DeepStar II Submersible Ch. 01

(A Watery Science Fiction Fantasy in Three Parts)

"Here at DeepStar, we build the most sophisticate and exciting personal underwater craft in the world," said the wetsuit-clad male announcer. "Today the world is going to see this new class of submersible for the first time."

Beside him was a submarine that was like no other. It was only 20 feet long and the main tube was just 3 feet in diameter. The bow was rounded like a torpedo and on the stern was a set of eight small tubes that appeared to be for the purpose of propelling the machine foreword. On either side were wings that tapered back like a supersonic airplane and it did have a stubby tail complete with movable control surfaces.

On the top of the sub was a large greenhouse of clear thick plastic that covered the tandem seating for the two-crew members. Under the dome were two large blue seats with armrest controls for guidance and an interesting mesh assembly that looked like a futuristic seatbelt. The single passenger seat was at the front of the greenhouse and the captain's seat was at the rear. Between the two seats was a 7-foot long area that was reserved for cargo or sleeping.

"The DeepStar II is a two place personal craft that is designed to travel up to 600 feet deep and propel the adventurers for up to 3 hours. It has very simple controls that permit the aquanauts to enjoy the adventure relieved of the complexity of pressure tanks, decompression dangers, massive hulls, and the extremes of hot and cold."

"Rather than tell you about it, I have asked our chief underwater pilot to give you and open water demonstration here at this resort in lovely Palau with any volunteer that wants to step forward."

There was a small throng of swimsuit-clad vacationers watching the filming of the commercial. Among them were several pretty girls that were an obvious choice. One of the girls was on vacation from California with her girlfriend and she was smitten with the young captain of the sub.

"Please pick me," she squealed.

"The announcer smiled at the camera and said jokingly, "I think that we have a victim.

The DeepStar II was lifted from the cradle on the dock and lowered into the water. The water was crystal clear and the bottom was about 20 feet down. The sub sat very still on the surface and the water came up almost to the top of the opening into the passenger compartment.

The girl said, "Can I take my camera?"

"You better leave it with me," replied the announcer. "You are going to be very busy learning about this new craft and acclimating yourself to it unique way of protecting its crew. This sounded kind of strange to the girl but the captain smiled reassuringly at her. The girl was wearing a skimpy yellow bikini and she said that she had better go get at least her shorts and tee shirt.

The captain took her by the hand and led her over in front of the camera. Identified him-self as Captain Chris and said that he had been working for the DeepStar for the last 3 years. She replied that her name was Barbie and that she was here on a diving trip with her friend. She asked if she would be cold.

The captain said that the cockpit would be kept at a perfect 77 degrees no matter what depth that they chose. In fact, he said, I am going to change into my DeepStar II "uniform" right now.

With that he pulled off his shirt and kicked off his shoes. He dropped his pants to the surprise and amusement of the onlookers and they saw that he was wearing what amounted to white silk running shorts. Chris and Barbie stepped down onto the semi-submerged wing and slosh over to the cockpit and looked in the open hatch. Chris hopped into the back seat and directed Barbie to take the front. Barbie was joined by an assistant and was helped into the sub and strapped in. She was a little surprised when the assistant cinched the net straps very tightly and locked them in place behind her.

"What if I need to get out," she asked? "I can't see or reach the buckles and I could drown if the sub sinks with me trapped inside."

The captain leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder and said, "That is so cute." "You could drown..."

The canopy was lowered into place and locked down tight by the bikini-clad assistant. Barbie could hear the announcer on the dock talking but could not make out exactly what he was saying. Good thing too, because if she had this is what she would have heard.

"The DeepStar II is the first of a generation of Passenger Immerseable Submersibles."

"By this we mean that the crew will be immersed in water and will be able to breathe the fluid because it is charged with up to 15% oxygen. The craft is then free to submerge without the heavy, expensive, and complicated pressure hulls and dozens of pumps and pressure gages."

"Getting acclimated to "drowning" underwater and trusting that you can breathe it is a big step toward enjoying this fantastic machine. This girl is in for the thrill of her life in the next few minutes as the sub fills with water, stabilizes, and heads out for a 60 minute excursion into the open ocean."

