Goddess 13

Goddess

By Lucifer Peters

I saw her as a goddess in a summer dress, that summer by the lake. We swam beneath a platinum moon; plunging, naked through the cool dark void. Warm skin behind me, whispering, savoring the moment.

Her breasts were like an electric shock as they crushed against my back, and she wrapped her arms around me from behind. I thought I was a good swimmer, but her kick felt incredibly powerful as she came up on me from behind. I could feel her bush pressed up against my butt as she kissed my neck and nibbled at my ear. I couldn't help but get slightly aroused.

As we played in the water I had the uneasy feeling that it was very deep even though we were close to shore. The water was cold when you dove under or even swung your feet down. I mentioned it to her, and she told me there was a waterfall here before they dammed the creek.

She released me and swam quickly toward the dock. She was half way there before I could turn and start moving. I swam as fast as I could, and arrived at the dock as she balanced on her fingertips and swung her feet under her without touching the dock with anything but her fingers.

I watched her stand up as rivulets of water streamed down her body defining every curve. That image will remain burned in my mind for the rest of my life. There wasn't a hint of self consciousness as she stood there with everything exposed, and gave a slight shiver to cast off the water.

She walked down the dock onto the perfectly manicured lawn. The light from the French doors and windows of the cottage illuminated droplets like tiny jewels encrusting her body.

As I followed her she stepped up on the porch and entered the cottage. When I came through the door she already had her blonde hair wrapped in an expensive towel. She took one from a hook next to the door and tossed it to me, telling me in a matter of fact way to dry off before stepping on the carpet. She took another towel and finished drying herself. Then she expertly wrapped the towel around her breasts and tucked it in. Walking across the living room, she turned just past the fireplace and said, "Ryan, be a dear and start us a fire would you?" Then she turned and went into the front bedroom.

I went to the back bedroom and put on some comfortable clothes, then busied myself making a fire. I noticed that everything was spotless, and every supply was at your fingertips just where you'd expect to find it.

After starting the fire and putting the screen back in place, I could hear the sound of water from the bath. Realizing that she was taking her time I thought it was a bad idea to be dressed in my scruffy knock-around clothes. I turned off all the lights in the front of the house, except for one lamp on the far side of the room that had a dimmer.

I went back to the bedroom and set about making myself presentable. I took a shower, combed, brushed my hair, shaved, and put on a touch of Adrenaline cologne. I put on a pair of silk boxers, and decided I was well enough dressed for the evening. I filched the king sized pillows from the bed, and noticed a rustic looking blanket on the shelf in the closet. It turned out to be as soft as a baby's blanket.

Back in the living room I set about arranging the space in front of the fireplace. I put a pillow on one side, and another in the back with the blanket on top. No cushion was needed on the floor. There was a natural long hair fleece hide on the floor that I swear was about the plushest thing I ever felt. This was a cottage that was clearly used, and someone had thought of everything.

I had just started to settle in, when I noticed a well stocked wine rack at the side of the kitchen counter. I hopped up and took a look. It contained an incredible selection of fine European wines, many of them late harvest. I found some delicate looking goblets in the cabinet above and a corkscrew in the drawer right next to the wine cooler. I opened a bottle of Pieroth 1979 Somlo Ausbruch, grabbed a silver tray from the serving rack, and quickly set it up on a low round table beside the fireplace.

It was about that time that Chelsea came into the living room. Her face was fresh, without a hint of makeup, not that she needed it. She was a vision, in a white, ankle length, peignoir, obviously very expensive; silk with lace trim that fit every curve perfectly. The lace was designed for maximum effect, though it covered completely. The most striking feature were the puffy nipples that were covered, but left little to the imagination.

She tossed a towel down on the rug in front of the fireplace. She took in the scene with a look of approval, and remarked, "I see you like wine." As she settled in on the floor, I busied myself with pouring the wine. I concentrated on the task at hand to distract myself from other thoughts. I could feel that George was already starting to make himself known, and I didn't want him to pop out at this early stage of the adventure. As I handed her the wine glass, I couldn't help but notice that she was looking right at my bulge.

