Special Delivery 61

I always sit on the fourth stool from the end of an empty bar, to leave room for a single plus a couple, so the single won't feel cornered. My job can get a little lonely. I have lots of time to think about these things.

So what happens but a sleazy looking guy plunks his plump fundament down right on the end stool, guaranteeing me a couple. Maybe I should move, but I'm tired and sun-blasted and a nice cold drink is sitting right in front of me. The guy is expensively dressed in the worst possible way. Too much jewelry. Too many open buttons. Name brands with names on them. Sleazy even for Florida, which is an accomplishment. He's probably a dealer, or maybe he runs a private zoo with gator wrestling.

The guy turns to check the door and then orders two drinks. He's part of a couple after all! Perfect. I stay put. Then he drinks them both. Bummer. But he checks the door again, then his watch. So, part of a couple, but the nervous part. Time goes by. I'm interested now. Third door check and he raises a hand. I restrain my curiosity for about two seconds, but then I wonder who could possibly be meeting him. The options seem limited. Maybe a blind date. Maybe his supplier. Maybe a parole officer. Maybe his mother.

I look over my shoulder.

I first pictured my perfect girl in first grade. She had a white dress and blond hair. The other details were hazy, except that she bore a passing resemblance to the love of my life, my teacher, Miss Parker.

This girl had blond hair too, and she was wearing a strapless white tube dress. But the resemblance ended there because this one had features that my first-grade self would not have fully appreciated. Tallish, maybe taller than her date. A fantastic, rich-girl/sorority sister face. Dramatically slender except for the astounding, cantaloupe-sized breasts. The dress was stretched around her tight as a drum, from high-thigh to mid-tit level, and her very obvious pokies vibrated with every step as she strode across the room. She was pure guy bait. She walked right up to the sleazeball and introduced herself with her boobs inches from his face. She had a perfume I'll never forget. A pro, obviously. An expensive one.

The guy jumped up and motioned to the seat next to him. I was admiring the big blond ponytail anchored high on her head when a bearded guy, salty like me, landed unceremoniously on the stool between us and ordered a beer. He asked way too loudly where I was from. He must be deaf.

I pondered where was I really from these days while I tried to peer around him at the functionally naked girl just beyond. Maybe she was college age, just a couple of years younger than me, but she acted too street smart to be a collegian. She radiated confidence. Maybe overconfidence, given her slight build, hotness, and choice of companions. She was definitely too good for Mr. Sleazy. No wonder he was nervous.

"All over," I bellowed. How 'bout you?"

He was crewing on a private yacht. I used to do that, but now I was delivering one to the Bahamas for charter. His was power. Mine was sail. Yes, I had been going it alone on the intracoastal, but I needed to pick up a crew for the ocean passage. No, he couldn't help me, but someone here in the marina might know someone....

He eventually left. The sleazy guy went to the head. The blond turned and gave me the once-over. "You're going to the Bahamas," she announced. "I have to be there by Sunday." Five days.

"I'm sailing there, takes about three days. I could use a hand. You sail?"

"Not really. Only small boats, when I was a kid."

She wasn't going to jump in my lap, apparently. "Oh, well, OK then. I needed crew for a 55'," I parried.

A pause. Then, "What would I have to do?"

We had autopilot, so, nothing, basically. Hopefully. "Just keep your eyes open all night and call me if we're going to hit something, or if the wind changes. If it gets rough." It would be nice if she took all the overnight hours.

"Nope. Four on, four off."

Huh. "Can you cook?"

"Can you?"

Hmmmm. "I can if you like fried hot dogs. I'm leaving early tomorrow."

Her guy was coming back. She hurriedly asked, "Where are you?" and I gave her the slip number. "Don't think you're going to fuck your way to Freeport," she said as she turned back and slipped a hand between Mr. Sleazy's thighs.

****

Eight o'clock came and went, and I hadn't been looking for crew because I thought I had one. It was a good thing we both had five days for a three-day trip. I spent the time with my laptop, working at my other job, remote IT support. I was thinking life was OK as I earned decent money at two different jobs while sitting in the early morning sun, swilling bad coffee and waiting for a gorgeous babe of questionable morals to join me for three days on the water. Maybe I had been stupid to leave college mid-stream, but college just wasn't for me, and so far, so good. So far.

