Wet Encounters Ch. 06

Once I knew that Noan was down for the count, I wriggled out from under her and headed for the kitchen to grab a towel. With my face and hair covered in our combined fluids, I badly needed a shower. Before making my way to the bathroom, however, I reignited the fire in the stove and put the kettle on the stovetop to heat water for a morning cup of tea; or coffee, if I could find any in the pantry.

One other job that had to be done before I made it to the bathroom was to check on the water levels. As I stood on the verandah looking out over the sea that surrounded the small elevated cabin, I was thankful for having pumped water up to the header tank and stocking up the firewood before going to bed. The water was one-third of the way up the steps and it was still raining. While it had eased from the torrential downpour we'd received during the night, it was still falling quite heavily. From the verandah of the little house, it looks like someone only a little taller than me would have been able to reach up and touch the heavy clouds.

'The water's not quite as high as I was afraid it might have been,' I thought, as I turned and walked back inside our cosy love nest. 'It seems to have slowed a bit but it will still be a couple of days before it drops enough for us to get out'.

'I wonder if anyone has thought to leave a couple of board games behind to help us while away the hours. We can't just fuck ourselves silly for the next two or three days. ...or can we?'

After showering, I removed the food from the refrigerator and placed it on the dining room table. I then set the table with side plates and knives so we could at least share a meal of damper and jam. Before making up a pot of tea, I conducted a search of the pantry, where I found an opened - but still reasonably fresh - jar of instant coffee along with a used, screw-topped coffee jar containing sugar and a couple of tins each of condensed milk, Spam, Baked Beans, Spaghetti and Beef Stew. The menu had suddenly changed. It looked like we would be able to have Spam and beans on damper with coffee. I much preferred to start the day with coffee. Tea was fine for the rest of the day, but I just didn't really get going without my caffeine boost first up. It was evident that whoever had provisioned the place was also a coffee drinker.

The other thing I found was a box containing a few games. It seemed that the lovers who used the mill manager's cabin weren't just interested in playing games of physical endurance but enjoyed mental stimulation as well. In addition to draughts and chess, there was a pack of cards for the game Five Hundred. There was also a game of Scrabble and a box containing an Australian version of Monopoly called Squatter. That last game, I knew, had only recently been released - Liz and I had seen it on the shelves of the stores when we had been down in Australia, the previous year - so it was unlikely that it had been left behind by the cabin's last full-time resident. I had considered buying the game when I'd seen it but had rejected the idea because I thought it was too advanced for our young children.

As I sat sipping on my first cup of coffee, I started to think about the other users of the cabin. It was apparent that the place had been used for their clandestine rendezvous for some time and that they had gone to a great deal of effort to make the cabin as comfortable as was possible. But the range of food in the pantry; the firewood stacked in the wood-box beside the stove; the games in the box; the spare bedding and ironed napery; all told of trysts of more than a few hours duration. It was clear that overnight stays were involved. And, with the quantities of items like flour and canned goods, it appeared that there were occasions when more than a single night were spent in the cabin.

If Liz was involved - and every indication said she was - who was the other person? And if she was involved, how did she manage to fit her illicit meetings in with her mothering responsibilities? Sure, we had a nanny to help her with the children, but I really couldn't imagine her leaving the two girls with the nanny while she spent a night or two with her lover.

'But,' I thought, 'let's assume she was prepared to leave the kids for a night or two with their nanny. When could she get away for even a single night? I was always home; well, almost always. Bugger!' I suddenly realised that I'd occasionally had to fly down to look after a couple of the company's other plantations during the past year while they were either between managers or to fill in for a manager who had come down with some illness. My absences had been anything from a few days to a few weeks. The shorter absences had usually been of three- or four-days duration, when I'd had to be on hand to pay the labourers' wages.