"The cute 'Mermaid' that you see in the front of the sub will be, for lack of a better word, drowned when the craft submerges and is filled with the warm filtered O2 rich water."

Inside the sub the girl was chatting with the captain about the simplicity of the sub. She noted that there were no delicate electronics that she would have expected and the surfaces were clean and smooth. She also marveled at the fact that the canopy was not the 4 inches thickness that she had seen on other subs. She wondered how it could stand up to the pressure of the deep.

There was a strange little keyboard and display next to her right hand.

"What is this for," she asked?

"Oh, that is so you can communicate with me after the sub is underwater," he replied.

"Why can't I just talk?"

"You'll see," he laughed.

The announcer told the crowd that the girl would be fine. To a person, they were all relieved not to have been chosen for the demonstration. The girl's friend on the dock was torn between being scared and happy that Barbie was getting to have such a unique experience. She was a little unclear on the 'drowning' part. She waved at the almost naked girl under the glass bubble in the small craft and received a big smile and a wave back.

Captain Chris asked Barbie how old she was and she responded that she would be 20 tomorrow. He said, "20 years ago you were not even born yet and you were still swimming inside your mothers body totally underwater. Today you are going to get to go back to that time if only for a hour or so."

"Are you ready young lady", he asked?

"Let's rock!" She squealed.

The sub dipped lower at the bow and the front deck started to wash with water. It inched forward but the captain wanted to keep it next to the dock for the film crew and the onlookers. The girl felt warm water trickling around her feet and she twisted in her seat to alert the captain behind her. He told her that that was normal and that the cabin was designed to be 'wet' to assist in allowing it to descend.

She asked, "How wet?"

He pushed the control stick forward in reply and twisted the grip to accelerate the descent. Water filled the front cabin around her and within seconds was up to her crotch and wetting her bikini. She was almost wetting her bottoms herself!

"There is a lot of water up here," she cried! "Stop this thing, the water is almost up to my chest!"

The people on the dock could see that the water was filling the front of the cockpit and was almost up to the girl's tits as it angled downward. She was splashing around trying to reach the seatbelt webbing release or to spring the canopy.

The sub pointed down at a 45-degree angle and the tail pointed skyward as it accelerated downward. Several cameras mounted on the wings looking at the cockpit and relaying the video to the monitor on the dock. Water was now almost up to her chin and she stretched as high as she could in her seat to keep her face above the water.

"Oh fuck," she cried. "This is too deep; I don't want to put my head underwater!"

The man in the back was just now sitting in the water and it had covered his shorts. The silk was almost transparent after the water hit it.

"Jesus Christ! I'm gonna' drown up here! Can you hear me???" She screamed as the water reached her lower lip. "I am going to DROWN!"

To Be Continued ...The first thing I ever noticed about Lady B were her legs. They were gorgeous.

Her upper body was hidden by the side of a wing-backed chair but stretching out over the side of the chair were her legs, endlessly long and clad in a pair of black seamed nylon stockings, the rounded white thighs above that wide band of dark double webbing bisected by black suspender straps. They were perfection - totally erotic, beautifully shaped, warm soft flesh which made you automatically lick your lips - in anticipation of licking her lips -- upper and lower, outer and inner.

You couldn't help but imagine pushing those luscious limbs apart and nuzzling your way from the black toe-ends of her high-heeled shoes up the nylon covered calves past the rounded dimpled knees, trailing your lips and cheeks over the silken sheen of her lower thighs onto the broad black band of the stocking tops, and thence onto that last-lap final pathway of warm bare skin leading to the intricate mix of soft whorls of hair, glistening folds of flesh and oozing juices that made up the earthy, earthly paradise of Lady B's beautiful cunt.

I was mesmerised by them. But touch them I could not for unfortunately these mouth-watering legs were wantonly displayed not in the live succulent quivering flesh but on the front cover of a paperback underneath the fancy flowing script which announced the book's title: The Erotic Adventures of Lady B. At the bottom of the cover beneath the back of the armchair was the literary legend by Erica von Lustweiber.

