Night Over Water (43 page)

All her life she had been fainthearted.

But she had never wanted anything this much.

She shook Harry’s curtain.

For a moment nothing happened. She had no plan: she did not know what she was going to do or say.

There was no sound from inside. She shook the curtain again.

A moment later Harry looked out.

They stared at one another in silence: he startled, she tongue-tied. Then she heard a sound behind her.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw movement behind her father’s curtain. A hand grasped it from inside. He was about to get up and go to the bathroom.

Without another thought, Margaret pushed Harry back onto his bed and clambered in with him.

As she closed the curtain behind her she saw Father emerge from his bunk. By a miracle, he did not see her, thank God!

She knelt at the foot of the bunk and looked at Harry. He was sitting at the other end with his knees under his chin, staring at her in the dim light that filtered through the curtain. He looked like a child who had seen Santa Claus come down the chimney: he could hardly believe his good fortune. He opened his mouth to speak, and Margaret silenced him with a finger on his lips.

Suddenly she realized she had left her slippers behind when she jumped in.

They were embroidered with her initials, so anyone could tell whose they were; and they were lying on the floor beside Harry’s, just like shoes outside a hotel bedroom, so everyone would know she was sleeping with him.

Only a couple of seconds had passed. She peeped out. Father was climbing down the stepladder from his bunk, and his back was to her. She reached out between the curtains. If he should turn around now, she was finished. She scrabbled for the slippers and found them. She picked them up just as Father put his bare feet on the airline carpet. She whipped them inside and closed the curtain a split second before he turned his head.

She should have been scared, but instead she felt thrilled.

She did not have a clear idea of what she wanted to happen now. She just knew she wanted to be with Harry. The prospect of spending the night lying in her own bunk wishing he were there had become intolerable. But she was not going to give herself to him. She would like to—very much—but there were all sorts of practical problems, not the least of which was Mr. Membury, fast asleep a few inches above them.

In the next moment she realized that, unlike her, Harry knew exactly what he wanted.

He leaned forward, put his hand behind her head, pulled her to him and kissed her lips.

After a momentary hesitation she abandoned all thought of resistance and gave herself up to the sensation.

She had been thinking about it for so long that she felt as if she had already been making love to him for hours. But this was real: there was a strong hand on her neck, a real mouth kissing hers, a real person mingling his breath with her own. It was a slow, tender kiss, gentle and tentative, and she was aware of every small detail: his fingers moving in her hair, the roughness of his shaved chin, his warm breath on her soft cheek, his moving mouth, his teeth nibbling her lips, and finally his exploring tongue pressing between her lips and seeking her own. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, she opened her mouth wide.

After a moment they broke apart, panting. Harry’s gaze dropped to her bosom. Looking down, she saw that her robe had fallen open, and her nipples were pressing against the cotton of her nightdress. Harry gazed as if hypnotized. Moving in slow motion, he reached out with one hand and lightly brushed her left breast with his fingers, stroking the sensitive tip through the fine fabric, causing her to gasp with pleasure.

Suddenly clothing seemed intolerable. She shrugged off her robe quickly. She grasped the hem of her nightdress, then hesitated. A warning voice in the back of her mind said
After this, there’s no turning back,
and she thought
Good!
and pulled her nightdress over her head and knelt in front of him naked.

She felt vulnerable and shy, but somehow the anxiety heightened her excitement. Harry’s eyes roamed over her body and she saw in his face both adoration and desire. Twisting in the cramped space, he got on his knees and leaned forward, bringing his head down to her bosom. She felt a moment of uncertainty: what was he going to do? His lips brushed the tops of her breasts, first one then the other. She felt his hand beneath her left breast, first stroking, then weighing, then squeezing softly. His lips tracked down until they came to her nipple. He nibbled gently. Her nipple was so taut it felt as if it would burst. Then he began to suck, and she groaned with delight.