She said, "Grab the little table by the couch, and set it to the side where we can enjoy the fire". She reached out with a finely manicured finger and touched the table skirt. A tiny shelf swung out as if under its own power, exposing a set of coasters. She tossed a couple on the table and gave the shelf a tiny push. It retracted again as smoothly as it had opened. Being an engineer, I looked at that and thought, wow, cool!

We busied ourselves enjoying the fire and sipping sweet wine. Before long we were getting a little warm, and enjoyed rubbing wine on about everything that tastes good; licking it off.

Before long Chelsea adjusted her peignoir, brushed her hair back, and laid her head on the pillow, facing the fire. I lay down behind her and snuggled up. Wrapping her with my arm; my hand came to rest on her left breast. I swear, snuggling up to that beautiful butt, completely wrapped in silk was about the finest thing I've ever experienced.

I tried to relax, but my hands had a mind of their own. Soon I was kissing her shoulders and exploring with my mouth. She rolled over on her back and things started to get heavy. I had no problem giving both tits equal attention. I took turns sucking both nipples into my mouth as far as they would go. I had no doubts about the old adage that, the perfect breast is 3.2 cubic mouthfuls.

I kissed down her tummy and explored up her skirt. Her panties matched her gown, but they didn't stay on long as I got down to business. I kissed all around her pussy and latched onto her clit as I gently fingered her opening. She was plenty vocal about what she liked. That made it easy for me.

She especially liked to be teased open right at the entrance to her vagina. Soon she was very wet all the way down her crack and around her labia. She smelled like heaven and I kept her clit licked clean.

I tested the waters, probing at her anus. Carefully I slipped a finger inside teasing it open with her juices. As my finger bottomed out I pushed my thumb into her vagina. I latched on to her clit with my mouth and sucked hard. I lost track of how many orgasms she had; it was more like one continuous orgasm that surged along.

After she couldn't take any more, she begged me to fuck her. I climbed on and slowly thrust into her. I was very gentle, although there was no need to be. She was so wet that I could have pushed full length in one hard thrust.

I had to be careful to hold back because it was intense. For quite a while we tried every variation of missionary. She told me to lie still without moving. It turned out to be impossible. One of us would always have an involuntary contraction which would prompt a contraction from the other, back and forth; insanely pleasurable, because you could intimately experience the other's pleasure and feelings.

Eventually I couldn't take it any more, and I asked her to roll over and put her bottom into the air. The sight of that silk gown covering her ass made me want to rape her. I lifted her skirt just far enough to get in without making a mess, and slowly pushed into her vagina. She was so wet that there was no resistance and I could do anything I wanted.

I fucked her slowly; enjoying the vision of my dick disappearing up her skirt. I could not resist the temptation to take her so I backed off and slammed into her a few times. From the sounds she made, she obviously enjoyed it, and she slowly lowered herself down until she was flat on the floor.

The sight of her bunched up skirt covering her butt was an intense turn on. I started fucking her harder until I was railing her from behind. After a while I slowed down a bit and got an unexpected response.

She hissed, "Fuck me." I started railing her again, but that wasn't enough. She yelled, "Fuck me! Harder!" I hit her harder. Completely unexpectedly, she hissed in an angry voice, "Harder! Hurt me!" I fucked her as hard as I could. Again she screamed, "Hurt me." By that time I was fucking her so hard I was afraid I would injure myself. No more intelligible words came out of her; just noises that were an indication that she was between pain and pleasure.

The next thing that I was aware of was that I was completely out of control. There was no doubt that I was going to come inside of her. I could feel it building, and there was no way I could stop. In a few more strokes I started to come. I buried myself as deep as I could until I was totally drained.

I collapsed on top of her, and we slowly rolled over on our side facing the fire. I held her, and we stayed coupled until I shrunk down and George fell out on his own.

After a while she started to move. She tossed me a box of Kleenex and went to the bedroom. She wasn't gone long, till she came back and sat on the floor in front of me. She patted my dick and laughed. She said, "Oh, I killed the little soldier."

