Aurora - Wings of the Goddess Pt. 04

"Well," Barrett grinned, "we figure an eclipse is as good an excuse as any to go nuts. We're throwing a party on our cat. We're rafted up with another big multi so there's plenty of room."

"Well that's very kind of you," Watson nodded, "thanks. Jo brought us some scones. Why don't you come on up?"

"Nahh, that's okay, we don't want to intrude."

Watson eyed the woman, trying not to be too obvious. Thirty-something, well preserved, she had a natural beauty only enhanced by a smattering of sunblock. "You're hardly intruding. Especially since you've just gone out of your way. There's a brew in the offing if you're up for a cuppa."

"Well," Barrett said, and looked to his partner for the nod, "as Mum used to say, you never know when you might have your last cup of tea."

Barrett tied-off and held the RIB in place while his tastier half killed the outboard and stood, then stepped past her husband onto the swim platform. Extending a helping hand, Watson looked straight down the front of her shirt at a splendid pair of dangling tits, as she bent at the waist and put her hand in his. Mounting the platform, she turned and waited for her husband to join them, squatting on her haunches to steady the RIB. Lean and athletic, clad in salt-starched board shorts and a tatty grey T-shirt, the male moved with the easy confidence of a seasoned seafarer, as he stepped lightly onto the swim platform beside his woman. Aurora rolled, absorbing the mass of two more bodies, then quickly settled, riding at anchor.

There was another round of handshakes and Watson asked, "Tea? Coffee? What's your fancy?"

"Tea'll do fine." Libby replied for both of them, pulling off her straw hat and shaking out her honey-blonde ringlets.

Watson leant into the hatchway. "Two more while you're at it, Moosh."

A reply drifted out of the hatchway. "Comin' right up."

With the older couple sitting to starboard and the new arrivals on the opposite side, Watson leant against the right hand helm and parked his elbow on top. Those seat cushions on which the visitors now sat had soaked up buckets of cum over the past few months, and he briefly revelled the delicious aesthetics... the strange woman's treasures in such intimate contact with the scene of the crime. "Don't usually see so many boats out here." he observed.

"It's like a ruddy armada, isn't it?" Sutcliffe nodded.

"Would it be rude to ask?" Watson hedged. "Did Steve just call you prof?"

"Oh," the older man waved the question away, "people call me lots of things."

"So are you? A professor?"

"Well, I was. Past tense."

"Oh, don't be so dashed coy." his wife scolded. "Norm's a professor of cranio-facial surgery."

"Stop it, woman! I haven't touched a diathermy in ten bloody years." Sutcliffe held up a gnarled, twisted hand. "I didn't get osteoarthritis. It got me."

"Cranio-facial?" Watson frowned. "A mate of mine was working with a charity up in the Himalayas. They were doing cranio-facial if I recall."

"When was that?"

"End of last year. September? October?"

"You must mean Blewitt's group. Bankrolled by some big law firm. One of the partners grew a conscience, apparently."

Watson stood back mulling the incredible coincidence. Not even six degrees in the case of this particular miracle. Not only that, but the very seed of the aforementioned conscience had been planted by none other than the little blonde busy below. Even before the thought had run its course, the old professor asked, "You say you know one of them?"

"Not the doctors, no. Just the lawyer. The one who paid for it."

Sutcliffe opened his mouth, looking startled, but before he could find his voice, Beck called, 'Incoming', and Watson leant through the hatch to take the first of six mugs. Vicky, meanwhile, had stacked two plates with freshly-baked scones, and arranged them on a tray with jam and cream. Once he had set the mugs of tea on the table, Watson returned for the tray, manoeuvring it into position before stepping back to the helm. "Help yourselves, folks." he announced, gesturing at the mini feast. "There's sugar and milk if you need."

Watson watched Barrett's expression when Beck's head and shoulders appeared, as she scaled the companionway and climbed through the hatch. Standing aside, the skinny little blonde in the figure-hugging T-shirt and blue-striped bikini, waited while Vicky emerged, her appearance merely adding to the visitors' consternation. "Galley slaves." Watson replied to the slack-jawed stares of astonishment.

Barrett leant forward and offered his hand. "Steve's the name," he said, eyes riveted to the sight of Beck's inviting thigh gap, "and this is Libby."

"Rebekah." Beck replied as they shook hands.

"With a 'k' and an 'a' and an 'h'." Jo added.

