To the thousands of readers who have enjoyed my stories, I say thanks! This new offering, The Voyages of Luscious Lucy, is a work in progress and I don't as yet know where it will lead our characters. Once again, our hero is an older musician type guy who gets himself into all kinds of kinky situations with the fairer sex. If any of you have any ideas for situations, feel free to send them along through Author Feedback, and I'll twist them into this randy tale. Read and enjoy!
Chapter One: And Then There Was Velda
I don't remember when I first got the bright idea to move out of the old house and move onto the boat. I just remember having this urge to make a change. It wasn't something I had a lifelong craving to do. But then, I can't remember ever really having any life long urges at all!
I didn't even actually go out and buy the damn boat either. Although, when it landed in my lap, I probably should have gone straight to the head doctor, had myself carefully diagnosed, and found out what exactly was wrong with my head.
I suppose I should explain what transpired in the months leading up to my revelation to become a vagabond of the sea. Or should I say transient harbor dweller! Because I really have no knowledge of the sea or for that matter, any desire to travel the world. But I definitely had a hankering to see some real estate, other than that upon which I had spent the past twenty six years of my existence.
My wife of twenty odd years had taken to wandering off for days or even weeks at a time. I knew she had grown tired of me, and was "In search of her real self." I certainly couldn't blame her. I really had been a test of her patience. My chosen profession was being a musician. After so many years of middle of the night homecomings, or early morning homecomings, or some days, mid-afternoon homecomings, the arguing had finally just stopped and I knew it was just a matter of time 'til she put the haul ass on for good and quit coming back to me at all.
What I wasn't prepared for was the Mariposa County, California Sheriff calling to inform me she had perished in a high speed auto accident. His question was what did I want him to do with her remains?
I had to give that a little thought. My first impulse was to say, "You've got the wrong person." But I didn't, and I made a hasty trip to Bootjack, California to take care of what had to be done. I found out things about her that I would never have believed a year prior, but decided that anything she had done was due to the way I had treated her and so I sucked it up and had her sent back to North Carolina to be buried with her people.
This all took a couple of days and several thousand bucks, which I didn't have so I screwed up my VISA card and chalked it up to bad luck. Then I headed back to Florida and went back to my old routine.
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About six weeks after her death, I received a letter from a lawyer over in town asking if I could meet him in his office to discuss my deceased wife's will. I had no idea she even had a will, and had even less of an idea of what she might have that was of any value. The house where we lived was a hand me down from my parents and she had no claim to it. Other than that, I couldn't imagine what she would have left in a will.
I put on a shirt and dirty tie and fired up my ancient Chevy Impala and drove the fifteen or so miles from Neptune Beach into Jacksonville. After circling the block twice hunting for a meter, I found a spot and walked into the lawyer's office only twelve minutes late. I checked my Timex and was pleased I had made it on the correct day. I'm not big on keeping schedules, except to be on time for the music gig to start.
Lawyers are not my favorite breed of people. Any dealings I've had in the past with the legal profession have usually required them to bail me out of the drunk tank or save me from prosecution on some other equally mundane charge. And it usually cost me more money than it was worth.
Arthur E. Peacock Esq. Was etched on a brass plaque on the door to his office, on the thirty first floor of the old Barnett Bank Building in downtown Jacksonville. The building smelled like old wet books. I opened the door, which announced my arrival with a nerve grating squeal as I pushed it open and stepped inside. One of those prehistoric hydraulic closers took the door out of my hand and returned it to its normally closed position.
The office looked as if it had been used to shoot an old Mike Hammer film in. I swear to you, his receptionist had a name-plaque sitting on her desk indicating that her name was, in fact, Velda! The room was at least twenty degrees cooler than the hallway, and smelled of Velda's perfume, and stale cigarette smoke. Velda stood and stepped around her desk. My heart hammered in my chest as she extended her soft hand to shake mine.
"You must be Mr. Kewl," Velda cooed, taking my hand in hers.
I couldn't remember whom the last person was that had called me Mr. Kewl. Everybody just calls me Mac, short for McFadden. My parents never told me where the name came form. I guessed it must have been a joke they shared secretly between themselves.
Velda stood about four inches shorter than my 6'-3". About five inches of which was her high stiletto heeled shoes. Velda had long glistening copper hair, which cascaded around her heavily freckled face and tumbled over her shoulders. She wore a one piece black dress that fit her like a second skin, reaching only far enough over her gorgeous bottom to be decent. Velda was also stacked.
"I have an appointment with Mr. Peacock," I croaked.
"I know," Velda said, "and you're late, you naughty boy."
"Well, sorry about that, couldn't find a meter." I lied.
Velda was still clutching my hand. "I'll tell the Boss you're here."
Velda touched the button on an ancient intercom on her desk and drooled out her message to the lawyer behind the dark oak door on the right side of the room. The voice box crackled an unintelligible response, and went silent. Within seconds, the door creaked open and Arthur E. Peacock, Esquire thrust himself into Velda's office.
To say Arthur Peacock, Esquire is a colorful character, is like saying Castro is a tyrant! He could pass for Danny DeVito in a white linen suit. All smiles, the red faced man rushed up to me, taking my hand like a long lost relative, he ushered me into his dark office all the while explaining how happy he was to finally meet me.
Parking me in a huge leather chair in front of his massive carved mahogany desk, "Make your self at home," he bellowed. "Can I get you a little eye-opener?"
"Not just now," I stuttered, taking in my surroundings.
Arthur E. Peacock, Esquire was either a damned good lawyer, or a real con artist. His office had all the ear markings of the "Big Time." The walls were paneled in thick, dark pecky-cypress. The ceiling was hammered tin, reflecting the style of the old south. His walls tastefully displayed original paintings by various well known Southern artists. And the floor was covered in thick burgundy plush carpet.
His desk was immense and heaped with hundreds of file folders stuffed with papers. One small area, immediately in front of his high-backed leather chair remained uncluttered. A single file folder occupied this space.
"Damn glad we finally get to meet," He boomed again, pouring three fingers of dark bourbon over a couple of ice cubes and landing in his chair with a great exhalation of air.
"Maureen's been keeping me up to date on you ever since y'all tied the knot!" Arthur explained. "Damn shame she was such a lousy driver. I've had to fix a mess of tickets for her over the years. You still doing the music thing?"
"Yes sir," I replied, "until something better comes along."
"Well, today might just be your lucky day," He interjected. "You see, Maureen came into some family inheritance a year or so ago and according to her will, you get it all."
"She never mentioned it to me," I said. "Just how much is some?"
"A little over three quarters of a million!" Arthur Peacock breathed, tossing the bourbon down in a single throw.
"I think I should join you," I exhaled after my tongue came back up out of my throat.