She rearranged the pillows for better sleeping advantage and tossed the blanket over me. Then she fiddled with an alarm clock that was under one of the end tables, and crawled in beside me. I held her as we laid there and enjoyed the fire.

My hands had a mind of their own and soon I was fiddling with her breasts. She whacked me gently and told me to be still, "We have a lot to do tomorrow. I have to get groceries." I didn't see how that was a big deal, but I kept my mouth shut and went to sleep.

"Class is an aura of confidence that is being sure without being cocky. Class has nothing to do with money. Class never runs scared. It is self-discipline and self-knowledge. It's the sure-footedness that comes with having proved you can meet life. "

- Ann Landers

The next thing I was aware of was Chelsea puttering away in the brightly lit kitchen. It was still dark out, and I noticed that the alarm said it was a little before five AM.

She asked me to go to the back of the house and find the big ice chest. I found a big Coleman wheeled cooler in the mud room, and brought it up to the front door.

With little apparent effort she put on quite a breakfast spread. We had orange juice, bacon and eggs, muffins, and a fruit compote that looked like a work of art. After we ate breakfast we cleared the table, and she asked me to wash the dishes while she busied herself making sandwiches and putting together other things that looked like a picnic. She dropped everything in the cooler, and told me to hurry up so we could get going. She came over and helped by drying dishes and putting things away.

When we had finished she took the bottle of wine from the night before out of the refrigerator, wrapped it in a towel, and put it with a corkscrew into the cooler.

Then she took my hand and led me to the back bedroom, saying, "Come on, let's get ready to go". She asked me if I had a swim suit, which I didn't; so she went away and came back with a pair of swim trunks and boat shoes which fit perfectly. She put on a bikini and a light long sleeved blouse and shorts with white tennis shoes.

Just as we were headed out the door a very fit looking man with a German accent showed up at the house. She introduced him as Peter, and explained that he was the foreman of the farm. He lived in the old house with his wife Birgit about a half mile up the road.

She had pointed out the house on the way in the day before. Her Great Grandfather had built it after the Civil War because General Sherman had burned the original family house to the ground during his western campaign against the Confederacy. The ruins of the original house were still across the meadow from the cottage. She had explained that her family's dairy herd in the meadow produced the finest milk and cheese in this part of the country.

Peter asked if she needed anything. She said no, not now, but she wanted Peter to ask George to come down and stow the boat in a couple of days, and Birgit would need to clean the cottage after we were gone. Peter winked at her and told her he had it covered. He asked if she needed help getting the boat down, but she declined, nodding at me and indicating that she had help. Peter and I grabbed the cooler and headed down to the dock. Peter left as soon as we got the cooler to the dock.

There was a sizeable boat house up on the lawn next to the dock with a channel cut into it, so a boat could be floated out and tied at the dock. Chelsea unlocked the side doors on the boathouse, and threw open the doors revealing a gleaming sleek looking hi-tech sailboat hanging in a cradle from a rolling crane in the ceiling. She walked down the boathouse deck and flipped two switches. A drawbridge lowered across the channel, connecting the decks on both sides of the boathouse. At the same time a system of levers and pulleys unlocked the end doors on the boathouse and swung them open to the channel.

She checked that the boat was free to move, lifted the crane control box off a hook on the wall, and drove the boat out over the water and lowered the boat. Then she crossed over the drawbridge and tied the boat up to a couple of cleats on the deck, fore and aft. She fiddled with a couple of contraptions on the cradle she called pelicans, and one side of the cradle fell into the water. She went back across the drawbridge and lowered the crane some more, then raised it up pulling the cradle all the way out of the water. She drove the crane back to its starting position and lowered the crane to where she could work on the cradle and hooked up the pelicans again. All of this took her only a few minutes.

For the first time during this exercise, she looked at me and said, "Be a dear and come over here and help me, please." While I crossed the drawbridge, she walked to the back corner of the boathouse where all kinds of nautical equipment was stowed in racks. We lifted a boat mast and boom with all kinds of rigging attached, and set it in the cradle. She drove the crane across the boat house to the other side, and we crossed the drawbridge, lifted it out and set it on the deck of the boat. She tied it to the railing so the mess would stay out of the way. Then we returned to the racks and brought a couple of sail bags and life vests over and put them in the boat.

