03

INTRODUCTION TO READERS

WET ENCOUNTERS

is a novel-length story of love, lust and betrayal that takes place on a tropical Pacific island during the second half of the twentieth century.

It's seventeen chapters pivot around a single event that takes place when two people are forced to take refuge in an abandoned cabin when they are cut off by rising floodwaters.

During the three nights they spend together, they discover things about themselves and the regular occupants of the cottage that will destroy their previously stable lives.

The big question is, can anything be saved from the wreckage that remains after the floodwaters recede?

*****

CHAPTER TWO

"Holy fuck!" I exclaimed as I stepped out of the Toyota into knee-deep water. I immediately knew that we wouldn't be crossing the creek that night. During the hour and a half that I'd been comforting Juanita, the water had risen considerably higher than it had been when I'd crossed over.

"Would you mind switching your headlights on for me, please, Juanita?" I asked, regaining my composure. "I think we might be going to have time for me to show you a few more of the temperature taking techniques, after all."

As the headlights came on, I could see that what had been a raging creek had breached its banks and had become a river. When I'd come down to rescue Juanita, I had parked my truck on the highest point on that, the lower side of the creek. It was now sitting on a very small island. If the water didn't stop rising, it might be washed away. There was nothing I could do about it from here, though, and I wasn't about to leave Juanita while I attempted to swim back to the other side of the creek to move it.

When I had crossed the creek, it was up to the middle of my chest. Now, it was more than three feet deeper and was as smooth as glass. There wasn't a ripple on the surface. As I watched, a fifteen-foot long, three-foot thick log came spearing up out of the water. In its rush down towards the big river, it had probably hit the raised lip of the crossing, flipping it and forcing it to breach.

We were on what was the higher side of the creek but Juanita had parked down the slope that led into the crossing. I looked back behind me and, in the reflected light, could see a stretch of road about twenty yards behind us. I closed my door and went around to the driver's side of the vehicle. Opening the door, I was met by a picture I have carried with me all the years since, an image of the naked beauty who was sitting in the middle seat, her eyes opened wide in surprise at what she was seeing. Passing her the bundle of clothes that she had been using as a pillow, I climbed up into the cab and settled myself into the driver's position.

The Toyota's diesel engine fired up on the first turn and I reversed the truck back up onto the higher ground. With the engine still running, I climbed out and had a look around. We were parked on the site of a sawmill that had been abandoned a just over a year earlier. The pad upon which it stood was still above the water level but, if the creek continued to rise, the whole site would go under. The only building that would remain clear of any rising water would be the manager's house. It was built on stilts and would remain above flood level even if the creek rose another seven or eight feet. If that happened, of course, the lower parts of my plantation - along with those of James and Juanita's property - would be inundated.

Both our houses would remain above flood levels, though, and our families would be safe. I was more concerned about my labour force, however. I had one hundred and fifty indentured labourers housed down by the river. James, who mainly used local village labour, had about a third of that number housed in his compound. I hoped that my foreman had had the sense to get my labourers out and up onto higher ground.

When I had left home, we had been facing a minor inconvenience. Now, we were looking at a major flood event. The clouds above us were low and heavy. The rain was still falling at a rate that would increase the chances of creating more runoff. But it was what was happening up in the hills that was of concern. If the clouds up there were as heavy as they were down here, we could be stranded for days. As sure as our being trapped in this location, though, was the certainty that, unless he had managed to get through his flooded creeks as soon as he'd received Juanita's message, James wouldn't be able to get out of his place before the waters dropped enough for us to cross the creek. Even if there had been a chance of being rescued earlier, there was no chance of anyone coming to our rescue, now.

But I couldn't worry about the things I couldn't do anything about. My job remained the same as it had when I had left home: to protect Juanita and to deliver her back to James in the same - or better - condition as she had been when she left home. To that end, I climbed back into the Toyota and drove it over to the abandoned manager's house.

