Tom flew out again that evening, heading for his cousin 
Neil's maritime business and a new life. Pam resumed 
forging hers. Sometimes they rang each other as weeks 
became months, going back to those long phonecalls as 
Tom started to sound happier. He was learning 
navigation, which he found completely fascinating, and 
had even become a qualified scuba diver; in his words, 
when he looked in the mirror of a morning, he almost 
didn't recognise himself for some of the exciting things 
he had done since leaving Linda.

When Christmas rolled around, Pam answered Neil's invite 
to fly down to the coast and celebrate with the family. 
Brendan would be home from college, and he had always 
loved the sea and to visit Neil's when he was a much 
younger boy. So mother and son would together return to 
the bay and the boat trips. Tom gallantly offered to 
pick them up from the airport.

She bustled from the plane and down the passenger ramp 
at the terminal, Brendan with a knapsack over his 
shoulder behind her, and peered about the people milling 
around the reception area. She looked for brown tweed 
trousers with neat seams and a knitted beige vest, a 
collar and tie, but couldn't see him anywhere, so she 
wandered out into the centre of the concourse. She was 
aware Brendan hadn't come with her and expected the 
teenager had wandered to a drink machine for a can of 
cola, and eventually turned around to look for him too. 
Perhaps he had spotted Uncle Tom already? 

Brendan had set down his pack and was standing beside a 
bench seat wearing that half-smirk so much like his 
father's. The man who had been sitting there had risen 
and came toward her, some quite attractive stranger 
intent on speaking to her. His short, neatly-trimmed 
brown beard was frosted with grey, and the little hair 
he had was crewcut to a short fuzz. His dark eyes smiled 
as though he knew her, although she expected he would 
ask her for directions. But then he called her by name, 
politely expectant. "Pam?"

"Oh my God! Tom! I walked right past you!"

"I know," he laughed, gathering her in a hug that she 
drew back from so that she could look him over in 
wonder. Yes, the same refined nose and chiselled face, 
but now with a beard, and he was rid of that limp and 
tired-looking combover. He looked much happier than the 
last time she had seen him. He wore rumpled cargo pants 
and loafers, a polo shirt and spray-jacket, and seemed 
right at home in that attire. The beard kept him warmer, 
and the combover had been impractical when the seabreeze 
kept blowing it off his scalp, he explained.

They set off for their seaside hotel, joining the family 
for the best Christmas Pam could remember in some time. 
Brendan thoroughly enjoyed himself in the company of his 
uncle and a cousin-by-marriage to the family, Ryan, a 
seasoned yachtsman. She was amazed to watch Tom, 
formerly a complete landlubber, moving around the deck 
of the sailboat they cruised upon with a skill and 
alacrity almost matching Ryan's. Simply watching them at 
work was a private joy. The pair had clearly become good 
friends and were both quite easy on the optic nerve, 
especially Ryan.

"I told you things would only get better," she said to 
Tom at Christmas dinner.

"They have, yes," he said wistfully. "But I miss Emmy 
so, and worry about her, and...well, there's a vacuum in 
my life. I've looked about, and don't get me wrong, it's 
been splendid to be able to look, but, nothing much has 
happened."

"He does all my looking for me, now that I'm hitched," 
Ryan quipped, glancing at Pam from dark, deepset eyes 
that smouldered. "Got himself sunglasses so that he can 
check out the joys of summer on the dockside, all those 
babes topless sunbathing on the foredecks..."

Brendan laughed, and Tom managed a distinguished poker-
face. "Oh, come now Ryan, I don't believe Tom would do 
anything so crass," she clucked lightheartedly, although 
she had known Tom for too many years to fall for that 
innocent look. Sobering, she addressed herself to him. 
"Never mind, Tom, it does take time. You've got to live 
empty for a while, so they say. It's not easy, but you 
do have to take a break from being one half of a 
partnership and rediscover yourself, and find out who 
your friends are. You look to be doing really, really 
well."

"You've shown me the way, Pam," he smiled. "Take some 
courses, do something new, change your hairstyle even."

"At least Pam didn't grow a beard," Ryan teased.

