Chapter 2
Underway, at last, Cindy thinks.
And she is glad, for the simple reason that as soon as they begin, just that much sooner will her ordeal come to an end.
Her cabin is luxurious, much more so than her room at home.
And the food is out of this world, if the bon voyage party is any indication, as she is sure that it is.
Still, these things are absurd.
That is, they bear no relationship to her interests, her desires.
As accoutrements, supporting elements to an atmosphere in which she and a lover—any lover— would be the centerpiece, they would be ideal, of course.
But as things now stand, they are merely the bars of a gilded cagen in which she now finds herself trapped.
So that she cannot take any joy in them, indeed feels a resentment beginning to smolder within herself.
Fate has not been kind to her.
She is not a happy camper.
And will not be, she suspects, until she is safely back at home.
Not that she misses the house or her parents; on the contrary, home is her base of operations, her central dispatching point for herself.
Indeed, under her original plan, she would very seldom have been actually found at home.
Bummer, she thinks.
Meaning this whole scene.
Still, she managed to put up a good front, resisting the temptation to ask her mother, who was actually crying as she embraced her farewell, that if she missed her so much, why in the hell is she making her take this stupid trip?
When her parents finally left the party, she was relieved, without exactly knowing why.
Perhaps it was being on her own, just as she wanted to be most of the summer, if only for a few hours.
Just until the rest of the guests left, in accordance with the schedule of sailing on the tide, lest the ship end up requiring tug service, as was explained in the invitations.
Telling his guests that yes, the Steele vessel is that big.
Classed as a pleasure craft for tax purposes, the motor yacht has an engine one step removed from that of an ocean liner, a fact Brim was quick to point out to an inquiring guest, who made an appropriately impressed face.
Good for you Brim.
Hooray for you Samantha.
But what about me?
Face it, kiddo, she tells herself, you are on hold.
Sad but true, babe, and not a damn thing you can do about it.
Except, she reflects, to go to bed.
And wake up in the morning surrounded by the ocean.
And goes to sleep.
And does not feel the motion of the vessel as it plows through the calm water.
And does not hear the horns sounding, warning or replying or both, as the ship wends its way down the river and into the open ocean.
She sleeps soundly, subconsciously aware of the futility of doing anything else.
Morning.
And Cindy showers.
And her shampoo seems to have difficulty lathering up.
And the water stings her eyes when she accidentally opens them too soon.
And she tastes the water on her lips.
Salt.
So, she thinks, for all its luxurious appointments, this is not exactly the QEII.
And she wonders if the master bedroom is similarly served.
She dresses in short shorts, a halter, and deck shoes.
It's very early in the morning, even though they are sailing against the clock.
She goes down the carpeted corridor and up onto the deck.
Nobody about, apparently, although undoubtedly one of the ship's four officers is up on the bridge, manning the wheel.
The bridge, she thinks. Now, just where would that be?
And she climbs higher, going up a metal stairwell onto the next level.
Where she hears voices, laughter, coming from the stern.
Curious, she walks back that way.
It could only be the crew and this is the direction of the crew's quarters.
And sure enough, there they are, three of them.
Naked, on the deck, under three shower heads.
Which, unlike her own, with its adjustable temperature, has only cold water, pumped, apparently, directly from the ocean.
And it must be very cold.
Because that is what the laughter is about, the humor of cold water shock administered by themselves to themselves by pulling a chain attached to a lever which releases the thick stream from coarsely pierced shower heads which splashes at their feet against an open aluminum grille work pad, then rolls over the side, back into the ocean from whence it came.
Young, they are.
And handsome and muscular and very, very hung, as they dance around beneath the water, alternately gasping for breath and soaping themselves up.
Cindy is one flight up from them, looking down at them, across the expanse of the ship's swimming pool.
Not a very large pool, to be sure, but nonetheless qualifying as one in which it is possible to swim six or seven body lengths.
Undoubtedly, none of the Steeles' many friends and acquaintances have a similarly located pool, Cindy thinks, which is probably the whole idea.
And these shower heads actually serve the pool area.
The crew members don't see Cynthia standing there.
