The Botanists: An Adventure

He suckled one breast, and the other. "Are the penalties worth the rewards?"

"Pardon my French, sir, but FUCK YES! Would you rather be anywhere else?"

He pulled her mouth to his. Their tongues battled. Their hands stroked. He spoke.

"Pardon my French, ma'am, but FUCK NO!" He pulled her closer. And closer.

Sancho the burro patiently ignored the noisy rutting humans.

They slept naked in the open most nights; their tent was rarely needed in California's dry Mediterranean summer, mostly at higher elevations to ward off night's chill. They otherwise spread a thick padding on the ground with covering blankets at hand. Body heat and animal friction kept them warm.

They walked onward through the quake-shattered zone. The Caliente Range (hot). The Carrizo Plain (barren). The Temblor Range (shaky), named after earthquakes. And then joining El Camino Real, the old Spanish royal road, at vinous Paso Robles, and trailing the way's long dry valleys northwest to Soledad's mission and Salinas's marketplace... and a jaunt back to overlooked Monterey. It was not their first re-visit.

"Return of the prodigals, it seems," Charleton Webb quipped.

Dinner's debris had been cleared from the dining table. Captain Webb and the botanists held full flagons of steaming spicy drinks. A forlorn foghorn echoed past the open small-paned window's marbled glass.

"It has not been so long, Captain," M.K. retorted. "Wild horses and Pacific typhoons cannot keep us away from Señora Morales's wonderful food."

The cook's domain was just past a doorway. She overheard. She beamed.

M.K. was skilled at manipulating people. For good cause, of course. Like great food.

"When will the Academy start exploring the Monterey submarine canyon?"

The station master had a personal interest in expanding his operations.

M.K. shrugged and sipped her spiced rum.

"The Executive and Finance committees have been rather vague. I intend to press them when we return but we face severe technical obstacles. We need submerging craft better than those John Holland has produced. We need survivable undersea cameras and lights. Lacking those, boats can only scoop-up bottom samples at measured, well-sounded depths. Underwater flora promise to be as engaging as surface plants but they are much more difficult to access.

"When will things happen? Who knows? We could start bottom-sampling in the foreseeable future. It would not be too costly.

"I am sorry, Captain, but deep exploration is a far-future project. I have much closer concerns such as restructuring the Academy and catching-up on taxonomizing a huge backlog of unsorted collections. Those are related; I cannot perform all the analyses myself. I need rigorously-disciplined assistance. That means better training, expunging the pre-Darwinian mindset. People must understand that every variety is NOT an example of special creation."

She took another sip. The station manager looked alarmed.

"Restructuring the Academy? Does that mean looking for inefficiencies, shutting down operations, that sort of thing?"

She laughed and patted his strong hand.

"Worry not, Captain. Restructuring means expansion. We need more research stations to support our work. Do not look for another job; do not be surprised if your budget increases in the next year or so. But you did not hear that from me."

She smiled innocently and finished her rum.

"You may hear many rumors. Do not believe any of them. The Academy is due for major changes. Stay alert and you will do just fine."

One of the station's visitors' cells accommodated a bed large enough for two that did not creak too loudly. Sleepers in other rooms were not too disturbed by their noise. Respectable married couples are allowed some leeway.

The last leg of their honeymoon walk hugged the rocky Pacific shoreline from old colonial Monterey to sleepy Santa Cruz and through pumpkin-patch Half Moon Bay to almost-civilized San Francisco. They needed their tent most nights now. Late summer inflicts the coldest, foggiest winters along that coast. Sancho the burro was not happy.

"We are back to the seaside, sir. Back to the edge of the world where you always return as you have said."

She nestled naked in his loving lap and held his softening manhood inside herself with sheer willpower and practiced muscle control. They had pitched their tent on the high shelf of a ancient shoreline; waves crashed on the rocks a stone's throw below. Squawking seabirds had drowned her orgasmic cries.

"I love when you talk dirty, ma'am."

He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her chin, and then returned to her mouth.

"I love when we fuck dirty, sir. I love when we fuck. I love you, sir. You."