On such occasions, I'd generally fly down on Friday. Pick up the money from the bank and drive out to the plantation ready to pay them when they finished work on Saturday. Pays were made monthly, so I would usually only have to do it once while waiting for either the resident manager to get over his illness or for a new manager to be appointed. When visiting those plantations, I would stay in the manager's house and live out of his pantry.

So, if Liz is one of the participants, she would undoubtedly have had the opportunity.

One of the advantages of living in such an isolated part of the world was that we had plenty of time to read. I read everything I could get my hands on. Whether it was fact or fiction didn't matter. Neither did it matter whether it was ancient or modern. While I tried to steer clear of romance novels - which Liz read with great enjoyment - I didn't mind the odd crime novel. One of the things I learned from those books was that the detective was always looking for three elements: motive, means and opportunity. The other rule, I had learned, was that a good detective always 'follows the evidence'.

While I wasn't ready to point a definite finger at Liz just yet, she was among my list of suspects. In fact, at this point, she was my only suspect. There was an abundance of evidence pointing to her involvement in setting up the love nest. I had already worked out that she had the opportunity to participate in the affair. She also satisfied the 'means' criterion by being able to arrange for the girls' nanny to look after them while she spent a night or two away from home. She also had her little Volkswagen, which would allow her to drive herself to the rendezvous and carry fresh bedding, linen and food to the cabin.

It was the third element that had me stumped, however. I couldn't work out the motive. Why would she suddenly change from being a loving wife and mother to being what I could only refer to as an 'adulterous whore'?

Putting aside my own actions of the past twenty-four hours, I was having difficulty trying to work out what had happened to bring about such a change in the woman who - to the best of my knowledge - had remained faithful for at least the last four or five years. Who had she met who would have enough of an impact on her to make her break her marriage vows?

There were only two other white men in our immediate area: Juanita's husband, James; and Harry Nettles who, with his wife, Joan, owned the plantation up behind ours. Harry and James were of similar ages but while James was a reasonably fit man, Harry was somewhat portly. I couldn't see Harry being Liz' lover. But then, I couldn't see her sharing a bed with James, either; particularly after what Juanita had said about his diminishing libido.

Further over to the south of James and Juanita's place was old Reg McKenzie and his wife, Betty. Reg wasn't really old. In fact, he would have been no older than James or Harry. He just looked older. He was an alcoholic World War Two veteran who had managed to buy his property using a soldier settler's loan. He was running it into the ground and I didn't think it would be very much longer before the bank took it off him. In fact, I'd heard a whisper that he might be looking at selling up and heading back to Australia. I couldn't see Liz falling for him.

There were four white men on the main station. Of those, the general manager - who was older than Methuselah - could be discounted. The engineer could also be discounted on the grounds that he was dedicated to his wife and kids. The same could be said of the bookkeeper, whose wife would take a knife to him if she even thought that he'd looked askance at another woman. That only left the manager of the main station, Steve Jones, who would be the only one from over that way who might fit the bill. I doubted it, though, as Liz disliked him intensely. That might simply be a smokescreen, though, so I'd put him on the list as a possible.

The only other possibility from over that way was young Douglas Keen. The company had employed him to manage the new plantings that were just now coming into production over behind the headquarters station. As a good-looking, twenty-two-year-old single bloke, he would fit the profile of a suitable lover for Liz. We'd had him over for dinner a couple of times since he had started working for the company. I liked him. More importantly, Liz had taken a bit of a shine to him, as well. Whether she had taken more than a neighbourly interest in him, though, was the question? The stumbling block to his involvement was that he hadn't been around long enough to fit into the timetable I was seeing. I acknowledged that my timing could be out, however, so I'd include him on the 'possibles' list.

While there were three other men on plantations to our south, each of them could be ignored either due to age or distance. Whoever it was would have to be close enough - in terms of both distance or relationship - to know when I was going to be away or for Liz to get a message to him.