The line at the aft of the boat was very long, and I was about to learn why. Chelsea ran the long line forward, and looped it around a cleat by the channel doors. Then she untied the boat and refastened it by passing just one loop around an ear of each cleat so they would drop off as the boat moved forward. She tied the ends of the ropes to a railing stanchion on the boat. She flipped the switch raising the drawbridge, opening the channel.

Chelsea climbed into the boat. She made sure the rudder was in the right position, and reached through the railing and gave the aft line a flip causing it to drop off of the cleat. Then she gently pulled on the long line, and the boat moved slowly forward. As the boat moved forward the lines in the boathouse dropped off of their cleats. She steered the boat out to the dock and reached through the railing dropping a short line with a loop in the end over a cleat on the dock. Then she stepped off of the boat and tied the forward end to another cleat.

I followed her instructions and helped as she attached the rigging to various places on the boat. Then she ran a line through a pulley on the bow, and used a coffee grinder winch to pull the mast upright and attach the last wire to the bow of the boat. It only took a few minutes for her to get the rest of the boat fully rigged, including raising the sails.

We stowed the cooler below decks. Then she went back in the boathouse and flipped the switch closing and locking the channel doors. As she left the boathouse she closed and locked the side doors.

As we got underway she looked at her watch and remarked that it was only 7:30 in the morning. I had done a little sailing, but had never been on a boat as fancy as this. It danced over the water like a miniature cup racer. I remarked on that, and she told me I was right. It was indeed a one quarter scale model of Dennis Connor's 1987 Stars and Stripes cup racer. It was used in the towing tanks in San Diego to test the design. After Sail America was done with it, her dad purchased it, and had it outfitted as a lake boat.

I wondered how big the lake was, as the cottage was at one end of the lake. She told me that it took about four hours to sail the length of the lake. Prior to the Civil War her family had owned the entire valley. After her grandfather dammed the creek, the family had sold parcels along the lake to the rich and famous as the western U.S. opened up.

Most of the land upstream of was still owned by her family. They referred to it as the farm but it was huge. The farm was mostly used to raise the finest beef in the country. It was sold to the expensive steak houses across the U.S. Peter was in charge of that operation.

As we sailed down the lake we passed beautiful estate homes spaced out at approximately half mile intervals. There were smaller homes set further back. Chelsea explained that the smaller homes were mostly occupied by people who provided services to the community.

Eventually we reached an especially large estate that appeared to be a horse breeding farm. Chelsea talked me through dropping the main sail and steered the boat to a dock. She tied the boat up, and walked to the dock entrance. There she pulled several times on a rope that came out of a pipe in the ground. She explained that it was an old fashioned door bell. It rang bells in the barn and in the kitchen of the house.

Soon a short powerful looking man with a buzz haircut came down to the dock. As soon as he saw her he broke into a wide grin. "Hi Missy", he said. Chelsea waved back, "Hi Gary", she said. He asked what he could do for her. She asked if he could bring two saddle and one pack horse to the cottage early in the morning. "Sure. Anything else?" Chelsea said one of the saddle horses needed to be well behaved, and could he provide a scabbard on the more spirited one? "No problem", he said. Our business was done there, and we pushed off and headed down the lake again.

Soon we came upon what looked like a very small town. Chelsea repeated her ritual of dropping the main sail and tied up at a dock. This time she dropped the jib and we brought the cooler up from below decks. We carried the cooler up a little rise across from the dock that appeared to be a park. We sat down under a huge tree and ate lunch. While we were eating, several people stopped by and chatted. Everyone knew her as either Missy or Chelsea. I gathered that Missy must be her little girl nickname.

After lunch, the cooler was almost empty, except for the bottle of wine that had a little left and a bag of dishes and supplies. Chelsea took the bag back to the boat and returned a few minutes later. She said, "Come on lets go shopping." I pulled the cooler along as we headed into town. On the way she quizzed me about what kind of clothes I had at the cottage.