After a while she wanted him to do the same to the other one, but she was too shy to ask. However, perhaps he sensed her desire, for he did what she wanted a moment later. She stroked the bristly hair at the back of his head, then, yielding to an impulse, she pressed his head to her breast. He sucked harder in response.

She wanted to explore his body. When he paused, she pushed him away, and undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. Both of them were breathing like sprinters but neither spoke for fear of being heard. He shrugged out of his jacket. There was no hair on his chest. She wanted him to be completely naked, as she was. She found the drawstring of his pajama trousers and, feeling wanton, pulled it undone.

He looked hesitant and a little startled, giving Margaret the uneasy feeling that she might be bolder than other girls in his experience; but she felt that she had to continue what she had begun. She pushed him back until he was lying down with his head on the pillow, then grasped the waistband of his trousers and tugged. He raised his hips.

There was a thatch of dark blond hair at the base of his belly. She drew the red cotton down farther, and then gasped as his penis sprang free, sticking up like a flagpole. She stared at it, fascinated. The skin was stretched taut over the veins and the end was swollen like a blue tulip. He lay still, sensing that this was what she wanted; but her looking at it seemed to inflame him, and she heard his breathing become hoarse. She felt impelled, by curiosity and some other emotion, to touch it. Her hand was drawn forward irresistibly. He gave a low groan as he saw what she was about to do. She hesitated at the last instant. Her pale hand wavered next to the dark penis. He made a sound like a whimper. Then, with a sigh, she grasped it, her slender fingers wrapping around the thick shaft. The skin was hot to her touch, and soft, but when she squeezed slightly—making him gasp—she found it was as hard as a bone underneath. She glanced at him. His face was flushed with desire and he was breathing hard through his mouth. She longed to please him. Shifting her grip, she began to rub his penis in a motion she had learned from Ian: gripping firmly to push down, then easing her grasp for the upward stroke.

The effect took her by surprise. He moaned, closed his eyes tight, and pressed his knees together; and then, as she pressed down a second time, he jerked convulsively, his face screwed up in a grimace, and white semen spurted from the end of his penis. Astonished and mesmerized, Margaret continued the action, and with each downstroke more came out. She herself was possessed by lust: her breasts felt heavy, her throat was dry, and she could feel moisture trickling down the inside of her thigh. At last, at the fifth or sixth stroke, it ended. His thighs relaxed, his face became smooth, and his head slumped sideways on the pillow.

Margaret lay down beside him.

He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be sorry!” she replied. “It was amazing. I’ve never done that. I feel wonderful.”

He was surprised. “Did you enjoy it?”

She was too abashed to say yes aloud, so she just nodded.

He said: “But I didn’t ... I mean, you didn’t ...”

She said nothing. There was something he could do for her, but she was afraid to ask.

He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another in the narrow bunk. He said: “In a few minutes, maybe...”

I can’t wait a few minutes, she thought. Why shouldn’t I ask him to do for me what I did for him? She found his hand and squeezed it. Still she could not say what she wanted. She closed her eyes, then drew his hand to her groin. Her mouth was next to his ear, and she whispered: “Be gentle.”

He got the idea. His hand moved, exploring. She was wet, dripping wet. His fingers slid easily between her lips. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. His finger moved inside her. She wanted to say
Not there, higher!
and as if reading her thoughts he drew his finger out and slid it up to the most sensitive place. She was instantly transfixed. Her body was racked with spasms of pleasure. She shuddered convulsively, and to stop herself crying out she sank her teeth into the flesh of Harry’s upper arm and bit. He froze, but she rubbed herself against his hand and the sensations continued unabated.

When at last the pleasure eased, Harry moved his finger again, and she was abruptly shaken by another climax as intense as the first.

Then finally the spot became too sensitive, and she pushed his hand away.

After a moment Harry eased away from her and rubbed his shoulder where she had bitten him.

Breathlessly, she panted: “I’m sorry—did it hurt?”