Barrett's wife swept her hair back. "Hi." she said coolly, sizing Beck up. They shook, the woman replying to Beck's firm grasp with a half-hearted squeeze. Vicky was next, her nipples popping out though the fabric of her slip, to Barrett's dismay and the bristling indignation of his vigilant partner.

"Someone must have been good in a previous life." Barrett said cryptically.

"Nuh uh." Beck parried, pointing from herself to Vicky, "It's just Vicky and me were really, really bad!"

The butt of her joke clutched his heart, feigning injury, while everyone laughed. Everyone except Barrett's wife who sat, stony faced, while the levity carried on without her. Outshone, overlooked and feeling vaguely threatened, she watched her husband ogling the little blonde tart with nothing going on upstairs, and the big-mouthed floozy in the green slip with the jiggling tits. Didn't they have any idea whose limelight they were so brazenly crowding? For she was the smartest, wildest, most desirable dish on the reef, and one who didn't brook the least competition.

Watson sat back, quietly observing, as the conversation babbled along like a mountain brook. Barrett leant into Beck, elbows on knees, hanging on the little blonde's every word. Just for something different the girl was talking sharks, though it could have been lecture on basket weaving for all Barrett cared. Because she was animated and gesturing and the hem of her T-shirt kept riding up, exposing a broad expanse of tanned flat belly and the eye-watering shadows beneath her bikini-bridge.

Libby surreptitiously popped a button or two to show off more of her cleavage, then hitched up her sarong to expose her knees. As if sensing Watson's scrutiny she suddenly looked up. Their eyes met. Holding the old man's startled gaze, she gave him a wink.

A rat scuttled up the old man's spine as Watson realised they'd already met. In a previous life, maybe, and a different guise, that of his ex-wife, the ego-driven, narcissistic exhibitionist and manipulative control-freak who had blighted much of his life. She was the dead splitting image, if not in looks then at least in nature, another member of the same malevolent species. Libby's overt gesture of covert intent was a plain as the label on a bottle of poison- secret signs that only a hard-bitten survivor could know. And he could sense it, her smouldering resentment of a younger, much prettier female, the grim determination that her husband would pay for such barefaced infidelity. And he would pay dearly. He must worship no one but her.

'Poor bastard.' Watson thought as Libby's eyebrows flickered suggestively. A browbeaten hostage, living in a state of perpetual Stockholm Syndrome, ground down, emasculated, reminded every day just how lucky he was. "Scone, Libby?" he sweetly asked.

Libby gulped down the bait without hesitation. "Why, thank you, Damian." she smiled, raising an arm to sweep back her hair, silently cursing herself for not wearing a bikini.

Watson bent at the waist, allowing his T-shirt to sag so she could cast an eye over his toned topography. She tilted her head, widening her eyes wide to show off her pupils, plying the rangy old man with her charms. If she so much as crooked a finger, she thought, this silly old prick would be a goner. Then she'd show him, she'd show them all- the little blonde ditz with no tits, the big-mouthed brunette with her jiggling chesticles, but most of all the old man... she would show them all what a real woman could do.

The tea party went into overtime with a second round of brews and the last of the scones. Another RIB turned up, this one crewed by two middle-aged women, but with the cockpit full the exchange was brief and made from a standoff. They were from the second cat, the one rafted up to Barrett's, and had just swung by to reiterate the invite.

Eight boats were anchored off the reef by late afternoon, riding the long, glassy swell. The visitors finally dispersed, charging off in their RIBs bound for their boats, to ready themselves for the evening's festivities. Watson waved them off, with Beck to his left and Vicky on his right. The moment she figured they were beyond visual range, Vicky peeled off her slip, fondling her breasts as they sprang into the light. Beck did likewise, skimming off her T-shirt, while Watson bent to the task of clearing the cockpit. "Weren't they nice?" Vicky chimed, trussing her hair, blissfully naïve to the seamy undercurrent.

"Dommy?" Beck said with a suggestive arch of the eyebrows, "Did you notice that woman?"

"Which one? There were four to choose from."

"Steve's wife."

"Libby?"

"Is that her name? She kept staring at you."

"Must run in the family." the old man sniffed.

"What do you mean?"

"Seriously? Her husband couldn't take his eyes off you. It was like someone stitched his eyes open, I'm surprised they didn't burn a hole in your bikini." He patted his pubis. "Right about here."

"Really?" Beck beamed, "Are you jelly?"

Watson snorted. "As if."

"The prof was sweet." Vicky cut in.

"Did you see what colour her knickers were?" Beck persisted.

"I wasn't looking." Watson said flatly.

"Black." Beck said matter-of-factly, "Probably a G-banger."