It was nothing ostentatious. It was nothing more than a shack really. The mill's owner wasn't known for throwing money about. Nor, for that matter, was he known for employing quality people - which is probably why the mill failed to live up to its potential. During the first year that I'd managed my plantation - the sawmill was on a piece of land on my property that was leased by the owner - I had introduced myself to two mill managers. Both of them had displayed the signs of being somewhat less than functioning alcoholics and I could never understand how they managed to get anything done. The last bloke didn't even know how to sharpen a saw blade, for Christ's sake!

After he left, the house had been locked up and, as far as I knew, nobody had been near it since. God only knew what condition it would be in. But it might be our last place of refuge in these deteriorating conditions. If nothing else, we could climb up onto the roof to await rescue.

"Thank you, Juanita, for not panicking and falling apart when I discovered that I had been fiddling while the floodwaters were rising all around us," I said. "James should be proud of you. I know I am. You're a very strong and courageous lady. Now, I hate to do it, but I'm going to have to ask you to put your clothes back on - your dress, at least ...and perhaps your panties. That dress without panties would be the death of me.

"We need to have a look around in the house to see if we can find anything that might help us to get through what is going to be a longer wait than I first imagined."

"You are very kind, Matthew," Juanita said, "both concerning your comment about my courage and your desire to maintain my modesty. The thing is that it was not courage that made me keep my mouth shut. It was fear. Fear that, if I opened my mouth to say something, I would fall to pieces and become a hysterical wreck. I wanted to beg you to take me across the river and get me back to somewhere cosy and comfortable. The water looked so calm.

"Then I saw that huge log come up out of the water like a breaching whale and I realised that there was no bottom to the creek. I have seen that sort of thing back in Ecuador. And I have seen people disappear while attempting to cross such rivers. I knew we would not have lasted a minute in that water. I also knew that you knew that as soon as you stepped out of the truck and found that the water was up to the running boards. The fact that you remained calm - apart from your slight slip of the tongue - gave me the strength to stay calm and to keep my mouth shut. I knew you would tell me what needed doing and when.

"As far as my modesty goes," she continued, "I am usually a very modest person. Not even James sees me naked, except when we are in bed and making love. Even then, he only uncovers the parts he needs. I believe I can count on one hand the number of times he has seen me completely naked. I somehow feel ashamed of my body when I'm with James. I feel no such shame when I am with you. I can tell by the way you look at me that you love my body. That you take notice of every part of it. That you want to make love to every part of it. That you want to share your love of my body with me; the same way you have shared my juices with me and, hopefully, the way you will share

your

juices with me.

"Now, please pass me my panties so we can go and have a look through the cottage. I feel a bit like Lady Chatterley meeting her lover in the wood cutter's lodge."

I reached for her panties and withdrew them from the wiper stalk. Before handing them to her, though, I ran my nose and tongue over the gusset to refresh my fading memory of her flavours and scents. With my mind stimulated, I handed them to her. As she had done before, she imitated my actions, ending with a repeat of the comment I had made a few hours earlier.

"Mm-mmm-mm-mm-mmm," she mimicked, smiling as she reached down to pull them on over her tennis shoes.

It was only then that I realised she still had her shoes and socks on. I had been too busy planning my temperature taking strategy when I had taken her panties off to notice. It was only now that I became aware of the fact that she was wearing frilly-topped socks, much like those my daughters wore when going into town. They showed off her beautifully sculpted legs admirably.

"If we are going to be formal," she said, "I had best wear a bra. I would hate for us to have to receive visitors with my

pechos

waving about in the breeze like a village meri. As she had done when undressing, she pulled her bra up her arms and turned her back to me.

"Would you mind, Matthew?" she asked. "You did such a good job undoing it. Let us see how you go doing it back up."

In spite of a few fumbles, I managed to get the hooks into the right eyes. I apologised for my ineptitude, explaining that my expertise was in bringing young women undone, not the other way around.