So how did I know that Lady B had a beautiful cunt, I hear you ask. Because I'd seen it. It was not on the book's cover of course. Even in this permissive day and age that would have been a publishing coup several steps too far. Neither was it hidden away discreetly on the inside of the book. No, it was spread for all the world to see on the internet - on Lady B's own website. You don't believe me? I'd give you the web address right here and now for you to see for yourself but you'd likely leave me for a gander at this most gorgeous of glands and never return and that's not good journalistic tactics, so stay with me and I'll describe it for you - if, that is, I can find words adequate to the task.

For how do you describe the ineffable? You can't. Perhaps in metaphor. Lady B's cunt is like some exotic underwater flower, blooming on the edge of a reef, wispy delicate fronds over pink glistening lips which are slowly moving to the pull of the water like some small exquisite sea creature. I have no wish to be blasphemous, but god created this. She must have. It is perfect. So beautiful and so unusual it deserves a botanical name. Cunnilingus deliciosa erica.

There. Will that do?

I guess I'd better introduce myself. My name is Dickins, David Dickins. That's what I was christened anyway but since I was born and brought up in Rochester, Kent, England, it wasn't long before some wag called me Charlie and the name stuck. Charlie Dickins. I'm a writer too - of sorts, a reporter on a local paper. I also free-lance for a little-read literary magazine under a pen-name but that's enough of names and anyway it's not important. Though whether I shall turn out to be the hero of this my story or whether that station shall be held by someone else I leave it to you the reader to decide.

It's a Saturday, my day off and I'm on my way to an interview. But you'll need to know a little bit more background at least to understand why my driving, normally very good, is so erratic today. My mind is elsewhere - on a pair of legs and the most ineffable cunt I've ever seen. Are you with me? I fancy you might be ahead of me. Then slow down dear reader, all in good time. Which I have to say at the moment I'm not. In good time I mean. I'm on my way to interview Erica von Lushlegs and I'm late. Saturday traffic is worse than a weekday.

So, I'm 32 and single. Playing the field and enjoying life. There's plenty to enjoy around Rochester and we get a lot of summer visitors. A sizeable number of whom are more mature, drawn by the town's Charles Dickens Museum. I like mature women. I get plenty of opportunity to meet them for I also have another part-time job - mostly Saturdays - showing people around. I am fluent, knowledgeable, tell a few well-honed jokes and generally give them their money's worth. And if some of the more attractive, mature women fancy a little extra, over and above the official tour it's not difficult to meet later and go into a little more depth and detail in some cosy English pub, of which Rochester has plenty. And maybe afterwards at my flat a glass or two of Kentish mead which to the non-habitual drinker can make the head spin and the body relax. I see you're ahead of me again.

But today promises to be special and already I'm feeling tongue-tied. I've persuaded the editor of the literary magazine to let me broaden the normal academic scope of the articles with a slightly tongue in - wait for it - cheek piece on Erica von Lustweiber's promotional tour. She's staying at the Spread Eagle, one of our plusher hotels, just outside town. Her agent is highly suspicious on the phone. Is he expecting a leg pull? But he does finally grant me just an hour of Lady B's precious time. She's flying back to the States today after the first part of the tour and resuming up in the northwest after a week's rest and recuperation. I'm late, And for once very nervous.

By the time I get to the Spread Eagle I'm a good twenty minutes late and her agent, Ronnie Steinhammer is not a happy bunny.

"You're late!" he says. "Another five minutes and you'd have blown it. Come on. At the double."

I run up the stairs behind him and he knocks on the door. "Erica! He's finally arrived. You ready?" "Yeah. Come on in." And he opens the door and escorts me, somewhat brusquely, inside.

"Hi honey. Wanna coffee?"

I nod. For once in my life I am struck dumb.

Lady B is quite something. I delete the image I have been carrying around in my head for the past few months. She is not the woman on the cover. But I am not disappointed; The woman I have been lusting over was but a model. This is a woman. A mature woman. Fleshier, fuller, more vibrant. My lust for Lady B is both renewed and redirected. She is wearing a dark blue, pin-striped business suit, light blue collared blouse opened to the beginnings of her ample cleavage, navy blue stockings and half heels. But strangely enough it's her face which captivates me. I have seen plenty of her body over the last few months on her website but never her face. It is elfin. What the French call gamine. Her auburn hair is cut short close to her face. Despite the easy, out-going American manner she seems slightly vulnerable. There's something of the young Shirley Maclaine about her. She has a red slash of a mouth. Wide, with full, sensuous lips.

