None of my clothes fit since I moved to Venezuela. Lazy days of eating what I wanted had swelled my tits from a B cup to a C cup, and my ass was now poking out the top of my jeans. It was embarrassing in a new country. Just going to the supermarket to shop for apples was an exercise in harassment. Cat calls followed me everywhere.
As my body swelled from leisure, my finances dwindled. I was running out of money. I had to find a job, and fast. Rent was due to the mean old Venezuelan landlord, and I suspected I would need to move out if I could not pay up. It was now that I found the job ad that would change my life. One of the few written in English, it was also something I could do: it said simply: "Boat Maid: Room and Board in Exchange for Cleaning Boat."
I tried my best to button-up and look professional. But the top two buttons of my shirt would barely close. My best interview shirt was straight-cut. But my boobs were round and swollen, even pouring out of my old lace bra. My nipples were barely covered by the insubstantial fabric, and my nipples threatened to pop out completely and rub against the stiff cotton of my oxford shirt. The top buttons of the oxford across my chest were buttoned but gapped between my breasts. I was literally popping out of my clothes. Humiliating as it was, this was the best shirt I had. It would have to do.
Pants were out of the question. All I had were jeans, and each pair showed the top of my thong, and little moons of my ass cheeks as well. I was not disciplined enough to diet, and all of my clothes were suffering from my recent swelling. I chose a smart navy skirt instead. It was almost knee-length, although my round ass caused it to hitch up a little in the back, and the fabric was clearly straining against the roundest part of my ass.
Always blessed with a tiny waist, my new fatness seemed to make me almost comically hourglass-shaped. Pulling on stockings had been a challenge. My ass would stretch the thin nylon and cause a run. If the stockings fit my slender legs, they would inevitably be too tight for my ass. My last pair of stockings was ruined with tears. It was too hot for stockings anyway. I put on the only shoes I had: strap heels of shiny black leather. Not exactly business wear, since they showed my pink-painted toes, but they would have to do.
As I combed my hair in the mirror I saw my flushed face. I was embarrassed at how I looked: ashamed to be seen falling out of my clothes like this. Why had I not planned on needing a job? Why had I not foreseen I would need good interview clothes? Oh well. I sighed to myself and shut the bathroom light off.
It was a long hot walk to the pier. My heels crunched on gravel roads and little pebbles got into my shoes and hurt me. I was relieved at last to find the boat the gentleman told me to look for. It wasn't a boat, in fact, it was a full-fledged yacht! I inhaled a little breath of surprise. The Patient Muse, it was called. The name was sprawled on the side of the boat in curling maroon letters. No-one seemed to be there. I stood there in silence, wondering what to do. Maybe there was a door onboard to knock on. I held a rope and gingerly stepped on, balancing myself as I tried a high heeled foot onboard.
Still, there was no sound onboard. I saw a door below-deck, so I tiptoed down the stairs and knocked lightly on it; terrified that I somehow had the wrong boat. I hoped to hear someone say, "Come in," but instead the door opened slowly.
A man was holding the door. He was tall, maybe six foot two, at least. He had pale skin, piercing black eyes and a head full of wavy silver hair. His shoulders were impossibly wide, and his fingers, holding the door, were long. He wore loose gray trousers, a button-up shirt and a suit vest. He had a vaguely professorial air about him. He was maybe forty five or fifty years old. His cologne smelled expensive and smoky. He was intimidating, poised.
I fully expected him to say something. At least "Hello," or "You must be Clara," or "Have you come for the job?" He didn't say any of these things. Instead, he reached down with his long fingers toward my blouse. My breath stopped. "Your button has come undone," he said, disapprovingly, and buttoned my top button, which had indeed popped open between my straining tits. My embarrassment and shyness turned to instant shame and I could feel my cheeks turn red. As if to comfort me, he said: "Come in."
I came into what looked like a study. It was dim compared to the sunlight outdoors. My eyes tried to adjust to the dim light. The walls were covered with bookcases filled with books. The floor had a wine-colored carpet. I sat in a leather chair across from a desk. He did not sit down at the desk but stood next to it. It was then that I noticed the leather whip, hung on the wall behind him. It was artful. It must have been an artifact from somewhere. From his many travels? My mind was wandering. I swallowed. He began to speak. I was relieved he was speaking, because after he had touched my blouse and buttoned my button, I suddenly felt mute.
"I am looking for a boat maid," he said. I nodded, looking down at my too-tight skirt. Of course I knew this. How would I impress him that I was the best person to clean this boat? Words failed me. The boat was beautiful, big. I wondered how much he paid. And where would the room and board be provided? Did he have a hotel, also?
"I live on this boat, travel here and there, to different places, or sometimes I just like to take a pleasure sail. Of course I cannot do this alone, so I am hiring a young woman to help me on the boat."
"I'd be glad to do that," I said, as if to my shoes.
He ignored me and said, "I'd like you to look at me now." I looked up. Why was my face so hot? I blinked. I swallowed. He seemed to smirk, just a little. "Please continue looking at me while I describe the duties of this position. Can you do that?" This time when I swallowed it sounded like a gulp. I exhaled. "Yes. Of course." I was almost whispering now. Why was it so hard to look directly at him? "Good." He continued.
"The position requires living full-time on this boat," he announced, beginning to stride back and forth, punctuating his words. My heart skipped a beat. I was excited. It was a beautiful yacht. Could I be so lucky?
"The position includes a very rigid schedule, and you must be available to me at all times."
"Yes, Sir!" I almost squeaked out the words and surprised myself at my compliance. Was I really so desperate for a job that I would call a stranger "Sir?' I tried to stuff my self-criticism back down and was relieved when he did not seem to notice but simply continued.
"Every morning at 11 a.m. you will take Positioning Yoga." My eyes opened wide, now staring at him in confusion. "I'm sorry, Sir, what is Positioning Yoga?" I was truly confused. None of this made any sense.
He smirked again. "Aha. I will explain in a minute. Let me back up. I'll get to that detail later. Do not interrupt. Let's talk about uniform and cleaning duties first, shall we?"
I nodded, perplexed, a little line forming between my eyebrows as I continued to listen.
