As soon as we cleared the harbor, Kitten went forward to raise the mainsail. I watched and wondered how I could still feel that everything she did, no matter how menial a task, seemed sexy to me. Her movements, her body, her skin, and when she was close, her sweet scent, they all mingled in my mind with memories of our sweating, groaning and grunting bodies grinding against each other, or sometimes just sweet images of us lying together somewhere naked in a field drinking daiquiris. We had been together now for 7 years, and at any moment, doing any task, she could simply look back over her shoulder at me in such a way that made my dick twitch with lust.
As she raised the large white sail, it was like she was fluffing the sheets to this boat, which would be our fuck bed on this cruise to Cuba. We picked Cuba because it was different, exotic, and frowned upon by the government. We always liked living on the edge of what was allowed, or proper. We found that out the first time we met, at an art reception at an restaurant with a formal garden out back where we ended up after flirting. We were walking and chatting through the sunset, into dusk, with our drinks in hand, and finally fucking, with others close by, my zipper down and the back of her short skirt hiked up, me hugging her from behind, we almost looked like a romantic couple silhouetted against the dark orange-blue sky, except she was bent forward just a little more than normal, hands on the gothic rail, and if someone had looked over just then, they would have known. But we were quiet and stealthy in our first fucking. Yes, we pushed the limit from day one.
We had heard that the travel restrictions to Cuba had recently gotten even stricter. It used to be that US sailors could visit Cuba but not spend money there. Recently, even sailing close to Cuba was prohibited by the US, and in the name of Homeland Security, US agents could board your boat anytime, conduct searches and even seize your boat. But we figured the risk of such an event was small and the promise of seeing perfectly restored 1950s cars, mamba dances and fiestas were high enough stakes to play the game of "We didn't know," if we were to get caught. "Daddy," Kitten said, "Just think, we can dance in a plaza and I can rub your cock through your pants and tease you."
I calculated the voyage to take about four days, and the first three were a sailor's delight. The sun warmed our bodies. Kitten tanned her delicious curves on deck. The winds fanned our sweaty bodies while we fucked in all kinds of crazy ways. One time, she tied me spread eagle to the deck and kept her cunt just out of my tongue's licking range and she taunted me, calling me fuck toy, and sailor boy, and a constant slew of other nasty names, while she pinched my nipples, and said, "I know where sailor boys liked to get fucked." And she threatened to piss in my mouth unless I said the words she wanted to hear. Finally, with my cock hard and in agony to feel her pussy, I gave in and said, "My cock is yours. It belongs to you. Yours to use. Yours to abuse. Hurt me. My face is yours. Yours to ride. Yours to fuck. My body is yours."
And another time, after Kitten's kitty was all slick from having my tongue and fingers rape her pussy, she giggled with glee and said, "Daddy, watch!" and she stood with the long, varnished tiller pole pointing right to her gorgeous behind. She bent over forward, reached her hands back to pull her kitty's lips apart and began to slowly impale herself on the tiller. "Oh Daddy!" she moaned as she fucked herself on the tiller. I stroked my cock and came while watching her; my come shooting up onto my chest.
On the fourth day, we saw land. And that's when we also saw a patrol boat heading in our direction. As the boat closed in, I saw that it was a Cuban military or police patrol boat. I had almost hoped it would have been the US Coast Guard since I would have relished a run-in with the US's silly law, but welcomed the fact that after some formalities with the Mexican authorities, showing our passports and boat documents, we would be in harbor within an hour or so, enjoying our first drinks.
Kitten went below to cloth her near naked body, and came back up just a few more scraps on her body than before: mini-short cut-off jeans, and a skin-tight, white, muscle shirt that showed off her tits like buoys guiding a wayward sailor to a safe port. I sighed looking at her.
On the boat, there were six Cubans. They wore military fatigues. Two stood on the bow, one was the helm, smoking a cigar, and three were in the stern and carrying rifles pointing up in the air. One at the bow raised a bullhorn and ordered us to lower sails and prepared to be boarded.
