Spectre of the Sea

When the doctor gave me the news I fainted. When I awoke several minutes later my tight-lipped girlfriend, Sara, drove me home. She refused to believe my story -- she said sarcastically "Perhaps it's a phantom pregnancy." That's when I punched her, which is why she's now my ex-girlfriend. Sorry, I should explain from the start.

My name's Kelly Matthews, I'm 32 years old, I've known I was a dyke since I was 11 years old, and I've never had sex with a flesh and blood man in my entire life. That's what my girlfriend of six years refused to believe. I'm not the sort of girl who would stand out in a crowd -- average height, average looks, shoulder length brown hair, average build with B-cup boobs and slim hips, and I tend to favour blacks and browns in my wardrobe. I work as a nautical assessor in the south-west of England. In plain English that means I examine damage ships have suffered for insurance purposes and to act as an expert witness in legal cases. That's how all this started.

It was six months ago, in mid-October, that my office received a call to go and look over a Russian merchant ship, moored off the south coast of Cornwall, near St Mawes. I'd only recently qualified, and I was still being mentored by a senior assessor, Dr Julian Fisher. He's in his 50s, tall and stick-thin, with a head of wiry grey hair and frameless round spectacles that he usually wears low on his long beaky nose and a haughty attitude. He was known around the office as Kingfisher.

The ship had a substantial hole in its hull and was listing badly to starboard. The story was that it had been ripped open on submerged rocks, but that seemed unlikely and it was suspected it had had a collision with another vessel. Given its country of origin we speculated that it may have been a Royal Navy vessel, perhaps a submarine, monitoring the Russians. The Navy denied it of course, but then they would. We had to be quick because the insurers (yes, even the Russkies use British insurers) had insisted that the captain remain in St Mawes until we'd spoken to him, but he was eager to follow the rest of his crew home.

The skipper, a short squat man with a trim beard and thick-lensed glasses, was staying in the same hotel as us, the Harbourside, so before dinner we interviewed him in the closed restaurant, with an official from the Russian embassy in London interpreting. The captain seemed distinctly shifty, and made several muttered comments to the interpreter that weren't passed on to us. He told us that when the crew had abandoned ship they found that one of their people was missing, presumed dead. Both the Russians were very reluctant that we should visit the stricken vessel, but Julian insisted that it was essential for us to make an assessment. They and we parted on not the best terms, with agreement that we would speak again after Julian and I had seen the damage.

Early the next morning we picked up the small boat we'd arranged to hire and, Julian operating the outboard motor, made our way out the mile or so to the ship, the Dudinka Prayd. Due to its condition it had been agreed it wouldn't be moved into port until we'd seen it. The weather was moody, they sea slate grey and choppy. As we approached the vessel we noted that is had rather more antennae and satellite dished than one might expect of a normal small cargo ship. Conveniently a ladder was attached to the low-lying starboard bow, so we tied off our boat and clambered up there. The list was bad enough though that we skidded on the deck and had to cling onto the superstructure to pull ourselves across to an entry hatch.

The captain had told us that the missing crew member was named Igor Maslov, and written it down for us in Cyrillic script (ͶΓΟΡb). Inside the hatchway was a team photo of the crew. Igor looked a bear of a man, in his 30s, head and shoulders above his crewmates in height, half as wide again, with bulging biceps, a thick mop of curly black hair, a deep scowl and an unruly beard hanging to just below his chin. He also looked as if his nose had been broken at least once.

We'd identified with the captain the position of the rip in the hull, and lighting out torches we made our way down two ladders and forwards towards the prow of the ship. The rent in the hull was obvious from the daylight shining through. It was large enough for me to pass through only slightly bent. We had to pick our way across a jumble of items that had slid towards it. I had led the way, and stood precariously, ankle deep in water, with my back pressed to the hull to examine the tear. Suddenly the ship lurched as a large wave hit it. I clung on for dear life but I heard a crash behind me, and Julian yelping and swearing. Spinning round I saw him sprawled on his back on the heap. Alarmed, I went to him and helped him up but he gasped the moment he tried to put his weight on his left ankle. He had clearly done some real damage to it, and I suggested we call out a lifeboat, but he pooh-poohed the idea for a relatively minor injury.

So I had to bear his weight as we made our way back to the ladders, where I pretty much had to drag him up. By the time we finally reached the deck I was covered in sweat beneath my overall, despite the coolness of the day. Bearing most of his weight I lowered him down into the boat and followed. He was sweating too and with every buck of the small boat he groaned. I drove Julian to Truro where we had a couple of angst-ridden hours in Accident and Emergency. While he was examined I thought about what I had seen in my brief view of the ship's hull. I'd developed a theory which certainly had nothing to do with submerged rocks.

As well as buggering his ankle Julian had badly bruised his hip and sprained his wrist. It was late by the time we returned to our hotel and as he was doped up to the eyeballs with painkillers I phoned his wife and arranged for her to come and collect him the following morning. That left just me to return to the ship the next day, which I wasn't keen on, and I was also bloody annoyed that the Russians had scarpered so I couldn't check details with them.

So the following morning I left Julian in the hotel lounge and guided our boat back out to the Dudinka Prayd. The ship seemed to have listed a little more during the night and I nearly decided it was too risky to board her again. God, how I wish I had!

Back in the ship's hold I sloshed across to the jagged hole and examined it as closely as I could. That left me in no doubt -- nothing external had torn the hull, the metal had been blown outwards by some kind of explosion. I wondered what the hell the Russians had been carrying that would do that, but there were no clues among the tangled pieces of metal and other materials strewn across the deck. I carefully toom some swabs of the area around the hole for chemical analysis, then picked my way back to the ladders taking me back to the upper deck.