When she finally showed, duffle in tow, I got even happier. She was wearing frayed white denim cutoffs that didn't begin to cover her ass, and above them was only a tee shirt. I'm a sucker for buxom young ladies in tight clothing who don't worry about underwear, especially in the cool of the morning. She kicked off her heeled sandals before boarding, which was a good sign.

"Oversleep?" I asked obnoxiously.

"Work," she confirmed with annoyance. "Cat. Do I need my own provisions for this adventure?"

"No, the owner is paying. I'm Dave."

"Well, Dave, let's just be clear. You're just transporting me and I'm just providing sailing services. Are we all OK with that?"

"Sure. If I have to be. You're really attractive. Take it as a professional compliment."

"Whatevs. Where am I bunking?"

I was camped in the crew quarters in the bow, a single berth accessible only through the foredeck hatch. I showed her to one of the guest cabins under the cockpit, at the far end of the boat. She dropped her duffel and extracted some well-worn sneakers, sunscreen and a wide-brimmed hat. This was going to be fine.

We cast off together. Under power, I steered us out of the marina and through the Fort Pierce cut. We aimed East and turned on the autopilot. The wind was light and offshore, so the ocean was almost glassy.

I wanted to put up the genoa while the air was light, so we dragged it out, unwrapped it and prepared to fasten the halyard to the head grommet. I was holding the grommet up for her when we hit a powerboat wake. Cat quickly reached for a lifeline to steady herself. The halyard shackle was in her reaching hand and the halyard wouldn't go that far. It dragged out of her grip and started going up, pulled by the weight of the other end of the line that comes back down through the mast. It went up slowly at first, but that didn't matter; as soon as it was out of reach it was gone. We watched as it accelerated all the way up to the top of the forestay, about six stories up, where it snapped to a violent stop. We stared up at it.

"Shit," said Cat.

"Shit," said I.

"... Does this mean what I think?" she asked.

"Bosun's chair," I confirmed.

"Now?"

"Definitely before we hit the Gulf Stream. That can get rough."

"OK. Let's do it."

We got out the chair, basically a bag with leg holes. Cat stepped in. I attached the mainsail halyard to it and ran the other end to one of the big self-tailing winches. I started cranking, and Cat slowly ascended, hugging the mast.

This process requires more trust than you would normally place in a complete stranger. If the line jams, slips or is released too fast, or if your grinder has a stroke, you have a problem. Unfortunately, you're too busy hugging the mast to do much about it because, after the first thirty feet or so, even a gentle rocking of the boat below seems like whiplash up on the mast. The process is pretty safe, but sixty feet up is frightening for anyone but a professional. Cat clung to the mast, and I winched her half way up until she was at the spreader bars, where I paused so she could let go and resume her grip above them. Then I kept grinding until she was barely a dot against the dome of the sky. She grabbed the wayward shackle and descended without comment as I let the line slip gently around the winch.

Sometimes it takes years to learn about people. Sometimes it takes ten minutes. Apparently Cat was from the 'never apologize, never explain, never complain' school. Tough. Interesting.

****

With the sail up, I made lunch. Then we sat quietly, side by side in the cockpit, sailing on autopilot and watching the water go by. "So what takes you to the Bahamas?" I finally asked, kind of morbidly curious. She was growing on me.

"Work."

"Staying long?"

"At least a week. I have a big engagement."

"... Isn't it kind of risky, working outside the States like that?"

"It's completely legal in the Bahamas. That's why I like it there."

"But if you have a problem, are the cops responsive? Nearby? On the same island, even?"

"My agency vets all my clients for me. They're high-end and really good. It's always been fine, and the money is amazing. On a gig like this they even pay when I'm asleep. Tax-free. Don't worry. I can handle myself."

There it was. Self-confidence, but too much of it. Not that I'm an expert, but I didn't have to be. Her agency was in it for the money, and only secondarily to protect her. She was their inventory, not their customer. Her faith in them was youthful naïveté. "Well, be careful out there. The fact that this guy can't even find a girlfriend to go to the Bahamas with him might tell you something."

"Hey, how many guys can get a girlfriend like me?" she asked, finally grinning.

"See, that's what puzzles me. Your looks would be a multiplier for anything you tried. Sorry to be trite, but I'm curious. You seem sane and competent and smart and capable; you could probably do anything. Why aren't you selling real estate or running your own company?"

