The Fisherman & The Mermaid-Chap. 1 & 2

Introduction:
This is a long story of adventure and romance that I have broken into parts to make it easier to read and more manageable. It is typical of my stories, ie. it’s a story with sex, sort of like couples porn. It takes a while to get started so please have patience.
CHAPTER 1
I have many fond memories of learning to fish with my parents. They had a summer place—just a small rectangular bungalow with no ceilings and old beat up furniture–on the north shore of Long Island back in the day when there was nothing there but potato farms and woods. I remember my mom driving more than a dozen miles to the nearest supermarket and going to the beach every day seeing absolutely nobody in either direction as far as you could see.
I started fishing with a drop line, copying my mom’s style—she refused to use a rod and reel. We were thrilled to catch little sand sharks and porgies, or blowfish in the spring when the water was too cold to even stand in. Later, as I grew older, I had my own spinning reel and casting rod. A small rowboat made it possible for us to fish in areas unreachable from shore. We only had a 5 HP motor on it, but it got us where we needed to go—slowly, but we did get there eventually. My teenage friends and I got better and smarter, catching tons of flounder and blackfish in the spring and porgies and fluke in the summer. Unfortunately, we usually missed the fall blackfish run due to our school obligations.
Now as a single adult I had my own boat. I bought it for peanuts last fall from a guy who hadn’t used it for years. The convertible lounge seats were all chewed up by squirrels and the deck had a few holes in it. The motor, a 150 HP Mercury—well, who knew if it would even run? This became my winter project. I ripped out the seats, the marine carpeting and eventually, the deck. It was all worthless junk. I installed a new deck of half-inch marine plywood, screwing it in place with stainless screws. I clad the deck in fiberglass, glued down new carpeting and replaced the old seating which was too low with captain’s chairs that would swivel and turn. I could fish from them whether I was anchored or drifting.
I had to wait for fairly warm weather to clean up the exterior—I took care of that job during my Easter vacation—I’m a junior high science teacher. Then, using a recommendation from the head of maintenance in our school district, I took the engine to a mechanic. As I guessed it was useless. The mechanic offered me a rebuilt engine for mine and $2,000. I took the deal. He could use the old engine for parts and I got a decent, if smaller at 125 HP, but working engine. He even threw in a one-year warranty on it.
Now I was ready to fish. It was Memorial Day weekend and it’s early—6:00 a.m. when I rise. I hooked the trailer to my truck last night and loaded my rods, tackle, and plenty of ice and soda in the cooler. I drove to the nearest deli for a Number 1 Special—two fried eggs and bacon on a hard roll with butter and salt/pepper. I bought a large bottle of OJ and a Virginia ham sub for my lunch.
My next stop was the bait shop where I picked up a dozen sand worms, some heavy duty Virginia hooks
and a bunch of sinkers. I was fishing for blackfish; they live in rocky areas where they eat stuff like crabs and barnacles. It was really easy to get hung up in the rocks and lose your tackle, so it paid to have lots and lots extra.
I drove the short distance to the boat ramp in Port Jefferson—it’s a great facility with four ramps and parking for about a hundred cars and trailers. It took me about ten minutes to drop the boat in the water, park, and return to start the engine. It was really reassuring to hear it purr as I backed out from the dock and turned into the channel. The speed limit is 12 mph and it’s closely monitored by the county cops so I was very careful while I was in the harbor. It gave me a chance to eat my breakfast and relax in my new captain’s chair where I could see clearly through the windshield and all around for safety. In about ten minutes I was finished with my egg sandwich as I drove between the stone breakwaters into Long Island Sound. One of the things I love about the Sound is that it is almost always calm—not lake calm, but pretty damned close. This morning there was only a slight chop with wavelets that couldn’t have been more than an inch or two high. “Perfect for fishing,” I thought out loud. Too bad I’d never get the chance.
I rammed the throttle forward, lifting my old Thunderbird tri-hull onto plane as I headed west toward Crane’s Neck, home of about a thousand big rocks and some huge blacks. I pulled out about a half-mile to avoid any submerged boulders and was about to turn back toward land when a glint of yellow caught my eye about two to three miles out. There are lots of colors on the water, but yellow isn’t one of them. I changed course, screaming toward the color at almost forty miles per hour. I’ll say one thing for the tri-hull—it ran great. It went right onto plane and held it easily, the bow only about six inches higher than the stern.
I was about a mile away and closing fast when I realized it was a boat wreck I was approaching. Pulling out my binoculars I thought I could see someone clinging to the wreckage. The water at this time of year was cold, probably not more than 55 degrees, so a person in the water for any period of time was facing a really bad case of hypothermia. I cut the engine to a slow crawl when I got within a hundred feet. The bow of the wreck was just above the water level and a young woman was hanging on for her life, her clothing soaked by the action of the tiny waves. As I approached it seemed that the boat was sinking. It was noticeably lower in the water when I pulled up and stopped.
