Coming About

Wynn and I made ready to go to the regatta, per our usual, loading the camper and securing the boat to the trailer. Harriman "Harry" Whitcliff, our third crewmember, heir of the Whitcliff Sail Corporation family and long-time friend of Wynn's, said he would meet us there. He never stayed in the camper. He always drove his MG and took a room at a nearby motel.

I had crewed as foredeck man for Wynn for 7 years, since I was 16. It was my job to man the jib, set and fly the spinnaker, hang my 130 lb. ass over the rail in heavy weather and crouch motionless by the centerboard trunk when it was calm.

Harry was our spare pair of hands. He adjusted the centerboard, helped me set the spinnaker, helped Wynn handle the main and positioned his ass as the skipper directed, as well. Harry was kind of a playboy... or at least featured himself as one. He would find some lithe honey at the opening get-together and date her for the weekend, meaning they would be at his motel room Friday and Saturday nights, screwing their brains out. Harry was absolutely in his element at regatta; trolling for the Wellfleet, Corinthian and Eastern Point trust fund chics was the sub-sport at hand.

Nonetheless, I'm sure neither he nor Wynn, for that matter, ever minded watching my ass as I crawled up on the foredeck to set sail, make fast the bowline or lie prostrate, legs spread, to snatch the mooring. Further I knew they both enjoyed seeing the contours of my tits with hardened nipples through my clinging tee shirt when cold spray soaked me. In fact, I was rather pleased that they watched me.

Although, I had always gone to regattas with Wynn and bunked in close quarters, he had never made an inappropriate move towards me. Fifteen years older than I, at 38, he had a wife, two sons and a great career as a corporate VP in finance. But for me, having lost my virginity two years earlier, he rose on the horizon as one hot handsome hunk of a man.

The ride to the regatta site was uneventful and pulling in around 7:30 PM, we unhooked the boat, set up the camper for the night and headed for the opening cocktail party. It was BYOB, unless you were satisfied drinking the rum punch they served by the tumbler. The women's auxiliary of the yacht club hosting the regatta had outdone themselves: the munchie and hors d'oeuvre choice was spectacular. Canned Muzak played in the back- ground until the "young people" got to the stereo system and things began to cook.

I didn't want to get blitzed because there is nothing worse than puking your guts out and then having to crew hungover the next day; so I stuck to my usual three drinks, which got me lit without doing me in. I chatted with people I knew from the racing circuit and danced. At 11, Wynn cut the guy I was slow dancing with and, taking his place, announced that it was bedtime.

"Yes, daddy," I jokingly sulked.

Wynn danced me out the door; and, as we walked across the yard, we had the first of our usual pre-race conversations to assure that we would be on the same page in the morning. It was a pretty walk. The moon was full, making that classic poetic silver path across the water.

Now I don't credit the phase of the moon entirely, but

on the same page

– competitively, I wondered about, as we drifted across the yard, how we might get

in the same bunk

– affectionately.

In the camper Wynn always slept in his skivvies; and I, in an oversized tee shirt and panties. Not sure how he would react, I took a chance. Leaving my nightshirt in my bag, I waited for Wynn, now in the camper water closet, to finish brushing his teeth.

Opening the door, he came out. Standing only a few feet away, Wynn said smiling and laughing, "Well, that's lovely, " and then sternly, "

but what the Hell do you think you are doing? Are you drunk?

"

Naked, except for my red panties, I walked to him, put my arms around his neck and whispered, "Wynn, we've been together on this course for seven years. It's time for us to come about. I'm on the pill and no one will ever know except you and me. "

Wynn weakly protested, uttering a soft, "

But it's not right

," where upon I kissed him with a generously open mouth; and he responded, gently probing with his tongue. Reaching down, I fondled his package to find his length hardening. His groping my tits was all that I had imagined in my masturbation reveries.

"You are so sexy, Leah, and I have watched you growing up... been so tempted... but I never imagined this possibility, this fantasy, could ever be a reality."

I helped him strip his tee and pull down his BVD's. Then, kneeling in front of him, I began eating his cock.

"Oh, my God. I can't believe you're sucking my cock," he sighed. "I haven't had my cock in a woman's mouth since before I was married."

Still stroking his meat with my hand, I met his gaze and breathed, "I love to eat cock. I especially enjoy sucking down a man's cum."

Taking his cock back in my mouth, I consumed its length. He moaned; and, placing his hands on either side of my head, he fucked my mouth.

"I have to stop," Wynn gasped, "Or you won't get yours."

He then lifted me to my feet, stripped my panties to the camper floor, and helped me climb up to the double bunk, where he usually sleeps.

"Sit with your legs over the edge so that I can eat your pussy," he directed.

My cunt was dripping with my juices. I spread my legs as wide as I could, and Wynn parted my lips and began to lap my vagina and drink my secretions, that poured even more heavily, as I watched him chow down on me. Coming up for air, he told me how sweet my cunt was and how beautifully I had presented myself.

"There it is," I heard him say just before he latched on to my bud and began sucking hard.

"Arggggggg!" I moaned with exquisite pleasure and began to pant as he nibbled and sucked and ground my clit. I put my hand on his head, and I was tempted to mash his face into my cunt, but I resisted. Instead I began to play with my tits. He shoved two fingers into my vagina and finger-fucked me, leading me to vocalize even more strongly. I whined and mewled. Hotter and hotter, higher and higher, closer and closer to climax, I began to buck; and he sent me over the top. I felt myself bloom and I ejaculated. Wynn drank my ambrosia and the first spasms of my O continued for at least ten seconds. And then there were more. I was in full flow.

Lifting his face from my crotch to breathe, he stuttered in amazement, "My God, Leah. I...I...You ejaculated and you're still cumming."

"Oh, yes, yes," I gasped out of breath. "You made me come so hard. I've only squirted once before and that guy was extraordinary. Come up here and give me your cock now. I want to drink your cum."

Wynn joined me on his top bunk, ever close to exploding just from the sight of getting me off so completely. Feathering his rim and frenulum with my tongue, I took him down to the balls and then withdrew up the shaft, tight-lipped, to work on the head of his cock. Then back down to his balls I went. He was fucking my face then strongly; and then, midst groans, he jacked his load. Swallowing every ounce of his semen, I sucked his balls dry.

"Oh, wow, Leah, that was incredible! Thank you so much. I can't remember when I've been blown so beautifully or cum so strongly! God, was that good!"

Wynn and I slept the night through together in the top bunk, and in the morning, lying together like spoons, his morning hard-on found my vagina. He fucked me from the rear, giving me a G-spot rub, which I love.

We behaved ourselves during the day racing, but left the Saturday night banquet early. I knew he was married and would not give up his wife and, frankly, I didn't want a ready-made family; but we happily agreed that we could be great fuck-buddies for the occasional regatta.