***

Pleasant as the Christmas break was, it also left her 
with a bitter taste in her mouth. Being in the company 
of Tom's cousin Shelly and her quite striking husband 
was always difficult. She had first met Ryan at Mark's 
funeral; he had merely been a friend of the family then. 
He had needed a lift to the airport after the ceremonies 
were over. Pam had been going to offer him a ride, but 
Shelly had gotten in first, and had stayed for dinner 
with him while he waited for his flight. Pam couldn't 
help feeling opportunity had knocked then, too cruelly 
close to Mark's death, and Shelly had picked it up 
instead of her.

_Face it, Pam, you're jealous!_

He was a very attractive man, a few years younger than 
Pam, a good six feet tall, slim and athletic. He was 
black-haired and swarthy, tending to keep stubble that 
made him look a little rough; very appealing with his 
craggy, square features. He was alert and intelligent, 
an excellent foil to Tom's lightning-quick wit, a very 
clever man. To see him and Tom together almost hurt, and 
at first she didn't realise why; but it was because he 
was the leader to Tom's loyal follower...he was, in some 
ways, Mark all over again. Tom had found a new elder 
brother to look up to, although Ryan was actually 
younger than him.

He'd also been wearing a pair of comfortable cotton 
shorts around, the soft folds of which had clung just 
enough to his hips to entice the eye with hints of very 
pleasing contents.  Pam had found it almost 
distressingly difficult to keep her eyes off him, even 
when his wife was about, or he was dandling his baby 
daughter. There was never any way Ryan would pay her any 
notice; but in fantasy, anything was possible, and he 
could be the stuff dreams were made of.

Pam retired late one night with her mind full of Ryan. 
He'd been wearing those damn shorts again, and she knew 
that if she didn't pleasure herself tonight she was in 
for a grumpy day tomorrow. Brendan had stayed back 
aboard one of Neil's boats, roughing it for the night, 
so she had the motel room to herself, and the great 
empty double bed. It was hot, so after she showered she 
did not dress, but went to bed and drew up the sheet 
only. She lay on her back with her legs wide apart, 
running her hands up and down her body with languid 
strokes. If only the end of the bed would bow under the 
weight of a man, coming to kneel between her legs, and 
run his fingertips over her skin and kiss her breasts.

The light of the full moon slanted through a veil of 
curtains she had drawn. Her eyes half-closed, she 
fancied she could see Ryan standing there, lean 
musculature highlighted, skin pale as an alabaster 
statue. He would be wearing that half-smile of his, and 
nothing but those shorts, but not for long. One tug on a 
drawstring, and the shorts would fall away, revealing a 
long, straight pole standing out from his hips just for 
her.

He would kneel on the bed and lean over her, lips 
caressing her mouth as his hands roved over her breasts. 
She would not have to touch herself any more, for his 
fingers would do all of that for her. He would kiss her 
throat, moving slowly down her body to suck her nipples 
and flick them with his tongue. His fingertips would 
dance over her hips and belly, down to her moist bush, 
and his lips would follow...

There had been things Mark would not do. She had wanted 
him to kiss her all over, in every place, but he hadn't 
wanted to do that.  She would have bathed, shaved, made 
it clean as it could be to assuage his fussiness, but he 
had not been tempted. Nor had he let her kiss his 
manhood, for his body had been his temple. He would have 
come within seconds. She had wanted to taste him, yes; 
but more than that, she had wanted him to taste her.

Shelly was a new-age woman unashamed of sex. She had 
said enough of Ryan to intimate he enjoyed going down. 
It was his "thing", and he was damn good at it too!

Would he press his face fearlessly into the curls of her 
snatch, and then sneak the tip of his tongue into her 
slit, there to just touch her pulsing clit? Would he 
kiss these lips as passionately as he kissed her mouth, 
while his tongue dipped and lapped, mixing his saliva 
with her juices?  Would he make little circuits of her 
opening, or would his hot breath puff lightly across her 
burning clit?  Would his tongue wriggle inside of her, 
strong and lithe, darting and whirling, and would his 
fingers join the dance? She could feel his stubble rough 
upon the skin of her inmost thighs and her labia, and 
she would knot her fingers in his thick black hair and 
drive him in to where she wanted him, and he would lick 
her until she screamed for mercy.

Her fingers pretended to be a tongue. Damn her for 
leaving the dildo behind this trip!

