Quiet Summer Day

Summers in small Florida towns are quiet, almost desolate. It was the first sunny day after two weeks of hurricane warnings, tropical storms and rains. The night before a yacht berthed at the marina, unusual for this time of year. It was only a couple of years old, 120 feet and pristine in condition. I hadn’t seen much of the crew when she arrived, only the flash of epaulettes atop starched white shirts in the setting sun.

The next morning the sun was brilliant, a cloudless sky painting that vivid blue known only in Florida. The big boat was still there and the marina was silent although it was already 10 a.m. I was preparing some bright work when I spied her on the aft deck. She carried a beautiful tan contrasting with the white of the sheer something thrown casually over her shoulders. The outlines of her bikini slightly visible through the translucent material. Her right hand clutched a drink, could be anything from a Bloody Mary to a protein shake for all I knew.

She wandered almost aimlessly around the deck taking in the river and mini-skyline of the downtown, looking like a cat on her early morning stretch. There was no hustle and bustle of a ship about to get underway and, striking as she was, I hoped that she and her ship might remain for the day so that I could catch more than just a glimpse of this beautiful creature. Her blond hair had just enough brown streaks to know it was that color because of repeated exposures to the sun.

I watched her wander forward, taking the outside rail to the bow where there was a large lounging pad incorporated into the design of the deck. During a party it could hold as many as six beautiful women for the owner to admire as he paid a thousand dollars per hour to run the boat up and down the waterway. But as of yet, I had not seen a man aboard and she settled herself into the cushion and opened the front of her cover-up, exposing her soft skin to the bright sunlight once again.

She was moored at the furthest pier, facing out into the river so, from the docks, the bow was completely hidden from view. But because my boat was on the end of the pier I had a perfect view of the bow, the cushion and her. I stopped working and sat back with a cold orange juice just to watch her lie in the sun.

It only took a few minutes before one of the crew appeared carrying a chart in one hand and a drink in the other. Must be the captain I thought, watching the crisp stark white shirt with the black stripes on the shoulder boards round the rail. What caught my attention was the equally starched shorts, which were very short covering a perfectly round ass which was supported by two gorgeous legs. As she turned the corner I saw that it was indeed a girl, every bit as beautiful as the bikini clad one on the cushion.

They sat side by side, very closely from my perspective and discussed the charts before them for a few minutes. I could have sworn I saw that touch, the touch shared by lovers not business relationships, but I could have been wrong. The captain folded her charts, sipped her drink and the owner shrugged off her cover-up entirely, stretching back fully and almost languishing on that cushion. It was then that the captain picked up a bottle sitting nearby and squirted something into her hand. Holding her palm up she positioned herself between the feet of the owner and began rubbing, what looked like suntan lotion, from the ankles up.

I was curious as to what would happen as she neared the treasure trove but just past the knees she suddenly stopped and stood up. Walking around to the other side of the owner, she began applying lotion again, from the shoulders down. Arms first, each one individually, lifting them to be sure they were completely covered. Then shoulders heading south.

My gaze was fixed as I watched these two in apparent enjoyment of each other, lathering any part not covered by the bikini. When she arrived at the breasts, the part I was waiting for, she simply continued, under the covering. It became far more of a massage than the application of protection. She had her hands under the material and spent several minutes in the employment of lotion which must have been used up long ago.

Finally she pulled her hands out from the bikini top and proceeded to the stomach all the while the owner laid quietly back, eyes closed, in pure enjoyment. The captain was kneeling at the owners head and slowly rose with a knee lightly touching each ear. She continued her travels south reaching the waist band of the bottoms, only slightly halting, then continuing on, under the material.

By this time I’m in a serious state. I can’t sit comfortably, I’ve spilled my juice and I’m sweating up a storm, but I can’t remove my eyes from the action on the other boat. The captain is really working the owner over with her hands as you can see the muscles tensing in the legs and arms. For the first time the owner responds. She reaches up with both arms and wraps them around the back of the captain and pulls her face into the scantily clad white boaters’ shorts. She stays there for several seconds as the captain picks up her pace, concentrating on a single, selective spot.

It is only a brief few minutes before they disentangle and the captain stands, gathers her charts and drink, and walks back to the helm station. Within five minutes I can see a pair of uniformed guys appear on deck, gathering dock lines as the big diesels rumble in the silence. I catch a glimpse of one of the deck hands who simply arches his eyebrows and gives me a quick salute. Lines and power cords slither into place and the bow thruster swings the big boat away from the dock with the owner lying quite still on the deck.