Looking in the other direction, there was no-one between our property and the nearest settlement who would fit the bill, simply because there were no Europeans living between there and here. Of course, it could be someone living in town but, once again, a lack of communications - we didn't have telephones back then - would be the big stumbling block. I just couldn't see it.

I addition to the 'following the evidence' rule, my reading had also taught me to apply the Sherlock Holmes' dictate - once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth - to my thinking. That led me to believe that I really only had two suspects; perhaps three, if I included Juanita's husband, James. But his inclusion, I felt, was a long bow to draw. My money was on either Steve or Douglas.

'Until I find out who he is,' I thought to myself, 'I'm not going to know how it started'.

'Did it start as a chance encounter?' I wondered. 'Like Juanita's and my relationship? Or did it result from something more deceitful? Was it an accidental encounter that developed into something more meaningful? Or was it a planned seduction?'

These were questions to which I wanted answers. And I would have them. But I'm nothing if not a patient man and I knew that patience is what would be needed if I was to find out what was going on. Until I knew the type of man I was dealing with, I could only go with what I knew.

All I really knew was that two people - presumedly a man and a woman; presumedly both white - were using the abandoned mill manager's house as a meeting place to conduct a secret love affair. It was safe to assume that, with the way the cabin was provisioned, they were able to spend not just hours, but days together without their absence from their day-to-day lives being detected. I also had to assume that, in one way or another, my wife was involved.

My musings were interrupted as I felt a woman's hands slide over my shoulders and down onto my chest to play with my nipples. I felt her naked breasts rub on my back as she bent down to kiss my cheek.

"Good morning, Matthew," she whispered in my ear. It appeared that Juanita was back.

I turned on my chair and pulled her around so I could kiss her beautifully shaped mouth. As I looked at it, I could see where the term Cupid's Bow came from. Hers were classic examples of such lips. Her face - mainly her almond-shaped eyes and beautifully-formed lips - were the first thing I'd noticed about her when we'd first met. With her husband, James, she'd driven over to welcome us to the area when we'd first moved onto our plantation and had brought us over a welcome gift. Shortly after they'd arrived, Harry and Joan called in and the afternoon had turned into an impromptu 'Welcome Aboard' party. Apart from the run of alcoholic sawmill managers - each of whom we'd had for dinner at least once during their relatively short sojourns at the mill - we three families were the only white people in this part of the country.

As time went on, we became a relatively close-knit group and would often get together for dinners or barbecues. Harry and Joan's boys were considerably older than our daughters and James and Juanita's son. They spent most of the year attending boarding school in Australia, so we only saw them during the long school holidays.

The relationships between the men and women were entirely platonic and there hadn't been a hint of any physical attraction between members of the group. In fact, Juanita had for some reason taken an instant dislike to me and treated me, if not with disdain, then with indifference. It was as if I didn't exist in her eyes.

I felt my soldier coming to life as we once again started down the path of passion. Juanita felt it, too. As we broke off our kiss and I began sucking on her full bottom lip in the same way I had drawn her lower lips into my mouth, she straddled my lap. Without wasting time, she stretched up on her toes and reached down to guide my cock towards the entrance to her vaginal cavern.

She rubbed my penis' spongy head along her slit to lubricate it before inserting it between her lips and into her soft-walled tunnel. She was still leaking the juices of our earlier efforts so my cock slid home without the least bit of resistance. This time, there was no hesitation; no waiting to adjust to my girth as it was slowly buried inside her. Juanita drove herself all the way down my shaft in a single movement. The sound she released as it filled her was one of prolonged satisfaction. It was the sound I imagined she would make when lowering herself into a hot bath at the end of a tiring day. "Ahhhhhhhh," was how it sounded.

That was until the head of my cock hit her cervix. Then, the sound changed from one of satisfaction to one of sudden discomfort. It came out as an, "Oooofffah!". It had a slight inflection of surprise at the end. It was as if, while focussing on its thickness, she had forgotten how long the instrument of messy satisfaction with which she was playing, really was.