Using the boat hook I grabbed under her arm and pulled her closer to the boat. I knew anyone suffering from hypothermia would be unable to climb into my boat or even assist in any way. Straddling the side I grabbed her shirt, dropped the hook to the deck, and pulled her up with both hands. She wasn’t heavy, but she was dead weight and her clothes were sodden. Once I was able to get her hips onto the gunwale the rest was easy. I levered her down to the deck.
I rubbed her face telling her, “Hold on, I’ll call the police. They’ll get you to a hospital.”
I wasn’t expecting much of a response under these circumstances, but she looked up at me and whispered, ”Please…no…police…no…police.” Don’t ask me why I listened to her. For all I knew she could have been delirious. I pulled my knife—I keep it razor sharp for filleting—and cut up the back of her shirt. I cut off her bra. I had to get her out of the wet clothing. Diving into the tiny cuddy cabin, I pulled out the sweatshirt I keep there for emergencies. I shrugged her into it. Next I pulled off her shoes, slacks, and panties. I didn’t have any sweatpants but I did have a rubber rain suit. I pulled the much-too-big overalls over her, fastening the straps over her shoulders. The jacket followed. The rubber outfit had fantastic insulating properties and getting her warm was the number one priority. I pulled her into the tiny cabin which was almost seven feet long, but only three feet high. I wrapped her body in an old beach blanket and headed home. In the few minutes I had been on the wreck site the boat had slid beneath the surface. I entered the Latitude/Longitude as a waypoint into my GPS in case I needed the location in the future.
CHAPTER 2
I moved the idling engine into “Forward” and accelerated as I reversed my earlier course back to the harbor. Cruising at twelve mph in the harbor was maddening but there was nothing I could do. A speeding ticket would cost $200 and sitting around while they wrote the ticket would take even longer than poking along. I found a place at the dock, ran to my truck and backed down. It took me only minutes to winch the boat onto the trailer. Now I had a dilemma—it’s illegal to transport anyone in any kind of trailer, but I didn’t want to draw unwanted attention to my guest. I left her there while I tied the boat down and returned home.
Critical minutes later I pulled into the driveway, ran back to the boat, and pulled her out of the cabin. She was barely conscious. I sat her on the gunwale while I jumped down and let her fall into my arms. I carried her to the door, unlocked it and ran inside. I stopped in the bathroom and filled the tub. Most people would assume that hot water would be needed, but I knew that warm was better—just as long as it was almost 100 degrees Fahrenheit. I stripped her again, ignoring her breasts, pussy, and the rest of her body. I eased her into the tub. Seconds later I realized that this wasn’t going to work—she was too weak to hold herself up. Cursing my stupidity I stripped out of my shoes, socks, and jeans before pulling my t-shirt over my head. I slipped into the tub with her in only my boxers, sitting behind her, my arms around her waist.
We sat in the tub for more than an hour as I refilled the tub regularly and talked to her. Try talking nonstop to a stranger for an hour—go ahead! I was talking about everything from the baseball season—I’m a Yankee fan—to what was going on in my school, to politics, to anything I could think of. I knew she was coming around when she gasped, “What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell are you and why are you in this tub with me?”
“Well,” I replied, “I’m just saying anything that comes to mind to try to keep you awake. Second, I’m Pete. This is my house. I’m a teacher in a nearby junior high, and I’m here with you saving your life even though I’d rather be out fishing. That’s where I was heading when I found you clinging to your boat. I’m getting up now. Can you keep yourself from drowning?” She nodded so I got up, dropped my boxers, dried off, and dressed before returning to her with some of my clothes.
Kneeling next to her I spoke, “Let’s get you out of here, dressed, and into bed. No, I’m not leaving you here to do it—you’re too weak—besides I’ve already seen everything there is to see. The tub is a great way to get your core temperature back to normal, but being in the water for too long will actually harm you, just like staying in a Jacuzzi too long.” When she looked at me crazily I continued, “I’m a science teacher. I know lots of useless stuff like that. Let’s get you out and dry. C’mon.”
I helped her up and sat her on the edge of the tub while I dried her with a fluffy towel. I helped her into a pair of warm sweatpants and sweatshirt. They were much too big for her, but they were the best I could do at the moment. I tucked her into bed with a couple of pillows to support her. “I think you’ll be OK now, but I want to take your temperature. Luckily for you I have one of those things you stick in a person’s ear. My only other one is a rectal.”
She chuckled, “Promises, promises.” I joined her in laughing as I pushed the device into her ear. It “pinged” seconds later, “93.2,” I told her, “That’s not too bad, considering. Want to tell me what happened and why you don’t want the police involved?
