“Ease back on her… Now thrust her back end some more… That’s it, she’s responding…”

Beads of perspiration rolled down Johnson’s face. His breath was short, his heart pounding. Every muscle in his body was tense.

“…Yeah, that’s it. She likes it slow and easy. Don’t rush her and she’ll be happy. Give her ass end a little more. Don’t be afraid to juice her that way…”

“…That’s it, she’s comin’ now. Keep thrusting…”

“…You feel her? How she moves when you thrust like that? She’s pretty responsive for a big girl.”

Johnson didn’t think so. The delayed reactions to his inputs were confusing him. Nudge the throttles forward and the big boat just sat there while the propellers tried to grip the water. Engage a thruster and feel nothing. Oh wait…are we moving, or is it that other boat? It’s a crazy mixed up world out there for a landlubber.

Mike, the boatyard owner, took the controls. “You’ll get the hang of it Mr. Humphries,” he said. “It takes awhile, especially when you jump feet first into an eighty-two footer. Maybe we should take the launch out for a while, to give you some more time on the water in something smaller.”

“Okay, Mike,” Johnson said. He wiped the sweat off his brow with his hand and wiped his hand on his khaki shorts.

Mike’s hands weren’t sweaty at all, and showed the skills learned from a lifetime on the water — fingers flicking levers, pushing buttons and spinning the gleaming chrome steering wheel, guiding the long, champagne-colored yacht into its berth. Two high-school-age yard boys took the lines and fastened them to the wharf. Johnson was glad to be tied to terra firma again. Eight million dollars had bought him a whole lot of anxiety, so far at least.

Johnson Edmond Humphries was a wealthy young man of leisure. A playboy, to use an old fashioned term. His father, Johnson Davis Humphries, inherited a fortune from his father, built on it a bit and, when he died of cirrhosis of the liver, passed it on to Johnson. The old man had all the resources in the world to get himself a liver transplant, but he’d have no part of it. “I don’t want to eat somebody’s already chewed up meat,” he’d said. He was a stubborn old boy, old-school right to the end.

The money was free and clear after the old man’s death. No business to sell, no property to unload. Just a long list of wise investments, ready to hold onto or cash out. Johnson did a little bit of both. The big yacht was a cash deal thanks to a big stack of Coca-Cola shares. His broker had tried to talk him out selling them — they’d been trending upward for decades — but Johnson hated sugary drinks. He was convinced they were ruining the women of the world. “They’ll make every girl fat if we let ’em get away with it,” he’d said to the broker. “Sell it! Just fucking sell it!”

Owning a yacht was something Johnson had dreamt about since he was a boy. His family was never into boating, or even waterfront vacations, but every time Johnson saw a flashy boat on TV or in the movies it excited him. He had toy boats as a child, and a bikini poster on his wall as a teen. The leggy, big-breasted swimsuit model was eye catching, but to Johnson so was the yacht she was sprawled on, with its teak decks and gleaming chrome fittings. He imagined that the boat’s name was Blondie, because of the color of the bikini model’s hair.

The poster was really what cemented the dream. The look of luxurious happiness on the young woman’s face, the sparkling turquoise water in the distance, the golden sunlight. What he didn’t expect was the mind-numbing fear he felt when it was up to him to control the gleaming eight-million-dollar beast. From the vantage point of the helm up on the flying bridge the sleek teak decks seemed to sprawl out a half-a-mile in front of him, and there was nearly as much behind him. The damn thing was huge!

“I know you didn’t like the idea, but hiring crew is nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Mike said. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the boatyard’s launch, watching Johnson as he nervously pulled away from the dock. “Blondie‘s all set up for it.”

Mike was speaking of the crew quarters tucked in below the aft deck of the big yacht, a comfortable space with two small cabins, a galley with dinette, and two heads.

“I know. I just thought…” Johnson’s voice trailed off dejectedly. He finally realized what others had told him — it would take years to gain the experience to handle a eighty-two foot, hundred-and-twenty-five-thousand pound vessel like Blondie with confidence.

“Most captains are great teachers,” Mike said. “You can learn as you go.”

Johnson asked Mike to put the word out that he was looking for a captain and crew. There were more responses than he’d anticipated and he reluctantly agreed to interview a few people even though he still had a hard time wrapping his head around the idea. A big yacht in a quiet harbor with one or more willing women was Johnson’s dream, not a date with a sexy girl when there was staff wandering around — he could do that at a restaurant and save the eight million dollars. But, a big boat is a big boat. It was more than he could handle alone.

