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into a dead calm Lake Ontario. The shimmering green water was amazingly clear, apparently due to the Zebra Muscles. In a bay I suddenly became aware that we were being stalked by, of all things, three-foot long carp fish! The trolling motor made virtually no noise in the water so four or five giant bottom feeders swam along with us for a good mile, breaking the surface occasionally like little dolphins.
A week later, Doug dragged me out to a slip in front of our unit and introduced me to a bright yellow 14-foot fiberglass runabout boat with a 9.9 Johnson motor at the rear. It had a full front deck, two front bucket seats, a steering wheel, controls and a full-length perfectly flat floor, carpeted with brown tweed Astroturf. Through June and July we followed the shoreline from up as far as Pickering and all the way down to Cobourg.
Between Bond Head and Port Granby we discovered 100-foot high sandy bluffs whose shapes and grandeur took my breath away. On the way back it occurred to me that no houses were built on the unstable bluffs. No boats except ours came closer than a mile from shore and we were completely, utterly alone, except for the flocks of shore birds. Canadas busiest arterial highway and rail lines lay within half a mile of the shoreline but none of those thousands of travelers had any idea of the beauty and tranquility along the lakeshore.
With that in mind, off came my top, my bra, my shorts and my panties as well as Dougs shirt, shorts and briefs. I smeared him with suntan lotion as we bobbed fifty feet offshore. Then he slathered me from head to toe and back again in return.
Suddenly that familiar old expression came across his face. He shuffled back toward the idling outboard motor, adjusted its tiller up to a 45-degree angle and exclaimed, "Laura, Id like to introduce you to Johnson. Hes long, thickly ribbed and obviously all abuzz over meeting you!"
The dirty old bugger squirted sunscreen along the tiller and spread it all over its handgrip. He reached out for my hand and carefully assisted me over to the jiggling black protuberance. He sized up the possibilities then had me steady my right shin against, while planting my left foot on top of the little rear deck. Just like that I felt the tiller jiggle against my crotch. Doug reached under me from behind, tapped the tiller up a little then firmly guided me down onto it!
No need to undulate my hips to ease it in. It just wiggled and jiggled its way into me. Simply flexing my left knee impaled me very nicely upon it. Doug revved the motor up for me to no advantage, but putting it into forward gear at a very low idle made the tiller thrash about violently inside my pussy. That settled, he set our course about 100 feet off shore then stepped up behind me. I felt him squeeze
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his unusually stiff penis between the tiller and my right inner thigh then resumed massaging sunscreen into my breasts.
Oh how I wished Louises locket were on my clit ring that instant. All that jiggling would have sent me into orbit!!! Instead, three minutes of massaging my boobs and vibrating his penis got the motor hood all splattered with his semen!
However, another two minutes of my pressing my clit ring against the tiller did earn me such a formidable orgasm that the echoes of my squeals off the bluffs startled an entire flock of cormorants. To see their wings flapping and little webbed feet run madly along the surface of the water sent the pair of us into hysterics! Doug thought sure Id win the Guinness award for the most startling orgasmic squeal in history, but my reward was seeing that all his equipment was functional once more.
Two days after I finished this entry, I checked for new emails. I found a curious reply from Louise to a message I dont remember sending her, entitled, "Think about what youre missing back here!"
All it read was, "I see Dougs feeling better, and Im very jealous!"
I scanned down her short reply to the original note and found a nice photo of Doug and I canoeing past some Canada Geese on the creek. Another showed a Red Winged Blackbird clinging to some bull rushes. A third featured the trees overhanging the creek and a fourth displayed a crotch-eye view of me lying on my back in the canoe, bare-breasted and gazing up into the heavens as my husband ate me out! Two more showed those darling little ducklings, followed by close-ups of my torso, still bare-breasted and legs splayed out over the gunnels. Three escalating images highlighted his sperm oozing disgustingly through the crotch of my poor ravaged panties!! Fourteen pictures of the bluffs along the lake followed, interspersed here and there of me impaled and joyriding on the outboard motor tiller!!!
He sneaked pictures of me when I wasnt looking and sent them to my girlfriend!!! What would possess a man to do such a thing? Where is My Pictures? Here they are. Delete! Delete!! Delete!!! What would make him think anyone else would want to see pictures like that of me?
Four weeks had passed since Doug had come home from the hospital. He was still a little pale looking and complained of being cold all the time because of the blood thinners. The night before, he was detached and completely immersed in a Blue Jays baseball game. Early the following morning was gray and rainy and I was feeling quite sorry for myself. Like a fool looking for comfort, I went down into the den, popped in that Lisa Brokop "When I get to be you" CD into the stereo and cranked up the volume.
My thoughts were with Louise as I danced around to the first two songs, but then I heard those chirping crickets begin the third song. I heard that