She pushed her hips down and clenched tighter. She felt him resurging in her core. Yes! More! Her soft breasts pressed into him. Their tongues retold ancient truths.

Seabirds screamed. Sea lions and elephant seals bellowed from their beachings at the nearby Año Nuevo tidepools. Sancho brayed. The botanists were not listening.

They camped high atop sinuous Devil's Slide on their final night out. Waves smashed hundreds of feet beneath them. A nearly full moon lit flashing phosphorescent crests of Pacific breakers rolling in from far Hawai'i. Damp air scented with salt and seaweed and the remnants of fading sun battled with their lusty sweat, and lost.

"Tomorrow we return to the fray, ma'am. Are your loins girded for battle? Are you ready to slay dragons and name names?" His strong hands massaged her tight butt.

She squeezed his cock. "This dragon shall never be slain, sir. May it live forever! And I have many names ready for publication, of varieties, species, and even new genera. I even have one name for you." She nipped his nearest nipple. "That name is Love."

He pressed her ass again.

"I am serious. Many on the Executive Committee are resistant, obstructive."

Her squeeze became a stroking rub.

"I am also serious. And the Committee is not immortal. I expect a major financial donation soon. With that as leverage, they can be replaced. But I have other leverage in mind at the moment."

Her rub became a joy.

"Damn you, ma'am!" he panted.

"Yes, we are damned. Roll over. I want to be on top."

After that came the cooing and grunting and groaning. Happy sounds.

Their last day. An easy ten-mile walk mostly atop hard-packed beach sand; the tide was out. A stop at the Academy's stables beside Lake Merced where Sancho was released to nuzzle other burros. An eight-mile ride on creaky horse-drawn streetcar to the busy corner of California and Dupont Streets. Hearty greetings from cobalt-liveried Hiram Cole and tired-looking Professor Foyle and various of their colleagues.

They deposited their final collections and notebooks in her office. They bid farewell till the morrow, clutched their carpetbags of personal trifles, and walked hand-in-hand down the block to 525 Dupont Street, penetrating the usual crushing sidewalk crowd.

Chan Li did not quite squeal when she responded to the bell cord's summons.

"Missy!" she squeaked. She hugged her mistress. "Mista Brandy!" She hugged him too. "Welcome home. It been so long!" She composed herself and took their carpetbags. "You wait little time; I have hot bath ready lìkè-lìkè, right away!" Her black-pajama-clad body scurried off.

"Li is my second-greatest treasure."

T.S. nodded. "A pearl of great value, yes."

He stepped to the lacquered cherrywood liquor cabinet and poured two small tumblers of brandy. They linked arms and raised glasses to lips.

"The past," he whispered.

"The present," she purred.

"The future!" they sang together, and filled each others' mouths.

"Let us cleanse ourselves, sir."

"I love when you talk dirty, ma'am."

M.K. had long since replaced her little sealed-clay bathtub with a much larger porcelain clawfoot tub capacious enough for two healthy humans. They fit easily.

The botanists carefully lathered each others' heads and then meticulously scrubbed their bodies. This took time. Hot water cooled. Chan Li added more, giggling at the naked sudsed lovers. M.K. waved her away.

They were home.

And their greatest years were yet to come.

Not The End.

Sources: DESERT WILD FLOWERS; Edmund C Jaeger, Stanford, 1941
THE LOST SHIP OF THE DESERT; Harold Weight, Calico Press, 1959
THE SPANISH GALLEON OF SALTON SEA; Antonio de Fierro Blanco, Desert Rat Scrap Book, 1961
TOWNSHEND STITH BRANDEGEE; Connecticut Biographical Dictionary, 2009
THE BRANDEGEES: LEADING BOTANISTS IN SAN DIEGO; Nancy Carol Carter, EDEN Magazine, 2011.

Author's note: This story by Hypoxia is copyright (c) 2016 so don't steal it. T.S. and M.K. and their careers are real, as are the locations. This piece was driven by reading long ago of their honeymoon walk, "botanizing along the way." Stay tuned for further, less cautious adventures. Your constructive comments are welcome. If you like this entry in the VALENTINE'S DAY STORY CONTEST 2016, join the 1%ers and VOTE!

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