Then he said using my butt would be okay."

Reid stared at her in astonishment. "A doctor said that to you?"

"That's what he said. Well what he actually said was 'Honey, you been fuckin' the wrong fellas. That cunt of yours is diseased with crotch rot. Don't put any cock in there in the near future. Ass-fuckin' is okay though, so don't fuss about it'. That's as close as I can remember."

"Jesus! Wren! What type of a doctor says that? Which hospital was he working at?"

"I didn't have any money for a hospital, and the free hospitals would have demanded the names of anyone I'd had sex with. The times I did it to get drugs, I certainly didn't ask them for identification or an address. It would have caused all sorts of shit. So I just went along to Doc Anderson. He hung out behind the Chang Song restaurant on the west side."

"Wait, you mean he was homeless as well?" Reid asked.

"Of course. Who else could I go to? I gave him a pair of old sneakers that I'd found in a dumpster, he took a look, told me what it was and what I could do."

Reid was speechless. Then he thought about it. He'd taken a beating one night soon after he had drifted down to the pier to set up camp, from three hoboes who had sneaked up on him while he was asleep - to rob him, or worse. As far as he could ascertain after he had finally managed to drive them off with some severe retribution from his side, the kick that had awoken him had broken his collar bone. He had thought about seeking medical attention, but that might have drawn in the police or some other authority. All he had wanted to do was stay away from them.

So he had talked Sal from the diner, who was over retirement age but still a little sweet on him, into setting up a sling for him, using a scrap of material from an old thrown-out shower curtain. Four weeks later he had decided it was healed and discarded the sling. There was still a significant bump on his right clavicle.

That was just how things worked, so Wren going to see some quack who had probably been struck off, disgraced and reduced to the streets for some or other reason - sex with a patient, using his own drugs, or selling prescriptions for those same drugs, anything like that - was actually quite common. The streets were very mediaeval in their own way.

"What did he tell you to do?" Reid asked curiously.

"He told me 'keep yer fingers off of it and don't scratch no matter how much you crave, as that'll spread it. Wash it if and when you can. Otherwise, leave it alone, and maybe it'll go away by itself. Or not.'"

"I'm guessing it didn't go away."

She looked very sad and shook her head. "It still itches like a bastard sometimes."

"What about that first time when I..." He didn't want to be crass about it.

"When you fingered me?" she finished brightly. Reid closed his eyes for a moment. It was almost as if she had no filters at all - not about sex anyway.

"No, that was so lovely. It was unexpected as I was just trying to say thank you by blowing you, but you made me feel so good while I was doing it. You certainly scratched more than one itch on that occasion."

Her brilliant smile was back, warming the whole bridge.

He couldn't help smiling back.

"And don't worry," she continued. "You fell back to sleep after that, so after a cuddle, I got a cloth and carefully washed your hands and my pussy. I didn't want you to get it."

"But what is it?" he asked. He had heard the expression before but couldn't place it to identify what type of STD it was.

"Crotch rot. That's all I know. That's all he told me."

"Could be anything," Reid grumbled, mostly to himself. Her sitting on his erection was more than enough to make him want to raise her up and simply slide straight into her. He knew she would be more than happy, and he had so many daydreams of doing that, they were driving him crazy.

"Come on," she said, standing and taking his hand. "Come with me and I'll sort out this little, or rather, big problem for you."

The hold on his hand transferred under his robe to his erection. He followed her like a puppy being led on a lead along the narrow walkway to the front of the boat, where she gave him a little push to seat him on the luxuriously padded sun lounger she had discovered. He remembered seeing it when it was closed before, looking like nothing more than a slightly raised, rippled part of the fibre-glass or painted aluminium deck. He had simply looked at it, thought it an uncomfortable place to sit, even with the glorious view over the bow of the boat, and dismissed it from his mind.