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Quiet Summer Day
Summers in small Florida towns are quiet, almost
desolate. It was the first sunny day after two
weeks of hurricane warnings, tropical storms and
rains. The night before a yacht berthed at the
marina, unusual for this time of year. It was
only a couple of years old, 120 feet and
pristine in condition. I hadn’t seen much of the
crew when she arrived, only the flash of
epaulettes atop starched white shirts in the
setting sun.
The next morning the sun was brilliant, a
cloudless sky painting that vivid blue known
only in Florida. The big boat was still there
and the marina was silent although it was
already 10 a.m. I was preparing some bright work
when I spied her on the aft deck. She carried a
beautiful tan contrasting with the white of the
sheer something thrown casually over her
shoulders. The outlines of her bikini slightly
visible through the translucent material. Her
right hand clutched a drink, could be anything
from a Bloody Mary to a protein shake for all I
knew.
She wandered almost aimlessly around the deck
taking in the river and mini-skyline of the
downtown, looking like a cat on her early
morning stretch. There was no hustle and bustle
of a ship about to get underway and, striking as
she was, I hoped that she and her ship might
remain for the day so that I could catch more
than just a glimpse of this beautiful creature.
Her blond hair had just enough brown streaks to
know it was that color because of repeated
exposures to the sun.
I watched her wander forward, taking the outside
rail to the bow where there was a large lounging
pad incorporated into the design of the deck.
During a party it could hold as many as six
beautiful women for the owner to admire as he
paid a thousand dollars per hour to run the boat
up and down the waterway. But as of yet, I had
not seen a man aboard and she settled herself
into the cushion and opened the front of her
cover-up, exposing her soft skin to the bright
sunlight once again.
She was moored at the furthest pier, facing out
into the river so, from the docks, the bow was
completely hidden from view. But because my boat
was on the end of the pier I had a perfect view
of the bow, the cushion and her. I stopped
working and sat back with a cold orange juice
just to watch her lie in the sun.
It only took a few minutes before one of the
crew appeared carrying a chart in one hand and a
drink in the other. Must be the captain I
thought, watching the crisp stark white shirt
with the black stripes on the shoulder boards
round the rail. What caught my attention was the
equally starched shorts, which were very short
covering a perfectly round ass which was
supported by two gorgeous legs. As she turned
the corner I saw that it was indeed a girl,
every bit as beautiful as the bikini clad one on
the cushion.
They sat side by side, very closely from my
perspective and discussed the charts before them
for a few minutes. I could have sworn I saw that
touch, the touch shared by lovers not business
relationships, but I could have been wrong. The
captain folded her charts, sipped her drink and
the owner shrugged off her cover-up entirely,
stretching back fully and almost languishing on
that cushion. It was then that the captain
picked up a bottle sitting nearby and squirted
something into her hand. Holding her palm up she
positioned herself between the feet of the owner
and began rubbing, what looked like suntan
lotion, from the ankles up.
I was curious as to what would happen as she
neared the treasure trove but just past the
knees she suddenly stopped and stood up. Walking
around to the other side of the owner, she began
applying lotion again, from the shoulders down.
Arms first, each one individually, lifting them
to be sure they were completely covered. Then
shoulders heading south.
My gaze was fixed as I watched these two in
apparent enjoyment of each other, lathering any
part not covered by the bikini. When she arrived
at the breasts, the part I was waiting for, she
simply continued, under the covering. It became
far more of a massage than the application of
protection. She had her hands under the material
and spent several minutes in the employment of
lotion which must have been used up long ago.
Finally she pulled her hands out from the bikini
top and proceeded to the stomach all the while
the owner laid quietly back, eyes closed, in
pure enjoyment. The captain was kneeling at the
owners head and slowly rose with a knee lightly
touching each ear. She continued her travels
south reaching the waist band of the bottoms,
only slightly halting, then continuing on, under
the material.
By this time I’m in a serious state. I can’t sit
comfortably, I’ve spilled my juice and I’m
sweating up a storm, but I can’t remove my eyes
from the action on the other boat. The captain
is really working the owner over with her hands
as you can see the muscles tensing in the legs
and arms. For the first time the owner responds.
She reaches up with both arms and wraps them
around the back of the captain and pulls her
face into the scantily clad white boaters’
shorts. She stays there for several seconds as
the captain picks up her pace, concentrating on
a single, selective spot.
It is only a brief few minutes before they
disentangle and the captain stands, gathers her
charts and drink, and walks back to the helm
station. Within five minutes I can see a pair of
uniformed guys appear on deck, gathering dock
lines as the big diesels rumble in the silence.
I catch a glimpse of one of the deck hands who
simply arches his eyebrows and gives me a quick
salute. Lines and power cords slither into place
and the bow thruster swings the big boat away
from the dock with the owner lying quite still
on the deck.
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