“I’d just as soon skip my name for now, if you don’t mind. It’s enough to know that I was out with my boyfriend. We were going out to Mystic—that’s in Connecticut, you know.” I nodded both to show I knew and that I wanted her to continue. “My boyfriend gambles, or maybe I should say gambled, because I’m sure he’s dead. He owed a fortune to these gangsters and he had no way to pay them. We were in the middle of the Sound when a speedboat caught up with us. They forced their way on board and locked me in one of the cabins. Then I heard shooting—lots of shooting—and about twenty minutes later I saw water coming into the cabin. Luckily, there was a fire extinguisher, a big one, in with me. I swung it at the door and eventually broke the lock. By then the water was up to my ankles and the boat was tilting. It was all I could do to climb up to the front hatch. I climbed out onto the bow and waited…and waited. It was dark and there was no sign of the other boat. I couldn’t look for my boyfriend—the boat was mostly underwater. All I remember is how cold I was. Then you came. Thanks for saving me. I really appreciate it. Boy—does that sound lame.”
“I don’t think that thanking someone is ever lame or stupid, and you’re welcome. I think you should stay here in bed today. I have another bedroom and I can sleep there tonight. I’ll go now and make you some chicken soup. It’s homemade in my freezer so I’ll have to defrost it. That’ll help warm you. I can bring it to you in here, so just relax. Here’s the remote—watch TV if you want.” I left her alone, defrosted and heated my homemade soup in the microwave and carried a full bowl on a tray along with a cup of hot tea. I set it on a table next to the bed and helped her to reposition the pillows.
She sipped the soup, nibbled the chicken chunks and ate the rice. “This is really good. Your mom make it?”
“No, Mom died four years ago—cancer. She smoked like a chimney her entire life and wouldn’t stop, even after she was diagnosed—she could be such a stupid woman. She was 57. My dad’s also dead—heart attack at work. I’m the only one left of my whole family. I had an older brother—he died in Iraq—one of those damned IED’s–you know–homemade bombs. I made the soup. I’m single so I have to cook or go out and that’s too expensive to do every night. I really prefer turkey soup, but how often can I have a turkey? Ever think about turkey for one? I’d have it every day and every night for a couple of months, at least.” She shared my laughter.
“Marta.”
“Huh?”
“Marta, my name’s Marta. I was born in what used to be called Czechoslovakia, but my parents moved here when I was three. I grew up in New York City and attended college there. I’m a commercial artist, or I was. I don’t know if I could ever go back to work. I’m afraid they’d kill me. They tried once.”
I was thinking; Marta almost interrupted me once but apparently thought the better of it. “I think we should go boating tomorrow. I’m a certified scuba diver. I can dive on the boat and see if I can find out anything, but you’ll have to go with me—I’m sorry. It’s not safe to dive by yourself. I can’t trust anyone to go down with me so it will have to be you in the boat as my support. It’s the only way we can get some answers and try to figure out what happened.”
“Isn’t the water too cold? You could wind up like me.”
“No, I have a wet suit. It lets the water in, but quickly warms it to body temperature. I’ve worn it in the middle of winter without too much trouble. I’ll get everything out into the boat and that reminds me—my lunch is out there and what’s left of your clothes. Sorry, but I had to cut your shirt off. I’ll wash your slacks and dry them.” I jumped up and carried my gear bag to the boat. On the way in I carried my worms, my lunch, and Marta’s clothes. The lunch and worms went into the refrigerator; I turned the washer on, dropped in her clothes along with a bunch of mine and carried my scuba tanks to the boat, tying them to the rear starboard side cleat. I locked the regulator, wetsuit, and my rods in the cabin. The whole job took me about twenty minutes. When I returned to the bedroom Marta was gone. “I’m in the bathroom, OK?”
“No, I expect you to go in my sweatpants and my bed…of course it’s OK.” When she came out I took her hand, leading her on a tour of my small house. “I bought this with the money I inherited from my parents and got when my brother was killed. It’s the only decent thing that resulted from their deaths.” I showed her the other bedroom, the living room, and the eat-in kitchen. “That’s it, other than the yard. I’m at the end of a long road. The nearest neighbor is more than a quarter mile away. I’ve had a bit of trouble with burglars and vandals because I’m so isolated so there’s a perimeter alarm system and then there’s this–I opened the closet in the small bedroom—a room I used mainly as an office. I opened the sliding doors to reveal my gun collection. Locked in place were an assortment of rifles and shotguns along with a .44-Magnum revolver and two 9mm’s—a Glock and a Beretta.
