Well, a woman can't tell a younger man that she's going to let him fuck her ass, and then expect patience. That was the situation I found myself the summer I helped my cousin Wendy paint her mother's house. After more than a week of steady sex during our breaks, she came out with that bombshell the first time I slid a finger into her ass in the shower. I could barely fall asleep that night, and when the morning came, I could barely wait until my aunt left the house.
Tragically, we had reached a trouble spot and had to replace some trim. Instead of a quiet afternoon fulfilling my ass fantasies, we headed over to the local lumberyard to get some wood. As usual, everything took forever, and we didn't get finished priming and replacing trim boards until 6:30 that night. Her mom came home and ordered pizza for all of us.
We ate on the deck, and I'm sure I was either dazed or surly, because my aunt laughed at me and said, "I think we're working Steve too hard-why don't you guys take tomorrow off and go swimming or something?"
With an admirably straight face, Wendy replied, "Yeah-we should. I know someplace he's never been. He'll like it!"
Eyes wide, I suppressed a grin and agreed that a day off sounded like an excellent idea.
The next morning arrived bright and sunny. Instead of heading to the beach, however, Wendy drove us to the marina. I had forgotten about the boat! When her parents divorced and her father moved up the coast, the little 17-foot runabout stayed with them. It was bobbing in a slip, neatly covered with a white tarp. Stripping that back, I smiled. It looked like a James Bond boat from the 50's-a deep cockpit with a center console and a paneled well surrounded by white vinyl seats-room enough for 4 passengers, and every inch of wood, chrome, and leather glinting in the sun.
Wendy got things started up with her usual efficiency, and we headed out into the Sound. The air was getting hot, and the breeze felt great as we zipped along. Soon, we were a mile or more from shore, working our way up the tide and into the wind so they could carry us back down unassisted. When we had gone a few miles east like that, Wendy cut the motor and we slowly started to drift toward home. I could see a sail in the distance, but there was no one close.
Wendy was wearing a one-piece bathing suit with shorts over it, and I was in swim trunks and a T-shirt. I stripped off my shirt to enjoy the sun and lay back on one of the bench seats. Wendy stepped back from the console, stripped off her shorts, and lay back as well, looking over at me once she got settled. With a challenging look in her eye, she pushed her straps off her shoulders and rolled her suit down, exposing her pale breasts to the bright sun.
"If you can be topless, I can be topless," she said, matter-of-factly.
"I'm all for that," I told her with a smile.
After a few minutes of basking, I asked her where we were. She said we were in the shipping lane halfway between Connecticut and Long Island, but the tide wasn't moving very fast.
Trying to match her earlier innocent act, I asked her, "Is this the place you were talking about that I've never been before?"
That actually made her smile, which I took as a victory. "No," she told me. "I was thinking of something else."
"So was I," I answered.
With that, she sat up and told me to grab drinks from the backpack cooler I had brought aboard. I opened one for each of us, setting them in the deep cup-holders after we had a sip. We settled into the cushioned seats facing each other. Her pale breasts drew my eyes like magnets across the short distance between us.
