*** I ***
It wasn't her first time on a yacht, and it wasn't her first time on a yacht stark naked either.
Working for Marina Escorts Pty Ltd, she tended to spend most of her shifts stark naked on yachts.
But it was her first time on one of these millionaire's yachts where she was given the chance to actually steer the thing.
She'd been just standing there in the line as usual, disrobed just like the other five escorts, waiting to see what she'd have to do first and to whom, when the captain of the yacht (that is, the owner) stepped up to her and asked her her name.
He was all salt-and-pepper mullet, with a moustache that was maybe two or three decades further out of fashion than his haircut, and his skin looked like it had been tanned to within a cell's breadth of melanoma. His eyes, she thought to herself, were like the eyes of a department store Santa.
Just as she was about to give him her escort name (Rhiannon, like the song), for some reason she stumbled and gave him her real name.
His Santa eyes twinkled.
'Helen, hey? With a name like that you'd know a thing or two about ships, hey, my girl?'
She upgraded her ingratiating smile to an encouraging grin, to give the impression that she understood what he was talking about.
'Gentlemen,' the captain/owner crowed, turning to his shipmates, one of whom was already as stark naked as the girls and happily sporting a semi-hard-on, 'Here we have Helen, the girl with the breasts that launched a thousand ships...'
The nerdier of the guests ("guests" being escort industry talk for "men") smiled to show that he knew what was going on. 'That was "face", Harve. Helen of Troy: thefacethat launched a thousand ships.'
Captain Harve reached out and took a hefty handful of Helen's left boob, lifting it up for the consideration of the assembled party.
'And i say, "breasts". Come, Helen, allow me to install you in the position best suited to your legendary rank.'
He released her breast and took her hand as though he were leading her onto the dance floor at a deb ball, and she stepped carefully over the ropes and other general untidiness scattered on the slowly undulating deck. As her bare foot took the first step of the short high-gloss stairway that led up to the bridge, she glanced back to see the naked guest's semi-erection sliding into Simone's (real name, Julie) well-practised throat.
*** II ***
'This here, Helen,' Captain Harve explained, Santa eyes practically shooting off sparks, 'is the wheelhouse.'
Bridge,she thought to herself.
'This is where we steer the boat...'
Helm the yacht.
'... and make sure we don't hit nothin'...'
'...or nothin' that's biggern'n us, anyways!'
She laughed at his joke. It took some effort to laugh only at his joke. But she was well trained.
'You think you'd like to have a steer?'
More than anything you would believe or understand...
'That would be terrific, Captain,' she said out loud. Then she remembered her hostessing skills. 'Would you teach me, please?'
'Well, little lady, i'm pretty sure you'll figure it on out yourself...'
She hadn't taken the helm of a craft since that last time her fiance had taken her out. He had been so proud of her, his bride-to-be, guiding a trawler out through the lights, across the rip, and into the channel all on her own...
'First up, we needs to observe some traditions of the sea...'
The trawlermen had said that it was bad luck to have a woman on board, and Jim had laughed at their superstitions. Turned out, there was no woman on board the night the trawler and most of the town's fishing boats were blown halfway to the pole and sunk in seas so large the fleet was like tea leaves in a dishwasher.
Captain Harve produced a crisp braided cord with stainless steel eyelets at either end, and a chain that fastened it to the base of the wheel. He came at her with it, and she lifted her arms as he put it around her. She could smell his cigarettes and deodorant as he clipped the clasp that held the eyelets together. The braid settled about her waist like a belt, and Captain Harve's hands settled about her waist like a belt as well.
When he spoke, he spoke almost in a whisper, his breath hot in her ear.
'This is in case of rough weather,' he explained. 'So as you can stay at your post, no matter how much the boat starts tossin'.'
She looked out the window at the gentle seas, barely able to count a dozen whitecaps. Any tossing that was going to happen would be him, she suspected, wanking onto her breasts. Bondage was precluded in their employment agreement, but this seemed so slight an infringement that she was happy to let it pass.
She was just about to kneel down and receive his stinky smoker's semen when he did a very unexpected thing.