Interviewing potential captains didn’t make him happy. The men were certainly well qualified, but they all turned him off in one way or another. They all reminded him of the class president at his high school — clean cut, popular, and oh so proper. The kind of person a sensible man would hire to take care of an eight-million-dollar yacht. Johnson didn’t like any of them. Back in high school the class president was a friend of Johnson’s, but that kind of guy was the last person on earth he’d want hanging around when things got rolling with a swimsuit model. Well, maybe not the last person, but close.

After six of those highly qualified candidates showed up, Carly submitted herself for an interview. Johnson wasn’t interested when Mike had told him about her, but after six guys with perfect hair and pressed polo shirts he figured he’d at least talk to her.

Carly showed up on the wharf two minutes early, dressed in gray shorts and a crisp white shirt. She looked a lot like the men to Johnson — a bit slab-sided, with close cropped hair that was starting to gray.

“Mr. Humphries? I’m Carly Savara,” she said, very business like.

They chatted. Carly presented her resume and her references. Johnson liked her. She was unpretentious, rather quiet, and not at all sexy. That was important to Johnson. The thought of having a woman around when he was with his women was initially a non-starter, but as Johnson got to know Carly he had a feeling she understood that dynamic — she had a way about her that seemed like she could stay out of the way and not be too concerned about the goings-on.

“I can cook for you, too, if it doesn’t interfere with my piloting duties,” she said. “I was a sous chef at Chez Brontue before I got my captain’s license. That’d cost extra of course.”

That sealed the deal.

“I’ll need one crew,” Carly said. “Two would be better, but I get the feeling you’d like to keep things minimal. I’ve had pretty good luck working with young people, but it’s up to you of course. I’ll start interviewing and run the promising ones by you.”

Johnson was glad to have her take the initiative. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” he said.

Carly smiled. “Thank you sir. I’ll take good care of your ship.”

Carly began working immediately, going over the specs of the yacht with Mike. She spent days in the engine room with one of the yard’s mechanics, getting to know the engines and other systems. Some time on the water with Mike and Johnson convinced the two of them that she could well handle the vessel. In fact, Mike was impressed.

“How long have you been at this?” he asked, as she eased the big yacht into its berth.

“All my life, really,” she said. “My dad had a Concordia Yawl when I was a kid. He was a harbor pilot. Worked Baltimore most of his years. Guess it’s in my blood. I learned power on an old Huckins. My dad helped me get her ship-shape, best we could anyway. She was pretty rough. A good education, though.”

Carly had good memories of that boat. Huckleberry was her name. Carly lost her virginity onboard, later than most of her friends, at age twenty-two. She was working in the grimy engine room with the son of a local diesel mechanic, both of them filthy with oil and grease, learning about the boat as they went. Carly smashed a finger one day, between the cast iron engine block and a wrench that slipped. She was nearly in tears when the young man took her hand, gently massaging the throbbing flesh with his slippery, oily fingers. It was an intimate moment. Their lips met, and a half an hour later the deed was done — Carly was a fully fledged woman, with dirty hand prints covering nearly every inch of her almost naked body. Even the inside of her pussy tingled from the petroleum residue. She loved it.

Carly and Mike chatted about the old Huckins during a short spin around the harbor in the launch with Johnson at the controls. They passed close by Blondie‘s stern as he brought the much smaller vessel alongside the wharf nice and gently.

“That’s perfect,” Carly said, smiling brightly. “See, you’re gettin’ the hang of it.”

Carly interviewed two more candidates for crew that afternoon. So far she wasn’t crazy about any of the applicants. Johnson had met a few of them and he agreed — the two that day weren’t anything special either.

“If you wanna up my pay a little and help out when I need you, we can handle this thing on our own,” Carly said. “Otherwise we’ll have to keep plugging along with the interviews.”

“I’d love to help out,” Johnson said. “I was kind of hoping I’d get to, once in a while anyway.”

“You won’t be able to be headstrong about anything just because you’re the owner,” Carly said. “When the boat’s underway what the captain says goes.”

“Let’s give it a try,” Johnson said. “If either of us aren’t comfortable with how it’s going, we’ll interview in another port.”