Watson exhaled. "Beck. There's a saying... 'all that glitters is not gold'. I wouldn't touch that bitch with a forty-foot barge pole. If we were shipwrecked on a desert island for ten frikken' years with nothing to eat but Viagra."

Beck draped her arms around his neck and massaged his cock with her knee. "I think she's hot for you."

"I don't care if she's completely on fire. There's no frikken' way."

"Hey there sailor boy." Beck sang, grinding her pubic bone into his thigh. "You like sucky-sucky? Me love you long time."

"I see," Watson curled his lip, "so suddenly she's Chinese."

"You cum twice!" Beck railed, "You pay double!"

Watson slung an arm around Beck's waist and hoisted her off her feet, then stepped onto the swim platform and turfed her overboard. As Beck surfaced, spluttering, the old man brushed his hands. "A-aand stay out!"

"Do-myyy's got a girlfriend!" Beck taunted, as Watson swept a startled-looking Vicky into a hug.

"Just for that." he announced, then kissed Vicky wetly on the forehead, "Macca and me are going downstairs. We're gonna have sex, and probably a joint. And you... can't... come!"

Beck swam to the stern and held out her hand. "Save me Macca?"

When Vicky got a grip, Beck straightened her legs, pulling Vicky off the swim platform on top of her. As Vicky came up, coughing and blinking, Beck wrapped her arms around the startled brunette. "Tough titty, old man, now she's mine!"

"Are you two gonna fight over me?" Vicky asked wide-eyed. "Awesome."

Beck stuck her face in the water and looked around, then raised her head, golden hair plastered all over her face. The sun was nearing the western horizon and the reef was lit up like a mural, a magnificent fractal masterpiece rendered in primaries. "Here, old boy," she crooked a finger, "chuck us some snorkelling gear."

Watson dutifully ratted two sets of fins and a pair of masks from a cockpit locker and tossed them overboard. Bringing her knees up, Beck skimmed off her bikini bottoms and slung them at Watson. "You coming in?" she asked, slipping the mask on, while Vicky swam back to the swim platform.

The water looked utterly inviting but there was work to do. "I'd better get the curry going." he sighed. The wind had died down in the late afternoon and the sea was like glass, so crystal clear that Aurora appeared to be magically hovering over rippled white sand.

"Well hurry. Macca and me are popping over to the bommie. Get that curry going, slave, and we'll meet you there."

The sun was just bumping the horizon when the two hauled out like a pair of frisky sea lions, and sat on the swim platform, chatting and shivering, each breathlessly describing what they'd just seen. Hot from the galley where he'd been preparing their contribution to the evening's feast, Watson mounted the companionway and made his way aft, armed with a couple of towels. Beck looked around as he stooped to drape a towel over her shoulders. "You didn't come in."

"Some of us have to work."

"We saw a banded sea krait." Vicky announced with ill-concealed excitement. She shuddered. "He came right up to my mask. This close. I nearly shat myself."

Beck bumped Vicky with her shoulder. "But wasn't he cute?"

"Did you see his little forked tongue?" Vicky said, then crossed her eyes and darted her own pink tongue in and out.

"How was that moray eel?" Beck gushed. "Did you see me give him a pat?"

"Those things can give you a nasty bite." Watson scolded. "You probably don't want to do that."

"Oh piffle!" Beck said, then pushed up onto her feet with a grunt, "I speak eel, you know. In fact I keep one as a pet. He lives down the front of my old man's pants." Offering a hand, she pulled Vicky to her feet as Watson slung a towel over the young woman's shoulders.

For a moment Watson was lost in the magic of it all... standing at the stern of a forty five-footer, looking out over a pristine tropical sea, with two naked females, one in her teens, one in her twenties, standing proudly before him, skin taut, nipples erect, a silvery dribble of runoff between their legs. Meanwhile, down the front of Watson's shorts, Beck's fabled eel was beginning to stir, as if rousing itself in the presence of prey.

"Can we have a shower?" Beck asked through chattering teeth, tipping him out of his reverie.

"Probably a good idea." Watson nodded. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm gonna have a pre-party beer. Just in case."

"Of what?" Vicky asked with a squint.

"Beer makes people interesting," Beck explained, "doesn't it Dommy? At least that's your excuse."

"It does too."

"How about some weed then? That makes everything interesting."

"Nuh uh." Watson shook his head.

"Naww... no fair."

"Come on, Moosh. Weed just makes me more antisocial. You know that."