'This is for you, too, Captain Helen,' he announced, picking up the captain's hat lying on the instrument box, and placing it on her head with all due ceremony.
'Keep us headed toward that there island over there,' he pointed. 'I'll be back for you after i've... well, i'll be back for you after, like.'
And then he was gone.
*** III ***
She chucked the pretentious peaked cap back onto the instrument box and checked the conn.
Position and bearing, she listed to herself mentally, noting her location relative to Gullshead Point to the west, and to the beacon at Windarm to the south-east. The yacht, for all its heated spa and cocktail bar, had no digital instrumentation, and relied purely on line-of-sight island hopper navigation.
Partyboat sailors!she scoffed.
Even though the course could have been followed by a beery millionaire with an escort in one hand and a joint in the other, she professionally checked and cross-checked her way methodically through the fundamentals required for safe navigation, and was almost at the end of her mental patter when she realised that the voice inside her head was Jim's.
She'd been nineteen when the trawler had left, never to return. She'd loved him so hard she thought she'd die without him. And the sex had been pretty damn good, too.
The channel's notorious moodiness showed itself; the wind had been picking up steadily while she'd been setting course, and the yacht was shifting in the chop. It wasn't anywhere near as heavy as the trawler, and she easily compensated for the crosswind. As she turned the helm through a few degrees, one of the polished handles stroked her side.
Another caressed her thigh.
She felt the sea and the wind vibrating through the handle in her hands, and through those pressing into her skin.
The yacht pitched and yawed as the wind freshened even more.
From somewhere behind the bridge she could hear voices of the girls and guests raising ironic screams and woah-hos! as the hull slid in the stirring waters.
She corrected again, and again the hard, polished handles slid intimately along her satin skin as the wheel came to rest.
Why are the handles so cocklike?she wondered. Why would sailors design things like dicks to hold on to? They're the right size, right shape...
The deck was canted at a slight angle now, and she had to stand close to the wheel to hold it steady. The handle against her inner thigh pressed in more urgently.
It felt good there.
She felt its insistent firmness against her skin, like her lover's cock would feel as he tenderly leant in...
Her breath caught.
She closed her eyes.
Being there, at the helm, Jim's voice in her head...
A shiver of pleasure ran up her spine as the handle resting against her thigh inched up toward her vulva. She knew that she could step away from the wheel far enough that it wouldn't have to touch her, she knew that she could turn the wheel a fraction so that it wasn't in just precisely that position...
The handle gently came to rest against her left labium. As it connected, she could feel the ship vibrating throughout her delta of venus. She shifted her pelvis just slightly, and the handle slipped between her lips, parting them. She moved another fraction and it was against her clitoris.
Her breath was coming fast and hard now. She hadn't felt this aroused since she'd been with Jim. None of the johns that she did, paying customers taken inside her at a set tariff, none of those ruttings came close to what she'd felt with Jim, or even to what she felt now, with this stubby piece of wood resting and pulsing against her opening.
The wheel moved seconds of a degree, despite her holding it as steady as she could. The rubbing against her clit was driving her closer and closer to orgasm.
A real orgasm. Not one faked for a paying guest.
It had been five years since Jim had disappeared beneath the waves. Five years since she'd had a genuine orgasm.
Her eyes snapped open. She did a quick calculation: the angle was wrong for front entry. She unclipped the ridiculous braid and used the chain, wrapping it around a cleat built into the charts box, to snag the wheel more or less in one steady position.
She turned and leant forward, backing herself onto the handle.
The angle still wasn't quite right. She gripped the inner brass ring of the wheel firmly and tried again, working with the little bit of play in the chained wheel.
This time the handle did go in. She felt it opening her up, filling her with its stubby presence. Then the cool brass of the inner ring touched her bum cleft and she knew that she was as far on as she would go.
Not as long, not as deep as Jim, but it would have to do.
The ship and the sea thrummed inside her.
Her orgasm welled up on two fronts, first leaping up from from her knees, and then sliding down from her stomach, the two unstoppable forces meeting at the point where the thick wooden phallus was buried inside her.