"Your apology is accepted, this time," Juanita said. "But I'll have to see if I can't give you a bit more practice. Perhaps I might insist that you replace my brassiere after each stage of your human thermal experiments. That way, by the time you hand me back to my husband, you will be equally proficient in both aspects of bra manipulation. At least then, I will be able to say that I taught you something in exchange for your lifesaving and temperature taking lessons."

"I look forward to receiving your instruction," I said, "but I must correct your reference to 'experiments'.

"The techniques I plan on showing you have progressed way beyond the experimental stage.

"Having undergone extensive human trials, they've been approved by the appropriate authorities.

"That being the case, I'd prefer that you think of them as demonstrations, rather than experiments."

"I beg your pardon," she said, displaying mock humility, "demonstrations, then."

"Would that be classed as our first fight?" she asked. "If so, I'm looking forward to our make-up... ah, 'demonstration'."

"If all my fights were as civilised as that, my dear Juanita," I said, "I'd be a very happy man. I think if I weren't already married and didn't have a couple of lovely girls, I'd allow myself to fall in love with you and attempt to steal you away from James; if you and he didn't have an adorable son, that is.

"As things stand, I might still fall in love with you. Rather than riding off into the sunset together, however, we're going to have to be satisfied with stolen moments. This being one of those moments, I suggest that we make the most of the time available to us and go and see if this abandoned little wood cutter's cottage will provide us with shelter from the rain. As our time has been extended by the rising creek, I would like for us to be a little less cramped for the next stage of your education."

Watching her dressing - particularly the part where she licked the gusset of her own panties - had brought my penis back to its hardened state. I'd had to adjust it so it was standing vertically proud in the front of my shorts.

"Yes," Juanita said huskily. "I am looking forward to seeing how this is used as part of your experi... ah, demonstration." She reached her hand forward and rubbed it along the length of my rampant cock, letting out a low moan as she did so.

"I don't know, if, how, when or even where you plan to use that instrument, but I'm certainly looking forward to finding out. I hope you don't intend keeping me waiting too long before showing me, though."

"Only as long as it takes for us to get settled in," I said, leaning forward to take her in my arms and bring my lips to hers. Her mouth opened to meet mine and our tongues began their dance. I could feel her beginning to rub her hardening nipples against my chest. We were sitting too awkwardly to rub our groins together, so I reluctantly pulled my lips from hers. I heard a low, disappointed groan roll up from her diaphragm.

"We'll never get settled in at this rate," I said. "There'll be no more of that until we're under a roof high enough for me to stand; or at least high enough to allow you to sit on my lap while I use my instrument to check your core temperature. If we tried doing that in the cab of your truck, you'd end up looking like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame; and how would we explain that to James? ...or to Liz, for that matter?

"I twisted my neck playing tennis, Darling," I said using a high-pitched voice. "Then, unable to straighten it, I drove home from town, only to be caught by the flooded creek. Matthew tried to straighten it while we were stranded in the truck, but he only made it worse. He tried putting some sort of instrument down my throat in the hope that it would take the kink out of my neck. It worked while it was down there, but it snapped back into its former shape once he removed it. He tried inserting his instrument from the other end but, once again, it only worked for as long as it was in place. As soon as he removed it, it popped back into its former position. We even tried some convulsive therapy. Once again, though, the cure was only temporary. It did give us hope for a more permanent cure, however, so we tried it several times - often in conjunction with the insertion of Matthew's instrument up in my vagina and down my throat. But, in spite of the results looking promising, we were unable to effect a permanent cure.

"I think I may have to get you to take me into the hospital once the roads open. In the meantime, if I show you what Matthew did, perhaps you might have a bit more success than he did. There was one thing he considered trying but didn't because he thought his instrument might have been a bit too large. He thought the sudden surprise might stretch my neck and pop all the vertebrae back into place. Perhaps, with your smaller instrument, it might be worth a try."