Vicky slumped almost imperceptibly. In for a penny, in for a pound. The graduate lawyer and reformed evangelist had developed an appetite for a slew of forbidden pleasures, from sex with girls and dirty old men to French Champagne and cannabis.

"That's not all it does." Beck smiled wickedly.

"Why?" Vicky shot her a quizzical glance. "What else does it do?"

Beck looked at Vicky from the corner of her eye. "Makes pretty girls fun to look at, doesn't it Dom Dom?"

She had him there. Few things were more enjoyable than sitting back, freshly perfused, observing specimens of the fairer sex after a really good smoke. The suprasensory insight, the depth of focus and sense of aesthetic turned the optical equivalent of background music into a symphony. "Why bother?" Watson shrugged, "I've got a couple to look at right here. If we have some weed I'll just want to stay home."

"You can look at us any old time," Beck said, "and not just look. But if there are some good looking chicks on those boats over there, why not make the most of it?"

"You know," Watson said as they gathered into a warm huddle, "I'm not sure you're being entirely altruistic."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm not sure you're doing this strictly on my behalf. I'm telling you, Becky. When you start flying this all has to stop."

"All of it?"

"The dope, stupid."

"But I haven't started flying yet." Beck said, draping her arm over Vicky's bare shoulders. "And anyway, it's a special occasion."

"It's always a special occasion with you."

"My point exactly! So why not celebrate?"

Watson wagged a finger in her face. "I'm warning you, Missy. It's either the flying or the dope. You can't mix your drugs."

"Look," Beck said reasonably, "I will give it up, but why not enjoy it while I still can?" She looked at him and flickered her eyebrows. "Weed makes me horrrr-neeeeey!"

"Oh for fuck's sake..."

"Yesssss!" Beck pumped her fist.

"One joint!" Watson glared, smacking her bottom as she went to squeeze past.

Not about to out herself as a sex-crazed drug-fiend, Vicky almost swooned at the old man's surrender nonetheless. It was a special occasion, transcendental in fact, and the dizzying, sexualising effects of the drug could only improve things.

Vicky had spent much of her life contemplating the nature of heaven, though not half as much time as she had wasted thinking about hell, that being her most likely destination and all. In her mind's eye, Paradise resembled a scene cut from the 'Sound Of Music', a sort of balmy alpine wilderness, carpeted with wildflowers, overlooked by snowy peaks under clear blue skies, calm and cool yet drenched in radiant sunshine. Streams of crystal-clear water coursed over the landscape- or sometimes milk- and flowers made honey without the intervention of bees. It was relatively unpopulated save for the odd, harp-strumming angel, while here and there fluffy white lambs snoozed between the paws of great, tawny lions.

But now as she looked around she realised she'd already arrived, that somehow she'd wound up in Paradise incarnate. Heaven on Earth. Terra Nirvana. Because here she was, standing naked in the cockpit of a beautiful white yacht, anchored off a reef in the middle of nowhere. In the distance, several similar vessels dotted the mirrored sea, sails furled and pennants hung.

With Aurora's Bimini down and the cockpit open to the gathering night, Vicky raised her eyes and inhaled the pristine air to the soles of her feet. She had never imagined a sea so wide or sky so vast. The setting sun was a golden balloon deflating on the western horizon, the atmosphere a layer cake with every colour through green to violet. To the east, over her shoulder, the full moon was climbing into the sky, so huge and luminous she felt she could reach out and touch it. And beside her, hand in hand, stood a gilded girl with droplet-beaded skin, tangled blonde hair strewn over glittering shoulders. With her cupcake breasts barely two little bumps and nipples jutting stiffly from goose-bumped vellum, she might have been a nymph, a little mermaid, straight out of a Pre-Raphaelite masterpiece.

And standing in front of the mischievous teen, smiling at her taunts with a mixture of adoration and mirth, was the grey-haired, rangy old man who had led her into the light. First he had opened her legs, then he had opened her eyes, and his sense and sensuality had finally opened her mind.

Vicky shuddered as her pelvic floor muscles tensed and arousal clenched at her viscera. Tonight, if all went to plan, she would watch the old man stuff his little girl's belly with that magnificent thing, presently swinging around inside his battered old board shorts. And once he'd ejaculated, once he'd filled up his girl, she, Vicky, would for the first time partake of the most thrilling and erotic cocktail of all- sperm-seething cum slurped fresh from a young girl's vagina. Her heart began hammering as the butterflies took flight, at the mind-blowing, heart-pounding idea.

"Macca?" Beck shook her hand, "what do you reckon?"