I don't know what happened then but, on the next deck up I felt a strange compulsion to enter a corridor beside the ladder. As if in a trance I found myself opening one of the doors, stepping through it and closing it behind me. It was a small cramped cabin with a single bed. My bum sat on the bed and my hands mechanically unlaced my boots and removed them. Then I found myself standing again, wondering what the fuck I was doing. With incomprehension I watched my hands move to the zip of my overall and begin to slide it down. I tried to stop them but it seemed that my body had developed a mind of its own and was refusing messages from my brain. My hands pushed the overall off my shoulders, to pool at my waste. As they gripped my T-shirt and began to raise it over my head I felt a rising terror, and I heard myself, in a strangled voice, say "No, stop it." Fight against them as I could, I couldn't control my hands as they removed my T-shirt and dropped it to the floor.

I felt tears of despair and frustration prick my eyes as my arms reached behind me and unclipped my bra. Then they pushed my overalls to my ankles, hooked my thumbs into my shorts and knickers and slid them down too. Sobbing with fear now, I sat on the bed again and kicked off the clothing, leaving my pale body naked apart from my wet socks. My legs lifted onto the bed and my back laid itself down, my head on a pillow. I was shivering wildly, both with fear and the coldness of the cabin. I fought with all my strength but I couldn't move. The rational part of my mind which remained wondered if I was having a psychotic episode, or if I'd been knocked unconscious and was having a particularly vivid dream. Then I wailed "No!" as my legs opened, my ankles moving to the corners of the bed.

I closed my eyes and tried to control my panting breath. Then I felt a pressure on my thighs; my eyes snapped open but there was nobody there, I was still alone in the cabin. There was no mistaking what I was feeling though -- it was two large strong hands, icy cold, gripping my thighs. I closed my eyes again and wailed "No, please, don't", praying that if I was dreaming I would soon wake up. A moment later I felt a tickling sensation against my exposed snatch, then gasped at the familiar sensation of a tongue tracing its length.

Powerful thumbs forced my labia open and the tongue entered me and began exploring. Half out of mind with fear I was sure I must have gone mad. A tongue in my pussy wasn't a new sensation, but this felt different -- this one was icy cold as it rimmed my labia, tickled against my clit and thrust deep inside me. Despite my terror, I'm only human and I could feel my inner thighs and belly beginning to heat up at these sensual touches. My hands reached down and, for all the world, it felt as if my fingers had curled in and gripped thick greasy hair, urging on that probing tongue.

My breath was panting in a different rhythm now and I heard myself giving a succession of whimpering moans, exactly as I would if it had been Sara eating me out. Despite my fear, despite the coldness of that tongue and those thumbs, I felt my body approaching boiling point. My knees rose, pressing the soles of my feet to the bed, my hips bucked and I exploded into a screaming orgasm, my head rocking from side to side.

As I came down I tasted blood in my mouth and realised I'd chewed through my lip. I could no longer feel my invisible assailant, and I wondered if my bizarre ordeal was over. As I tried, unsuccessfully, to rise from the bed, I felt my legs being lifted and rested on a pair of muscular, hairy shoulders. Still breathless I could only gasp. A pair of strong hands rested on my own shoulders, and I felt an icy breath on my face. I could still not see this man, and as I began to cry again I screwed my eyes tightly shut. Then for the first time in my life, I felt the sensation of a male cock being thrust into my pussy.

It felt enormous and my snatch felt stretched to the limit. My rapist hammered into me repeatedly, driving the breath from my body with each stroke, resting his considerable weight on my shoulders with his hands. Again, despite myself, I could feel my internal heat rising. After what seemed several minutes he gave a huge thrust and I sensed he'd cum, but he carried on pushing at me until, some seconds later, my labia clamped around him as I experienced a second orgasm.

I must have passed out after that. When I came round, with a start, I found I could again control my arms and legs. Judging by the light from the cabin's porthole, it appeared that some hours had passed. Sobbing with fear, hurrying in case it started again, I dragged on my overall and boots on, stuffing my other clothes in my rucksack, and on weak legs staggered to the ladder which took me to the upper deck of the ship. It took me several attempts to start the outboard motor on my boat and, my entire body trembling wildly, set course back to St Mawes. I was about halfway there when I heard a loud concussion behind me. Looking over my shoulder I saw with horror that the ship I had been on just a few minutes earlier, had now rolled entirely onto its side and was beginning to sink beneath the waves.

After a few days' leave, during which I hardly slept due to nightmares, I wrote my report and submitted my samples. Mysteriously they disappeared, and Julian, who had barely examined the tear in she ship's hull, instead submitted a bullshit report confirming the captain's story of the damage being caused by remarkably previously uncharted undersea rocks. He took early retirement days later, with a full pension and a financial bonus from an undeclared source.

After my experience Sara and I hardly ever made love again. I couldn't bear her touching my pussy due to the memories it provoked, and my nightmares continued. Sara was the one person I told the truth of what had happened; she feigned sympathy but I could tell she didn't believe me, probably thought I'd smoked one reefer too many. When I started throwing up every morning I thought I must have winter vomiting virus -- I went to my doctor and learned the incredible news that I was carrying a child. As well as the phantom pregnancy comment, Sara sneered that I'd probably given Julian a sympathy shag, which was almost as ridiculous as the truth.

I thought of seeking an abortion, of course I did, but I was brought up a good Catholic girl and even though I'm lapsed I couldn't bring myself to do it. Although the medics say it's healthy I don't know what the hell this thing is that's growing inside me. I just hope that when it's delivered the nightmares will stop.