"I'm sure both James and Liz would be fine with an explanation along those lines," I said.

Juanita was laughing so hard, she had tears streaming down her face.

"Very plausible," she said, once she had caught her breath. "I'd be interested to learn what the thing you, 'considered trying but did not', was."

"Perhaps I'll explain it later," I said. "For the present, however, we'd better get ourselves sorted out. Otherwise, nothing is going to happen to straighten that twisted neck of yours."

With both of us fully clothed, we stepped down from the Toyota and climbed the steps that led up to the narrow verandah. Unsurprisingly, the front door was locked so, leaving Juanita under the shelter of the verandah roof, I went around to the back of the house to see If I could gain access through the rear door. It, too, was locked but I checked out a couple of possible hiding places before finding a key secreted under a rock that was placed in a large planter at the foot of the back stairs. The pot was strangely familiar - it was similar to one we'd once owned but which, Liz had told me, had been broken and discarded. Like the broken pot, this one also contained a palm tree. The fact that a single river rock sat in the container was an instant signal to an observant searcher that this would be the place to look for a key.

If I hadn't been looking for a hiding place closer to the door - above the door frame and under the rat-eaten doormat - I would have twigged to it earlier. It was only when looking down from my vantage point that I recognised the rock-in-the-pot signal. It was precisely the same method of key-hiding that Liz' family had used for years. Whenever I was late getting her home after a night at a dance, Liz would dig out the key from beneath the rock that sat in the soil of the potted plant by the back steps. Once she had unlocked the door, she would replace the key in its hiding place for whoever needed it next time.

A potted palm wouldn't, of itself, be unusual near the verandah or porch steps of any home in this part of the world. What made it stand out in this instance, however, was that I couldn't imagine any of the house's previous occupants having had an interest in decorating their home with potted palms. When they weren't working, they would have had their heads down in a flagon of chilled sherry.

As I made my way between the back and front doors, I noted that it appeared that the last tenant - a tall, cadaverous man who had reminded me of the farmer in the Grant Wood painting, 'American Gothic' - had simply walked out and pulled the door closed behind him. Equally surprising was the fact that the locals hadn't stripped the place. Even though I drove my truck or rode my motorcycle past the house and the mill on most days, I had never even thought about checking it out.

I'd have thought that with the increased demand for timber resulting from the opening of the copper mine, a new manager would have turned up to reopen the mill. That hadn't happened.

Still, their loss was our gain. As this might turn out to be the place where we were to consummate our relationship, I did the gallant thing and carried Juanita over the threshold of the mill manager's house. Holding her as I was, I dipped my head down and placed a long lustful kiss on her open lips before setting her back on her feet in the large central room that was the combined living and dining room. Using the torch I'd taken from the glovebox of Juanita's truck, we commenced our inspection of the house.

The kitchen, which included a walk-in pantry, was surprisingly large. It was tucked away in the far left-hand corner of the house. There was a small counter separating it from the dining area. The equally large bathroom was located at the rear right-hand corner of the building. The kitchen, dining room and bathroom were the servant-serviced areas, leaving the front of the house, with its two bedrooms and living room, as the more private area. It was more of a worker's cabin than it was that of, say, a traditional manager's house. As was the case in most houses in the tropics where native labour was used to service one's home, the laundry was separate from the house.

In spite of the time it had been closed up, the place was in reasonable condition. It was a bit dusty but didn't smell as musty as I thought it would. While every surface showed that the house was often visited my mice and rats, there were fewer rodent droppings than I would have expected; particularly after a year or so without anyone living in it. While it appeared that the last manager must have had his house servant clean the place up before he left, it seemed that someone had been coming in and giving it a going over at least every couple of months; perhaps even more frequently. That would explain its relatively tidy condition. It would also explain why it hadn't been looted. Someone was obviously keeping a watchful eye on the place.