And when he was finished, when she could respond to him 
no longer, they would curl up together, snug beneath the 
sheet in a cosy haze. As her thoughts drifted away from 
consciousness, fantasy and reality swirled and mixed in 
a surreal sexual slide-show. Ryan became Mark, who 
couldn't be Mark because he would never do cunnulingus, 
and Tom briefly appeared and cuddled her but he was Tom 
cleanshaven with a combover who was not now-Tom of the 
wetsuit that made him look a lot more macho than she had 
ever seen him before...the wetsuit belonged to a 
snorkeller that was Ryan who nuzzled her thatch...she 
was sitting in one of those exclusive airport cafe clubs 
wearing no knickers, and Ryan dressed in a conservative 
neatly-pressed suit knelt between her parted knees and 
put his head under her skirt and licked her cunt, and 
she looked at the clock because it was taking so long 
and Tom would be late...

***

It was the cuddling bit at the end of her fantasies that 
made her ache with sorrow. She awoke in the early 
morning, chilled and bewildered, and crept out of bed to 
find some pyjamas and a coverlet and get herself decent 
again.

The next morning, the family gathered on the dockside 
for a special treat. Neil's firm had just completed the 
construction of a large luxury motor launch with room 
for twenty guests. For a week they would be his guests 
on a shakedown voyage before the cruiser was passed on 
to its new owners. Accommodations were split between 
single cabins and double staterooms.

However, there was greater demand for single rooms than 
doubles. Rooming everybody to the best compromise 
required the wisdom of Solomon; and when all was said 
and done, Neil found himself with two single guests and 
one double bedroom left.

"Do you two mind?" Neil said apologetically. Pam wasn't 
sure it was entirely proper, but Tom laughed it off.

"We've been friends a long time," he said. "I'm sure we 
can be mature about this."

"This is because we're Mr and Mrs Franklin, isn't it?" 
Pam asked tartly. "Oh, very well, but if anyone should 
make any lewd suggestions I will not stand for it!"

"I'll try not to snore too loudly," Tom smiled.

Less a night-owl than Tom, Pam turned in first. She had 
a quite frumpy but practical pair of button-up pyjamas, 
shapeless and unflattering, which seemed most 
appropriate for sharing with a friend. She was just 
putting out the reading-lamp when Tom took his turn 
getting ready for bed. Something had told her he was a 
striped flannelette drawstring pyjamas kind of fellow; 
no surprises there. The bed was so large there was 
plenty of room, and new, so it didn't sag in the middle 
and roll them together. Tired but invigorated by the 
trip out to sea, she fell asleep, and they never touched 
all night. She was scarcely aware he was there.

For two days it was polite "good nights" and "good 
mornings". All the same, it felt strange to be in a 
double bed after all this time, and especially to be 
sharing it with a man. It was...nice. But a little 
frustrating. If she bumped his back or feet when she 
rolled over, she felt awkward, as though she had crossed 
some unspoken boundary of conduct.

"I've been worried that I've disturbed you when coming 
to bed late," he admitted, and agreed he too had found 
it pleasant to be in bed with a woman again, but also 
disconcerting. "But if it had to be anyone, I'm glad it 
was you," he added, voice warm in the darkness.

She agreed. He might have become Sailor Tom, but he was 
still Tom, a known quantity, familiar and safe.

On the third day out, the launch sailed into hot, humid, 
oppressive conditions. It was so sultry everyone changed 
down to their lightest clothing; Pam and the other women 
dressed in bathers, Pam wearing a skirt and loose blouse 
over hers. Likewise the men stripped down, baring chests 
in the heat; even Tom left his shirt undone. He had 
always been lean, and while his stomach had sagged a 
little with the years, he wasn't carrying the excess 
ballast that many of the older men were.

Ryan, of course, went back to wearing those damn shorts, 
and his stomach wasn't far off washboard.

At last, sun-flushed, sticky with suncream and salt 
spray, Pam retreated downstairs to her shared cabin to 
shower. Burrowing in her dresser, she found the 
lightweight summer nightie, linen and rather short, then 
turned and pulled the blanket off the bed. The sheet 
would be all that was necessary tonight, especially with 
the heat of a second body in the bed as well. She lay 
down, but slept only fitfully, tossing and turning. Time 
must have passed, because she eventually became aware of 
Tom's heavy, warm presence nearby. He was motionless, 
breathing soft, deep and rhythmic, sound asleep.