But she cannot take her eyes off of them.
Not one, not two, but three, count them, three examples of exactly that equipment for which she so longs.
But now, even as she watches, the first one finishes, drying himself vigorously with his towel and padding, naked, to the ladder which will take him back to the crew's quarters.
The second one follows suit.
And even now, the third one dries himself.
Alarmed, feeling an urgent sense of loss somehow, Cindy cannot resist.
"Hello!"
The sailor looks up.
And grins at the sight of her, making no attempt to cover himself.
"Hello yourself!" he says.
"Can I—talk to you?" she asks, looking about for the way down and spotting it.
"Talk," he replies, draping his towel around his waist, to Cindy's disappointment.
"You work on the ship?" she asks. "I mean, of course I know you work on the ship."
"What I meant is, what is it you do on the ship?"
"Maintenance, uh ... ma'am."
Adding this last reluctantly.
"You can call me Cindy," Cindy says. "I'm nobody around here. Just a guest."
"My parents are friends of the Steeles."
"Well, not exactly friends. More like acquaintances, actually."
"You can't really be friends with somebody in this league—" looking around her, indicating the ship, "—unless you have one of these yourself."
"Or could have, if you wanted one," the sailor adds. "By the way, I'm Bill."
"Barnacle Bill the sailor?"
"Right. I'm way too good looking to be Popeye."
They laugh.
"So, Bill, what brings you out on such a cold morning?"
"Not going out, actually. Just coming in off my watch."
"Watching what?"
"The gauges and machinery of the engine compartment."
"Coming off watch."
"Does that mean you're off duty now?"
"For the next twelve hours, yes. Why?"
"Wanna take in a movie or go to Burger King?"
"Yeah, right," she says, wondering if he knows how badly she would like to do just that.
And this her first day at sea.
"No, but uh, maybe I could offer you a warm shower, in place of the cold one you just had."
"Sounds good to me, Cindy, but uh, we're really not allowed in the guests' quarters, except for cleaning and repairs."
"I don't think you've all that much to worry about at this hour, Bill."
And he looks her up and down.
"Me neither. Let's go."
She covers his mouth with her own as she falls with him onto the bed, sideways.
There is no other way to do this, she thinks.
Why bother with still more bullshit?
Been too much of that already, so far as she is concerned.
He loses his towel in the process, ignoring it, fumbling for her breasts, freeing them from below with both hands.
And he feels the coldness from his shower, leaving his body, dissipating like the morning mist under a bright sun.
As he squeezes and fondles her large, firm breasts.
As he slides down on top of her, so that his mouth can reach the doorbells of her nipples.
And now, he continues to suck and manipulate them, mouth going from one to the other and back again, her nipples becoming firm and rubbery, the glands behind them engorging as well.
As her face and upper body turn red with the engorged blood of her mounting passion.
And he redoubles his efforts, encouraged by her moaning and heavy breathing.
As he realizes that this is not just somebody's jaded, spoiled brat on an outing, taking advantage of the situation, but rather a young woman of genuine lust.
Who is not doing this just for the record, just so that she could say that she got laid by some sailor in the middle of the ocean.
Rather, hers is a genuine, if impersonal desire.
Oh, he does not deceive himself, handsome as he is, hung as he is, even talented as he is showing himself to be, that it was love at first sight or anything like that, on her part.
Because, had it been either of the others or, for that matter, any other sailor subject, he would like to believe, to certain minimum standards, why, the result would still have been the same.
Luck of the draw, this is.
Still, where would we be, any of us, without the occasional stroke of good luck, if only to compensate, in part, for all the bad luck we must inevitably encounter.
Such is the human condition.
So that he does not resent in the least her arbitrary picking of him.
Which, in the event, may have been arbitrary but is certainly not casual.
No, there is a genuine deep feeling, perhaps merely for her own lascivious desires, for the sexual sensations which even now begin illuminating her entire body through the beacons of her nipples, but true, deeply felt emotion nonetheless.
And he, alongside herself, an immediate beneficiary of her desire, her reactions.