".... Well... there's the uncle who started abusing me when I was four. Then of course there's the dyslexia and ADHD. And that pesky bipolar disorder. Plus the drugs. Also Dad was my pimp and my brothers were johns and...."

"OK, OK, I get it. You got me."

"... Sitting still isn't my thing. I tried culinary school, but it was too dull. Too solitary. So I decided to go with my next best talent, which apparently is being hot. I draw guys like flies. It's effortless! And I like guys, so sometimes, work is play. And the money! BASE jumping in a flying squirrel suit would be fun too, but I hear it doesn't pay that well. What about you?"

"Well, college wasn't for me either. But I'm not talented at being hot. I deliver yachts and do remote IT."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short," she said, inspecting me frankly. She placed her fingers on my collarbone and gently felt her way down my tee shirt, ending with her fingertips hooked just inside my belt buckle. She thumbed the buckle thoughtfully for a moment and then leaned in really close. She paused. Adrenaline ran screaming through my system. "... I'm sure you're great at IT!" She released me, leaned back and smiled.

*****

The wind continued light and we loafed along at six or seven knots. We turned off the autopilot for a while and Cat stood behind one of the big twin wheels and steered so I could watch her and explain what instruments to monitor. She was a quick study. I finally went below to grab a nap before the overnight watches began. When I came back up for dinner everything was fine. The wind was rising, so I shortened sail and we scooted along comfortably.

I had planned to grill burgers on the little grill that hangs out over the side, but since the wind was coming from the Northeast, against the current, it was getting choppy and we had to use the gimballed stove below. Anticipating my specialty of fried hot dogs, Cat applied her cooking talents and made us a really good dinner. We set the autopilot and ate in the cockpit. I cleaned up. Then Cat said she might be feeling a little seasick, which was surprising. It wasn't that rough. It was going to get rougher.

I never get seasick anymore, but I remember it well. Nothing is worse. You can't get off the boat, so there's no relief. Seasick pills don't work unless you take them well ahead. Otherwise you're in for a spell of absolute misery, staying on deck with your eyes glued to the horizon to minimize the nausea, barfing over the lifelines, feeling as shitty as it's possible to feel unless you can fall asleep. I told her to stay out of the cabin, try to sleep, and be sure to barf to leeward and not fall overboard. I said I'd handle the boat. She refused that, for a couple of hours. Then, on a trip back from the lifelines, she collapsed onto one of the cockpit bench seats. By midnight she was fast asleep right there in the cockpit, even though warm salt spray was misting us all night.

****

At dawn the winds were down and we were past the worst current. We were moving along on flat water with a predictable, gentle rocking motion. I was exhausted, but Cat was still asleep. I kept awake by stalker-staring at her in the orange glow of dawn. She was extraordinary -- long and lean and shapely and graceful, with a beautiful face even when her rumpled, possibly barf-on hair was spilling over it. I had to get a grip. I couldn't afford her, even for ten minutes.

She eventually stirred and stretched, arching her back, baring her midriff and offering an entertaining view over her wet tee shirt and down her tiny cut-offs. She put her hands to her head and said, "God, I should have picked up a pilot and flown over! I thought sailing would be nice!... I've gotta dry out!" She grabbed the bench cushion and her shades and went up onto the foredeck, where she stripped off her damp shirt, modestly keeping her back to me. She stretched out in the low sun to dry.

I stayed on watch a little longer. The autopilot was on and conditions for it were ideal, so I found myself dozing fitfully and waking with a start. That wasn't safe, so after a while I called up to the bow to ask whether my four-hour shift was over.

Cat sprang up, which I was glad to see, and padded back to the cockpit. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry -- you were up all night! I can sit in the sun right here. Get some rest." She seemed totally oblivious to the casual display of her big, springy tits. I tried to act the same as I lay down on the opposite bench seat, where I could peek across at her from under my hat. She just put one hand symbolically on the wheel, spread her long, tanned legs, and drew one foot up under her on the seat. She turned her face up to the sun. She didn't try to hide herself; she just glanced at me and smiled. Unfortunately, that's the last thing I remember.