Once it was fully embedded in her birthing canal, Juanita raised her arms, placing her hands on my shoulders, and rested for a moment while she let her body adjust to the thing that was making her feel so full. I felt her slowly relax and she lowered her head - which she had thrown back while she had been ramming herself down - onto my chest. If she was like some of the girls I had fucked back before I'd met Liz, she probably found the combination of length and girth so enjoyable that she wanted to leave it where it was for as long as she possibly could.

I thought she might have drifted back off to sleep when I felt the first squeeze of her pelvic muscles. Without moving an inch, she was getting me off. My penis jerked in response. I had no control over its movements. It was reacting to being masturbated in the only way it knew how; by letting the other party know that this party was enjoying what the other party was doing. Neither Juanita nor I had moved a single external muscle. Everything that was happening was happening inside her.

This internal masturbation went on for about five minutes before I felt Juanita start to rise. It was only about an inch but, in unison with her pelvic squeezing, it felt like she had rubbed a hand up the full length of my shaft. She tightly flexed her muscles as she lowered herself back down before once again relaxing. She repeated this movement a few times, lifting herself higher each time before taking hold of my cock with what I was beginning to think of as her internal hand and lowering herself back down into my lap.

Along with the length of each stroke, she gradually increased the speed of her masturbatory cycles. She was soon wanking me and fucking me at the same time. Neither of us was going to last very long at the pace she was setting. I could feel her starting to tire, however, so I dipped my left hand down between us and started strumming the head of her clitoris. I let my right hand slide down her back and used it to cup her buttocks so I could help her raise her body on her upward strokes. With my middle finger tucked neatly in her bum crack, I was able to keep her on an even keel as I lifted her.

It was more by accident than by design that the tip of that middle finger rested on her tight little flower bud. But it very quickly began working in time with its opposite number. As one finger strummed her clit, the other diddled her anus. It didn't take long before it slipped past her outer sphincter and was providing her with another source of stimulation.

I felt her begin to shudder - an occurrence, which I had come to recognise, was a precursor to her climax - and she drove herself down on my cock. She screamed as she erupted, her first spasm gripping both my cock and my finger so tightly that I thought she might break them both. As soon as she released her hold on my cock, I started to erupt in sympathetic response to her pulsating pubic muscles.

I don't know whether it was the fact that the finger I had been using to diddle her clitoris was jammed up hard against that swollen little nub, or because the finger of my other hand was locked tightly up in her rectum but she couldn't seem to stop. Perhaps it was because my penis was buried so far up in her vagina that it was squirting my seed straight up into her womb. Maybe it was all three of these things. Whatever its cause, however, our combined orgasms became self-perpetuating. Ultimately, it was exhaustion that brought it to an end.

As had happened on each previous occasion, Noan had ejaculated all over me. She tried lifting herself so she could withdraw my cock from the depths of her womb but her legs weren't strong enough. They gave out and she collapsed back down onto my still erect shaft. She screamed once again as her weight drove her cervix into my soldier's shock-absorbent helmet. Another shudder ran through her and I felt another orgasm commence. I also felt her squirt another load of her watery ejaculant onto my legs.

Fortunately, I'd managed to remove my fingers from her clit while she was attempting to lift herself off me so I had removed that source of stimulation. Unfortunately, though, I hadn't been able to extract my finger from her anus. In fact, the opposite was true. I had initially only inserted my finger to the first knuckle and had been using it to stimulate the nerve endings around and just inside her tight little hole. When she had collapsed back down onto my shaft, however, she had driven my finger all the way home. She was now not only impaled on my cock, but she also had the full length of my extended middle finger buried all the way up into her rectum.

I was finally able to withdraw my finger from her arsehole when she came down off her climax and relaxed her sphincter. That gave me two free hands to help her when she next tried to lift herself. As my rampant cock eventually popped out of her and slapped back against my stomach, her eyes were level with mine.