Carly was already wondering if what she suggested was a mistake, but Johnson was enthusiastic and seemed like he wanted to learn. With the boat’s modern systems she didn’t need that much help anyway. She was pretty sure she could single-hand Blondie if she needed to.

Carly gave notice at the rooming house where she lived, and she moved aboard Blondie the next day. It was an easy transition — the life of a yacht captain meant few possessions. One taxi ride was all it took, and Carly settled into the brand new crew cabin with a contented smile.

She got along with her new boss right away, working hard at staying professional even though Johnson was a casual guy. A little googling in her cabin the first night gave her an idea of his wealth and his playboy reputation. She’d settled in for the evening after Johnson had gone out on the town. She was up late reading when she heard voices at two o’clock in the morning. A good captain doesn’t let that kind of thing go unchecked, so she went up on deck.

Carly had never seen a girl like Ginger. Not in real life anyway. The spectacular redhead walked down the wharf with Johnson, not quite arm-in-arm, but close. The young woman climbed the portable steps and let her long, slim legs come to rest on Blondie‘s deck. “Welcome aboard,” Carly said.

“Thanks,” Ginger said. She glanced at Johnson, surprised to see another woman onboard.

“This is Carly. She takes care of things around here.”

Ginger looked a little confused, but it might have been the flavored martinis she was drinking at the bar where Johnson met her. “Oh,” she said, giving Carly a good once over.

“I was just about to turn in,” Carly said to Johnson. “Anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“No, thanks Carly. Everything looks great,” Johnson said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

“All right then. Enjoy the evening.”

Carly spun on the soft heal of her boat shoes, not gracefully like a dancer, more deliberate and practical. She was a practical woman, with a practical body — nothing like a dancer.

She descended the aft companionway to the crew quarters. It was a very agreeable space — not as elegantly appointed as the rest of the boat, but certainly nice. Carly had claimed the double cabin, leaving the small single for the yet to be hired crew. The galley was small, nothing like the main galley where she’d be preparing meals for Johnson, but it was all she needed. She put a kettle on for some nighttime tea.

Up above, Johnson was showing Ginger around. She was a bit overwhelmed by the tour — the pale colored satin finished mahogany walls and off-white leather upholstery was more luxurious than anything she’d ever seen. She had a white leather couch at home, but it was nothing like the richly textured, finely sewn hides on Blondie.

“This is the salon,” Johnson said, as he led the redhead through the airy space toward the dining area. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s go up on the front deck.”

The two of them made their way out to the side deck, Ginger letting her hand slide along the chrome rail that reflected in the moonlight.

“This is a great place to sunbathe,” Johnson said when they reached the big daybed built into the cabin top above the forward stateroom. “Did you bring your suit?” he asked mischievously.

“You might have to rub lotion on me so I don’t burn,” Ginger said, her hair glinting in the light of the nearly full moon.

“I love girls who burn,” Johnson said. His hand swept around Ginger’s waist and their mouth’s met. They’d both wanted to kiss ever since the flirting commenced at the bar down the road. Johnson wasn’t a very good kisser, but Ginger knew a good thing when she saw it, and the massive yacht gleaming in the moonlight was a very good thing. She’d watched movies, and plenty of porn. She knew how to raise the moment beyond what was actually happening. She knew how to fake it.

The look in her eyes when the kiss ended was a ‘take me I’m yours’ look if Johnson had ever seen one. His fingers intertwined with hers and he led her to the master stateroom.

“Now that’s a bed!” Ginger said, running her hand over the satiny bedspread.

She looked around, the beautiful finishes and expensive detailing of the space reminding her of the kind of modern luxury hotels she’d seen in the glossy magazines at her gynecologist’s office. She turned to Johnson, with a mischievous look in her gray-blue eyes. Her hand cupped his crotch, gently, with just enough pressure and movement to let him know she meant business.

A firm push of her other hand seated him on the edge of the bed. She smiled confidently and began to strip. Ginger was good at it. She’d never stripped professionally, but she and a friend took a pole dance class and she’d entertained quite a few men in their bedrooms — long relationships weren’t her forte, but seducing rich guys was.

When she had nothing on but her four-hundred-dollar undies she shifted to slow motion, all the better for Johnson to get an eyeful of her perfect, I-want-to-be-a-trophy-wife body.