****

The breeze was light and the weather stayed nice. We made decent time for the rest of the day, taking turns standing watch. As usual, flying fish were sailing out of our way, and occasionally dolphins would swim next to the bow for a couple of minutes. I made lunch and Cat invented a desert that was mostly canned whipped cream. We sat in the sun together and talked about anything but work; she wasn't interested in mine and I didn't want to know about hers. She was planning to stay on in the Bahamas for a few days of vacation. I had no more deliveries scheduled, so I could go wherever there was good internet. We said maybe we'd go out drinking one night after her client engagement, if she didn't get busy.

The water stayed smooth, but a cool afternoon wind picked up and Cat finally put her shirt back on. For dinner we were able to grill out, and we sat on the cockpit coaming, watching the burgers brown as the clouds got pink and the moon got golden. I opened a bottle of wine. We were talking. It was comfortable. Then, out of nowhere, she said, "I think I owe you."

"You don't owe me. These things happen. I'm just sorry you had to go through it."

"No, it's on me. I sometimes bite off more than I can chew. It's how I keep life interesting, but you shouldn't have to pay for it. Let me make it up to you." She leaned lightly against me and put her fingertips on the forearm that was holding my plastic wine glass. She rubbed lightly. There was a friendly silence until we happened to look at each other at exactly the same time, and to my surprise she kissed me. It lingered just a bit, and there was pressure. It was a great kiss. And since it ended with raised eyebrows, it was an invitation.

"You know," I said, "that's not necessary. I don't want to be indelicate, but I'm sure you get plenty of that. You're good company and good scenery. That's a nice change for me. I don't need anything more."

She looked slightly annoyed. "This wouldn't really be just a payback fuck. It could be a fun fuck or a friendly one or maybe even a fond one. What do you say? After dinner? Let me give you my famous girlfriend treatment, OK?"

How could I refuse? She was the girl of my first-grade dreams.

****

It all seemed kind of choreographed and unspontaneous, but after all, this was her field. It was bound to seem a little transactional to a romantic amateur like me. She said she was up for anything but I should tell her if I wanted anal. I hastily declined while trying not to seem unsophisticated. Then she went below while I furled the sails. The boat rocked gently in the smooth, low waves. I checked the radar and the reflectors and set the depth alarm, even here dozens of miles from shore. Then I checked the radar again. I had never left a boat unattended on the ocean before. It felt wrong. Still, when I heard her call "Ready!" I dived below.

She was waiting for me by her shower, naked and wet. Her skin was flawlessly clear and bare, undecorated except for her little barbell nipple piercings and a silver clit piercing that seemed to scream, 'I love sex.' She stripped me and then went right in for a long, affectionate, full-body kiss before shoving me into the shower. The stall fit only one, but she squeezed in with me and helped soap me up and hose me down. She applied a constant swirl of fingers and palms to my stiff, hard cock, and she talked. She was mine for the evening, she said. She would do whatever I pleased. Tie her up. Use her. My wish was her command. At the time, it all seemed a little over the top.

Unfortunately the boat's limited supply of hot water meant the shower had to be quick. She turned off the water, knelt between my legs in the tiny stall and, incredibly, took my whole cock into her mouth. She froze like that for a moment, accommodating an impossible length of dick, head backed up against the wall, staring right up into my eyes. She must have been making some kind of statement or just showing off, because instead of continuing, she rose, took my hand and led me into her cabin. She had stripped the bed, leaving only the bottom sheet and some pillows.

"I was watching you today. I think you like tits! Here!" She gently took my hands and placed them palms to nipples, then put her arms around my neck, reached up and kissed me. My cock hit her right in the stomach, and as she rose up on her tiptoes, it went up against her warm, moist skin. She wiggled herself against me to massage it while we kissed, until it went sideways. Then she stepped back and took it in her hands, stroking my shaft while we looked at each other. She was impossibly perfect - - huge blue eyes, lovely eyebrows, pert, straight nose, soft, youthful lips. Her outsized boobs moved gently as she rubbed my shaft. I put my fingertips on the side of a wondrous tit and experimentally pushed to watch it sway. She grinned and shook herself for me. I reached down and rubbed her pussy, wondering what to do about the piercing. I ran a fingertip over it and jiggled it gently. She closed her eyes, groaned nicely and spread her legs. We stood there, pleasuring each other, kissing, heating up.