So that now, enthused and thoroughly aroused by her, he slides down her body, helping himself to mouthfuls of her young, firm flesh, the salt water tang of her sexual sweat now greater than that of the residue from her shower or his.
As he works his way closer and closer to her bush.
He circles her deep navel with his tongue, feels the beginning of her pubic hairs, and now plunges into her snatch, wallowing, mouth open.
So that he chews her whole twat, hair, lips and all.
As his tongue seeks her smooth, drooling slit.
And finds it.
And travels up, up, up to the nub of her joy buzzer.
And strums it with his tongue, vibrating against it, feeling it too engorge.
And he warms to his task, staying right there, on target.
As he shafts his tongue in and out, in and out of her hot, juicy cunt.
As he stays in contact with her clit the whole time, whether entering or retracting, his taste and desire for her as genuine as is hers for him.
Meaning that feeling, at once calming and exciting, which tells her that she is on the threshold of once again experiencing the ultimate pleasure.
So that all that leads up to it becomes, in turn, more intense, anticipatory as it is of still greater pleasure to come.
Because this stud will not let her down; she knows this.
His own lust is too forceful, too ardent.
And his equipment too virile, too potent, too much in working order to admit of that possibility.
No he is with her, now and through what is to come, all the way.
No question.
So that she can relax.
But not as a corpse or as one asleep. .
Rather, it is her mind, the tension, the incessant scheming, the restless wandering of it that she is now free to abandon.
Yes, she is free to surrender to her body, free to let it respond freely.
And she does so now, clearing her mind of all but the flood of sexual arousal which is even now welling up from within herself, her clit broadcasting it, radiating it in all directions, so that it fills her to her outermost extremities.
And continues to pulse through her, surge after surge, each a separate and distinct thrill of sexual electricity.
As each builds upon the one before.
And now, they are coming faster and faster, the rushes, the waves of exhilaration.
And this, this, this! is what it is all about.
And now, she misses nothing.
Not home, not the guys, not even the game plan, now abandoned, for her magic summer.
Because this is precisely what all that was designed to lead to.
And now, she has arrived.
She has overcome, she has triumphed, in the face of overwhelming odds.
And yet, such is the intensity of her sexual drive, such the strength of her lust, that she does not even savor, does not even consider this a victory.
Things like victory and defeat elude her consciousness at the moment.
As do things like left and right, up and down.
Or her own name.
No, there is nothing, nothing, nothing in evidence here to tie her in with her surroundings, be they opulent or utter trash.
Because time stands still for her now.
And there is only her now, and no past, no future.
Because she is on her own tangent, in a parallel universe, a universe which has been generated within herself by the ardent attentions of her sailor lover of the moment.
Because she has imbued him with supreme importance, appointing him sole citizen and co-occupant of the universe which they have created together for themselves, for each other.
And outside them, outside the two of them, there is nothing.
It is all revealed for what it is, mere illusion, excess, the detritus, the residue of the senses, serving only to create the preamble to the situation, to engender its frame of reference for the sole purpose of establishing a new one.
So that the fabric of reality is merely the first stage of a rocket which, having done its task, an important one at the time, perhaps, has now outlived its usefulness.
And so can be safely, conveniently discarded, its value a thing of the past, a past which no longer exists.
So that now, there is only him and her. And the turgid, vibrant connection between them, uniting them.
And the sensations, the envelope of raw sexuality of pure sexual pleasure which surrounds them, cocoon-like.
Oh yes, this is where it's at, all right!
And her philosophy of life, if such it can be called, is once again confirmed.
Here is truth.
Which is the truth of the body.
Which is the only absolute truth she knows, has ever known.
Her body does not lie to her, does not attempt to delude her.
Rather, it receives true, accurate sensation, to which it truly, accurately reacts.
And thus is generated more feeling, more sensation, better, stronger, hotter, building on the feelings, the sensations already present.
And she rises higher and higher, propelled effortlessly on the wings of her own ever-mounting passion.
Until, at last, there is nothing but pleasure residing within her.
Strong it is, all-powerful and invincible.
And becoming stronger, still more powerful, more overwhelming by the second.