Which was all the more irritating, for she was now wide 
awake, grumpy and bored. A pressure within her was 
building, a need she had been resisting. Perhaps it was 
hormonal; perhaps it was loneliness, or three years of 
hunger. Knowing why it was there didn't help it go away. 
If she'd had a room of her own, she could have dealt 
with the matter privately and gotten over it.

She hadn't been under the sheet, so she swivelled and 
sat on the edge of the bed without disturbing him, and 
stood up angrily. Perhaps what she needed was a quick 
walk on deck, some cooling night air, or a glass of 
water. She'd have to throw a robe around herself if she 
went out. There was a crack of light above and beneath 
the door, where the outer hall was lit at all hours; the 
small amount of light that was let in being just enough 
to make out the room's furniture, the outline of the bed 
and its sleeping occupant. The satin sheen of bare skin 
gleamed. He had opted for boxer shorts as nightwear in 
the heat.

But she didn't want to fool around looking for a gown in 
the dark. She wasn't thirsty. What she wanted to do was 
lay on her back in comfort on the bed, and think of Ryan 
or any one of several attractive men; to imagine she was 
with them, and that they touched her in special places 
and secret ways, and murmured sweet nothings as they 
gave her pleasure. Sweat oozed beneath her breasts, 
beads gathering between them. Touch. That was what she 
wanted right now. Needed.

_Surely you have these feelings, Thomas, now that 
Linda's gone. You must know them well. Men need it even 
more than women._

For a while she stood there, simply studying the play of 
the highlight along graceful contours of muscle and 
sinew, his manly shape. He was curled on his side, 
facing her, breathing deep and sound. Had he ever woken 
taut and needful while she slept? What did he do about 
it? What men always did, she guessed. It was so much 
simpler for them.

A droplet of perspiration trickled, caressing, down her 
cleavage. It was hot...too hot for clothing. The collar 
of her nightie was open and loose. Slowly, enraptured by 
the tartishness of what she did, she unbuttoned the 
front, with languid caresses easing the straps from one 
shoulder, then the other. The linen crumpled down, so 
that her breasts swung gently free. Night air stroked 
her back and kissed her nipples, which drew erect with 
the thrill of nudity.

In the dark, she could be bold and brazen, someone other 
than daylight Pam who strove to be cultured and ladylike 
at all times, and never to offend.

_Look at me, Tom..._

There was something ferociously exciting about baring 
her body before someone other than her husband; she who 
was so prim and proper, so concerned with reputation. 
Especially being so raunchy before a man so decent as 
Tom. It didn't matter that he was insensate. Her breath 
caught in her throat as her heart raced, and her nipples 
stood upright and sore with need. In youth her bustline 
had been splended, although motherhood and age had taken 
their toll; she cupped the weight of each breast in her 
hands and lifted them, rubbing them in slow circles 
together, being the wild wench she had never dared be.

Still, the Need had to be answered, and he was deeply 
asleep. If she were careful, she would be safe. After a 
time, she hitched her nightie back up, but eased her 
hands beneath the hem and under the elastic of her 
panties, sliding them down until they dropped. Smiling 
at him, she teasingly lifted the front hem of her gown 
so that her snatch would be visible. Her slit was so wet 
that the cooler air made her twitch on contact.

Then she lay carefully beside him on her back, not 
touching him, legs parted slightly, comfortable. She 
closed her eyes and called Ryan to mind, watching his 
lean body at work on the foredeck. Tom was there too, 
always the pair of them at work together...she hadn't 
noticed before, but Tom's bottom was neat and round in 
the boardshorts he wore...Ryan, oozing raw sexuality, 
and Tom, saucy as never before. She had a wicked habit, 
and her hands moved over and under her nightgown, across 
her moist skin, working her up to the pleasure she 
craved, the sweet release.

A gorgeous dream-man made love to her, his face and body 
changing and morphing with her need, her whim, her 
desire until his identity blurred as her body thrummed 
toward the peak. A confusion of illusory tongues and 
lips flickered at her engorged, throbbing clit but it 
wasn't enough, she needed penetration, and her fingers 
were not long enough, not wide enough to do it. Her back 
arched, her bent legs tautened, lifting her pelvis as 
she strove to reach that sublime place. Still the dam 
would not break, the release come, and sweat poured from 
her skin as her body started to shiver, then shake 
violently as the climax happened...