“Yes, it bloody did,” he whispered; and they both began to giggle. Trying not to laugh aloud made it worse, and for a minute or two they were both helpless with suppressed laughter.

When they calmed down he said: “Your body is wonderful—wonderful.”

“So is yours,” she said fervently.

He did not believe her. “No, I mean it,” he said.

“So do I!” She would never forget his swollen penis standing up from the thatch of golden hair. She ran her hand over his stomach, searching for it, and found it lying across his thigh like a hosepipe, neither stiff nor shriveled. The skin was silky. She felt she would like to kiss it, and was shocked by her own depravity.

Instead she kissed his arm where she had bitten him. Even in the near-dark she could see the marks her teeth had made. He was going to have a bad bruise. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, too low for him to hear. She felt quite sad that she had damaged his perfect flesh after his body had given her such joy. She kissed the bruise again.

They were limp with exhaustion and pleasure, and they both drifted into a light doze. Margaret seemed to hear the drone of the engines all through her sleep, as if she were dreaming of planes. Once she heard footsteps pass through the compartment and return a few minutes later, but she was too contented to be curious about what they meant.

For a while the motion of the plane was smooth, and she fell into a real sleep.

She woke with a shock. Was it daytime? Had everyone got up? Would they all see her climbing out of Harry’s bunk? Her heart raced.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“What’s the time?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He was right. There was no movement outside, the cabin lights were dim, and there was no sign of daylight at the window. She could sneak out in safety. “I must go back to my own bunk, right now, before we’re discovered,” she said frantically. She began looking for her slippers and could not find them.

Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he whispered. “We’ve got hours.”

“But I’m worried that Father—” She stopped herself. Why was she so worried? She took a deep breath and looked at Harry. When their eyes met in the semidarkness, she remembered what had happened before they went to sleep, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. They smiled at one another, a knowing, intimate, lovers’ smile.

Suddenly she was not so worried. She did not need to go yet. She wanted to stay here, so she would. There was plenty of time.

Harry moved against her, and she felt his stiffening penis. “Don’t go yet,” he said.

She sighed happily. “All right, not yet,” she said, and she began to kiss him.

 

 

 

 

E
ddie Deakin had himself under rigid control, but he was a boiling kettle with the lid jammed on, a volcano waiting to blow. He sweated constantly, his guts ached and he could hardly sit still. He was managing to do his job, but only just.

He was due to go off duty at two a.m., British time. As the end of his shift approached, he faked one more set of fuel figures. Earlier he had understated the plane’s consumption, to give the impression that there was just enough fuel to complete the journey so that the captain would not turn back. Now he overstated, to compensate, so when his replacement, Mickey Finn, came on duty and read the fuel gauges there would be no discrepancy. The Howgozit Curve would show fuel consumption fluctuating wildly, and Mickey would wonder why; but Eddie would say it was due to the stormy weather. Anyway, Mickey was the least of his worries. His deep anxiety, the one that held his heart in the cold grip of fear, was that the plane would run out of fuel before it reached Newfoundland.

The aircraft did not have the regulation minimum. The regulations left a safety margin, of course; but safety margins were there for a reason. This flight no longer had an extra reserve of fuel for emergencies such as engine failure. If something went wrong, the plane would plunge into the stormy Atlantic Ocean. It could not splash down safely in mid-ocean: it would sink within a few minutes. There would be no survivors.

Mickey came up to the flight cabin a few minutes before two, looking fresh and young and eager. “We’re running very low,” Eddie said right away. “I’ve told the captain.”

Mickey nodded noncommittally and picked up the flashlight. His first duty on taking over was to make a visual inspection of all four engines.

Eddie left him to it and went down to the passenger deck. The first officer, Johnny Dott, the navigator, Jack Ashford, and the radio operator, Ben Thompson, followed him down the stairs as their replacements arrived. Jack went to the galley to make a sandwich. The thought of food nauseated Eddie. He got a cup of coffee and went to sit in number 1 compartment.