With every lunge, every withdrawal of Bill's powerful prick, his mighty monolith of monster meat.
Which moves in and out, in and out, piston-like, resembling one of those pieces of machinery for which he is responsible, so mechanical, so steady and dependable is its functioning.
And he has turned her cunt into a hot, drooling, hungry mouth.
Which sucks his cock, from base to head with each lunge, each withdrawal.
And his balls, big and ovoid, locked tightly to the base of his big baton, seem to drive the shaft in and out, in and out with ever greater speed, force, intensity.
So that now, he is going all out.
As the pressure of his pleasure builds and builds within him.
So that he is rising, right along with her, toward their private, shared sexual paradise.
Lost within each other and within their own pleasure, they are.
Not knowing and not caring where they are.
Able only to feel the tingling, electric current of their ever-increasing arousal.
As delight becomes ecstasy.
As ecstasy gives birth to rapture.
As their rapture carries them away, whirling in the eddies of raw sexual sensation which inundate and permeate them.
Onward and upward they soar, borne aloft on the wings of their ever-increasing pleasure.
Whose pressure builds and builds within them.
And Bill has set his delaying mechanism.
Locking his nuts, as it is called.
But that is a lock whose key lies in the degree, the intensity of his arousal, the depth and breadth of his passion.
For that is a lock which must be forced, and which will be.
As the pressure within him, within the two of them, the pressure of their pleasure, the forerunner of the pleasure beyond pleasure flexes and expands within them to the maximum of their capacity to contain it.
So that now, the both of them are hovering on the brink, standing at the summit of their own lust, feeling the push from within, the attraction from above.
And now, yielding to it.
So that here, here! is the series of multiple orgasms which she knew resided within herself, crying out desperately for release, and for the actions leading to such release.
Even as he meets her, spasm for spasm, with the bursts of his thick, hot jism as he injects them in and in and into her, again and again.
So that now, they are climaxing together, matching spurt for spasm.
As the powerful contractions of her snapping pussy seem to milk him of his load.
As he continues the action, his humping furious, relentless, not in the least affected by his reaching his climax, not as long as he continues to shoot and shoot, discharging his mighty sex cannon into her, again and again.
Even as orgasm after orgasm seizes her, jerking her now this way, now that.
So that only the pressure of his body, the action of his prick are able to restrain her, to hold her in place.
And they zoom and soar through the rosy empyrean of their sexual paradise.
As he and she, lost in each other, live, truly live this precious and isolated recess in the stream of time which stands still for them.
Until, at last, the series of spasms, his and hers, subsides, then ceases altogether.
And they collapse together, a couple of limp rag dolls.
As the sudden relaxation, the sapping of their drive, sweeps over them like a wave of weakness.
So that awareness of reality returns to them, but not freedom of movement.
Because they are drained, dissipated, at the moment.
And cannot move.
And have no desire to do so.
Although he has become but a lump of attractive, if useless flesh to her.
Although she has become the mere receptacle of the discharge of his passion to him.
Although they are now completely separate entities, no part of him in her, and vice versa.
But time passes and duty and discretion press for attention.
And must be given their do.
Because she must not be indiscrete.
Although she has no intention of letting him get away without servicing her again.
And again and again, as often as required.
Why not?
It's to be a long cruise.
And she does not know what Brim was alluding to, with his undefined promises of making things interesting for her.
But that doesn't matter now.
Not anymore.
Not now, now that she has Bill here. Whose schedule she will find a way to accommodate.
Whose cock she will have in her, as desired.
Because, dammit, she will not be cheated of the object of her lust!
Perhaps, she tells herself, she will flatter Brim, will appeal to his vanity and pride.
And take a genuine interest in the operation of the ship, becoming oriented to the routine and duties of the crew which so ably services it.
So that she is not anxious to prolong this present visit.
She will see him again.
But for now, he must hurry and take the hot shower she promised, and then be on his way, lest he be missed.
And he does so, managing at last to bestir himself, forcing himself to move into the shower, there to revive.
"I will—be with you again, won't I?" he asks.
"Count on it!"