“Looks like you’re gonna bust outta those pants,” she purred. “Unzip ’em. Let me see how hard I make you.”

Ginger’s tongue teased the bottom of her front teeth as she watched Johnson let loose his cock into the soft light of the stateroom. She danced slowly to the music in her head, closer, and closer, exhaling as she dropped to her knees between Johnson’s legs, inhaling as her warm mouth engulfed his throbbing shaft. A Broadway choreographer couldn’t have staged it any better.

The blowjob was skilled, but felt somehow detached. Johnson longed for a real connection with a woman, with the heightened feelings that accompany that kind of relationship, but Ginger wasn’t that woman. He already sort of knew that, at the bar, but he knew it for certain when he held her head to his cock and felt the stiff gel in her expensively cut hair. Ginger was an impostor. The real girl under her magazine-worthy glitz might make a nice companion, but it was clear Ginger was all-in with the flashy gold-digger thing. Johnson let things play out, the way he always did.

Doggy style was pretty sweet. Ginger’s long legs and perfect little ass beckoned like a siren song. Johnson dreamed that she was the perfect girl as he slipped into her tight pussy.

“Oh, fuck baby!” she exclaimed as her hand slapped down on the cool bedspread, fingers wide-spread like a tree frog. “God you’re big!”

Johnson wasn’t. Five inches was all of it. Maybe five-and-a-half on a good day, and buried as deep as he could go in Ginger’s sweet-as-honey pussy, with his eyes on her swimsuit-model ass, well, it was a pretty good day.

“Fuck, Johnny honey! You’re gonna make me cum!”

Johnson didn’t. It didn’t matter, though. Ginger delivered her best fake orgasm and Johnson gushed much sooner than he wanted to, pulling out mid-spurt. It was quite a mess.

Down in the crew quarters, Carly took the last sip of her tea. It had cooled off, but was extra sweet at the bottom where the honey had settled. She put a bookmark in the musty smelling old romance novel she’d found at the local used book store, and thought about Johnson and Ginger. Her normal routine would be to take one last quick walk on deck to check the dock lines and make sure all was shipshape, but she didn’t want to interrupt anything Johnson might be in the middle of. She’d captained a sixty-footer the summer before, but the owners were in their seventies. Working for a young playboy would take some getting used to.

The next morning, Carly was up at the crack of dawn. A misty fog had rolled in during the night. The marina was eerily quiet, blanketed in grey as the new day slowly brightened. Carly picked up two cocktail glasses from the front sundeck and was heading to the galley when Johnson and Ginger appeared.

“Oh, sorry,” Carly said. “I was just straightening up a little.”

“Thank you, Carly,” Johnson said, looking a little embarrassed by the situation.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Carly said to Ginger, immediately regretting saying anything.

Ginger was embarrassed too, standing there in her dance club clothes and her high heels, with her stiff, gelled hair fingered into a bit of a morning mess. “Yeah. It was nice,” she said, wishing, like Carly, that she’d kept her mouth shut.

“I can serve breakfast if you’d like,” Carly said.

“Oh, no, that’s all right Carly,” Johnson said. He had his hand on Ginger’s back and gave her a little nudge. The two of them headed out into the morning fog.

A few minutes later Johnson returned alone. Carly was in the galley, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “I could really use some scrambled eggs, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” Carly said. “How do you like them, loose or tight?”

He face blushed pink as soon as she’d said it. She turned away from Johnson, hoping he hadn’t seen. Twice already she’d said something she wished she hadn’t. It was going to be an awkward relationship with her new boss if that kind of thing continued.

“I’m easy,” Johnson said. “However you like them is fine.”

Carly couldn’t see his face, so she wasn’t sure if he’d seen her embarrassed blush, or even caught her unintended double entendre.

Johnson read the morning news headlines on his phone while Carly put together two plates with scrambled eggs, toast with jelly, and a slice of melon. Johnson tucked into it all with gusto. She had a feeling he’d had quite a workout with Ginger.

“Do you ever go out at night?” he asked.

“No, I can’t really. I wouldn’t want to leave Blondie unattended.”

“Oh, hell, I hadn’t thought of that,” Johnson said. “Being the only crew sort of ruins your life, doesn’t it?”

“Hardly!” Carly said. “I’m a homebody anyway.”