As she came and came, paroxysms shuddering her whole body, her hair and breasts flapping with the exertions, her legs almost giving out with the ecstacy, she had one crystal clear thought.
*** IV ***
She opened her eyes. There stood Harve, his nautical polo still in place but his trousers gone. His genitals looked like a button mushroom resting on a dried fig.
She pulled herself off of the wheel's handle, and ran her hand through her hair.
'Are you ready for me, now?' she asked, since there was no other possible thing to say.
He stepped further into the bridge. 'What the hell were you doing to...'
'You made me so randy,' she lied, 'that i couldn't wait for you any longer.' She stepped away from the wheel, which was now jerking against its chain.
'Fuck me,' she offered, placing her hands on his polo-shirted shoulders. 'Fuck me now.'
He was looking out at the channel ahead of them. He seemed alarmed.
'Are we still on course?' he asked, uncertain as to whether he should be turned on by having caught her frigging herself, or whether he should be telling her off for endangering the vessel.
She took hold of his button mushroom and gave it a pump.
'Of course,' she said. 'That island there, right?'
She gave his dried fig a tickle, but he wasn't interested.
He stepped around her and began unsnagging the wheel. He checked the brasswork for damage.
'You can't just... This is all very expensive fittings, you know.'
She could do without a report going to Madeleine about her having damaged the old bastard's expensive fittings. She slinked her slinkiest slink and put her arms around his neck.
'I have some very expensive fittings too, you know,' she purred, in her best customer-relations voice.
'Yes, and i've just seen those fittin's of yours with the steering wheel of my yacht jammed up 'em,' he complained. 'Never get that image out of me head i won't.'
She took the braided cord from him, in as reassuring a way as she could manage.
'How about you... clip me up again, and i'll … steer the boat for you, and you can fuck me any which way you please as i do it. Would that get the image out of your head?'
He looked uncertain. He studied her up and down, her full breasts, her teardrop navel, her landing-stripped pussy...
'OK,' he agreed. 'But i think i'll steer while you suck me off.' He took the wheel in his hands and brought the yacht back onto a bearing for an island in the distance. 'You've had your go.'
She knelt and started to work on getting his grey-wisped mushroom aroused. It smelt of steak and kidney pie without the steak, and the best she could manage from the mummified thing was about four centimetres of stiffness somewhere between ballsack and glans.
As his cum wept grudgingly into her mouth she thought again of how she'd noticed that the island he'd been setting course for wasn't the one he'd pointed out to her earlier, but one some twenty kilometres to the west of that one.
She didn't say a thing about it.
*** V ***
There was no discotheque on the island they eventually arrived at. No restaurant, no sports bar. No karaoke.
There was a jetty and a few ramshackle fishermen's cribs hidden in the tangled growth behind the weed-strewn beach.
And mosquitoes. Billions of mosquitoes.
The plan had been to get to the party island just before sunset and then spend the evening cavorting in the many stately pleasure domes it had to offer.
But they'd gone to the wrong island, of course.
And, without digital navigation aids, they couldn't hope to find the proper island after dark.
The other escorts were getting bitten all over by mosquitoes, and they were whining about how they would be unbookable if they looked like they were covered with the Pox. To make matters worse, they insisted on scratching the bites. Crystelle (Joan) had already made several bleed.
The guests had had enough fucking to last them a week. One guest who, in his normal life, was in charge of several lawnmower shops, was complaining of "blowing steam" the last time he'd managed to get it up and fuck one of the girls.
Captain Harve was looking older than his sixty-odd years, and, just before the yacht's batteries failed and the lights went out, Helen thought he might even have been crying.
She sat in the darkness, wrapped against the mosquitoes in her practical surfwear hoody and long pants, not her filmy evening dress like the other escorts were wearing. She was off-duty for the time being, she'd decided. Hang the car repayments.
She felt the yacht rocking gently beneath her, and heard the waves stroking its sides.
As her mind drifted off, away from the tawdry sex boat and the life she now had to live, one clear thought came to her.