Under the display panel were several drawers of ammunition. “These have special magnetic locks,” I continued, “you can’t see them, but they’re there and almost impossible to break. They open by thumb print, like this.” I held my thumb up to a tiny glass panel and a small unobtrusive LED turned green. I pulled off a .30-.30 lever action Winchester. “Maybe we should take this with us tomorrow in case we have visitors. Don’t worry…I know how to use it. My brother wasn’t the only Marine in our family.” I opened the drawer below and pulled out a box of ammo. I set both at the front door so we wouldn’t forget them. I returned to the bedroom, removed the Glock, a canvas belt holster, and a box of waterproofed ammo. When Marta gave me a questioning look I told her, “Can you shoot? No, I didn’t think so. I’ll carry this when I dive. The water’s shallow—only about 30 feet. I’ll be connected to you by a thin line. If anyone approaches you’ll pull on it five times quickly. I’ll surface and assess the situation. I think we’ll have a few rods in the water as a cover so I doubt anything will happen, but I believe in being prepared.”
I returned her to the bed, tucked her in and we talked and talked. I told her about my life—how I had graduated college and entered the Marines, gone to advanced training, and then to Afghanistan and Iraq as a specialist. I was discharged when my brother was killed. I had seen some action and even killed some insurgents. I didn’t tell her that I had been a sniper; the long rifle in my closet was one some unknown sniper had used way back in World War II. It still worked perfectly. I had sighted it in a few months ago. I had fired it at the burglars, but over their heads. I had thought about getting a dog, but I didn’t want to be tied down, at least not quite yet. I explained that I had been teaching at the local junior high and that I loved working with the kids—not so much with their parents. When asked I told her I was 29.
Marta told me about her life—she was 27—growing up in the city with immigrant parents who were more than old fashioned, about trying to date when they thought that kind of socializing was for harlots. I told her I could identify with the problem. There were lots of first generation Asian kids in my school and they often complained about their parents’ archaic views. We kept on talking until dinner when I suggested I grill some burgers. I told her I was glad for the company, and I was.
I make some great burgers. Each one is about a third of a pound and I always load on the cheese. We each ate two along with some potato salad and cole slaw I had bought at the deli yesterday. After dinner I took her to the mall, buying her some shorts, tops, bras, and sneakers. She wore an old set of flip-flops which we threw in the trash. She wore some of the new stuff, placing my sweats in the store bag. We went to bed when we got home—we were both tired. It was a long and exhausting day.
Before bed I asked about her family. “Do you want to phone them? They probably think you’re dead. On the other hand they’ll undoubtedly talk—tell others—and then if someone tried to kill you they may try again.” We agreed not to call for the time being. It was a tough decision, but the right one.
I had been in the spare bedroom about twenty minutes when I heard a whisper, “Peter, are you awake?”
“What’s the matter, Marta,” I replied.
“I’m afraid. Will you sleep with me?” This was an invitation I could not refuse. I had gotten to know some Czech women during a leave I’d spent in Prague and I thought they were really hot. Marta fit that description to a “T.” She was tall—maybe five feet nine inches—and slender with a tight ass and narrow hips. Her breasts were a B-cup–at least that’s what her bra said. I followed her to the bed and climbed in beside her. She snuggled up to me, her ass tight rubbing against my rising erection. “If you do that you’re going to get quite a reaction from me.”
“Good, I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about not thanking you properly.”
“Marta, you’re alive and healthy. That’s all the thanks I need. Let’s go to sleep. We have to get up early.” I closed my eyes and…felt Marta’s hand on my cock. I groaned as my hand found its way to her breast. It was firm and hot, the nipple erect. Marta turned and we kissed—it was wonderful. That’s the only way I could describe it. Her lips were soft and sweet, her tongue inquisitive. I cupped her ass as she threw a leg over mine, baring her pussy to me. She guided my cock to her slit, rubbing it up and down several times before finding her clit. It was hard and very hot. She rubbed my tip into her clit until I felt her shudder; she came quickly, flooding my cock and abdomen as well as the shorts I usually wore to bed.
Marta rolled me onto my back and straddled my hips as she slowly lowered herself onto my erection. I know I should have stopped and grabbed a condom, but at that moment it was the farthest thing from my mind. All I wanted was to fuck this gorgeous woman who obviously wanted me as much as I wanted her. She began to ride me, my seven-inch cock deep in her body, as she rubbed her clit into me with increasing force and speed. “Play with my tits, Peter…please. Rub them and squeeze them…hard. I need to be hurt. It will help me cum.”
I rolled those big hard nipples between my fingers, twisting them, knowing I was hurting this beautiful woman—knowing I was giving her exquisite pleasure, as well. She threw her head back and screamed non-stop for almost twenty seconds as her body shook uncontrolled by mind or muscle. The sight of her enduring her orgasm triggered my own. I drove my cock deep into her, lifting her almost two feet up from the bed as I bathed her womb in baby making cream again and again. On and on we went until we could go no more. She collapsed on top of me; I collapsed into the bed. I kissed her cheek and her hair as I prayed I’d have the chance to do this again.

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