"It's OK Ron. He'll be safe with me. You don't have to worry honey." And she winks at me as he turns and deflates through the door, pulling it closed behind him.

"Sit down honey," she-says brightly, indicating two easy chairs and a couple of small tables.

I sit down and watch her full arse; cheeks jiggling nicely as she walks towards the little kitchen area. I could sit and watch her jiggle all day. The room feels suddenly close. Just the two of us in it. I am already sweating. She looks back at me appraisingly.

"Hey! You're cute! How do you like your coffee? Let me guess. "Strong and hot." Pause. A lifted eyebrough. "A little cream."

I give her a frozen rictus smile and nod again.

"What's your name honey?"

I clear my throat. My mouth is dry. I need some saliva. "Dickins," 'I manage to get out. "David Dickins."

She comes over all sexy coy. Puts on a breathy girly voice. "Do I like Dick-ins? Gee I don't know Mr President. I've never been to one." And she giggles, still in Marilyn mode, It's an old joke but she mimics Miss Monroe so perfectly I laugh out loud and for a second imagine that, maybe, in far off Arlington a smile lights up the dead president's face and for him once more the earth moves.

She has broken the ice. I relax and smile happily. She smiles with me.

I bet they call you Charles," she says.

"Charlie." I grin.

"Charlie it is." She smiles again.

She turns with the two coffee cups and walks towards me.

"One of my majors was Victorian novelists," she says. "I just love Dickens."

Is she playing with me?

"Hard Times. Dickwick Papers. Knickerless Nickleby, Adventures in the Skin Trade."

She is playing with me.

"I think that was ... er ... someone else," I end lamely.

"Oh yes, you're right. Dylan Thomas. Right?"

She puts down her coffee and moves over to my side. She reaches out to put my cup on the low table. The neck of her blouse falls open. She remains motionless for a second and lets me look at her two full breasts straining the blue lace bra, her big nipples clearly showing through the thin filmy material. She knows just what she's doing, where I'm looking and what I'm thinking. And she's enjoying the knowledge. She's winding up my lust. I already feel a stirring somewhere down south. The earth is beginning to move for me too.

She whispers to me in a low voice, her words sending shivers all over my body, draining me of any energy, totally transfixing me.

"Cop a feel?" she asks. And she looks up slowly without moving her body and I manage to drag my eyes away from those big, bouncing, beautiful breasts inside her open blouse to look up at her face, my mouth gaping open. Is she really asking me to ...?

"Pardon?" I gurgle lamely.

She stands and puts her hand on my shoulder, her eyes fixing me with a foxy look.

"Copperfield. You know Charlie, David Copperfield. My favourite."

Her eyes twinkle again. "What did you think I said?"

She knows exactly what I think she said because she said exactly what I thought she said.

She sits on her armchair. And crosses her legs. I hear that distinctive sound of nylon hissing over nylon. It sizzles through the room.

She grins. "Okay Charlie. You wanna -- errr - do me? Now?"

I recover my nerve. How, I don't know.

"I certainly do." I pull out my notebook and take out a pen. My hands are trembling slightly. "For starters. What do I call you?"

"That's an easy one," she says. "Erica. It's my name."

"And the Lady B bit. What's the B for?"

"Anything you'd like to imagine Charlie."

She sits straight up in her chair and moves her head slightly to one side, her eyes looking heavenwards. "Lady B Good!" And then she breaks the pose, leans way forward to pick up her coffee, freezes the moment allowing me once again to see into her gaping blouse, putting on a brazen display of those big breasts and looks up from under her eyebrows at my face: "Lady be Bad!" She takes a sip of coffee, still bent forwards for me, puts the cup down, and placing her hand on her skirt, pushes the hem forwards over her prim, together knees: "Lady Behave!"

She is a superb actress. She could be something out of a Henry James' novel, twirling a demure little brolly at a Washington ball.

"But much more to your liking I fancy Charlie - Lady B Naughty." And with that she pulls back her skirt to mid-thigh and crosses her legs again. More nylon hiss. More sizzle. She looks down at her legs and pulls the hem even higher. To the start of the dark blue band at the top of her stockings.