Aurora - Wings of the Goddess Pt. 04

Vicky shook her head. "Sorry, what?"

"Shower and a racehorse?"

"Racehorse?"

"Joint, silly. Fancy a little puff before we hit the party?"

"Oh," Watson groused, "stop pushing the girl."

Vicky put her hand on Watson's arm. "No," she shook her head, "no, I'd love to. Really. That would be awesome."

"See!" Beck said and stuck out her tongue. When she took a step, heading for the hatch, Vicky tugged her hand.

"You guys." she said.

Beck glanced at her then did a double-take. "Macca? Why are you crying?"

"I'm not!" Vicky snapped, "I mean I'm not. You guys... I just wanna... I just..."

Beck pulled the towel from Vicky's shoulders then gathered her into a tight embrace, her hairless pubic mound mashing Vicky's thigh. "What's up, Honey?"

Vicky dipped her head to nuzzle the angle of Beck's shoulder, as the little blonde grabbed two hands-full of Vicky's firm butt. "It's nothing" she said thickly, head back, trying to reverse-park the tears. "I just wanted to say thanks."

Watson gave a knowing nod. The Beck Effect. There it goes again.

Hands on Vicky's shoulders, Beck looked up at Vicky through her feathery eyelashes. "Shower time?"

Vicky smeared the tears away with the back of a hand. "I'll do you," she smiled, "if you do me."

"Woah," Beck said, arching her eyebrows, "and here I was thinking about a boring old shower. Damon. Macca and me are going inside. And we may be some time."

* * *

Twilight in the tropics was a typically brief affair. As daylight fled to the west and darkness washed over the world, the sky turned from blue quickly to indigo, lit by the Chinese lantern of a huge full moon. Freshly showered and nicely stoned, the crew of Aurora loaded their RIB, then climbed onboard for the three-kilometre drive to the tethered catamarans.

Vicky had dressed in form-fitting white shorts, rolled up high, their low-cut waistline spanning her hips. She was brazenly bra-less under a strappy black crop-top, beneath the regulation blue and yellow floatation vest. Nursing a pot of hot fish curry, wrapped in a towel, she peered squinting into the thirty-knot slipstream, chestnut hair aflutter, a look of unbridled glee on her face. The adventure of a lifetime- not even the Gulfstream could hold a candle to this- off to a maritime bash with her two lovers.

Sitting on the floor across from her, the old man had gone all out, dressing for the occasion in a pair of almost new board shorts, and a green and black striped polo shirt with two missing buttons. Knees drawn up, he studied the yachts as they passed, monohulls mostly, a couple quite new, and a grand old ketch, a double-masted, wooden-hulled veteran of at least one hundred feet.

Hunched over the throttle-arm wearing a look of intense concentration, platinum hair flying like a banner behind her, Beck had chosen, by unanimous request, her backless floral dress. The hem had ridden all the way up to her hips, revealing a skimpy pair of lacy pink knickers. She'd wanted to go commando but had been adamantly overruled. It would take one little slip, one puff of a breeze, to alter the night's trajectory, for better maybe but more probably for worse. The moment they boarded to go home, the old man promised, she could get rid of them. Until then...

The cats were rafted-up at the northern end of the anchorage. Between them, the two forty-plus-footers had the floor space of a modest apartment, with sliding glass doors leading from the after decks into lavish, party-lit saloons. Little paper lanterns resembling miniature moons festooned the canopies, and strings of multicoloured LEDs sparkled like gemstones. Music was booming topside, pounding bass thudding through the hulls, and the fragrant evening air was spiced with barbeque. Beck throttled back, manoeuvring to the port hull of the second big cat, where their former visitor, now host, Steve Barrett stood waiting.

"Hail, fellow lunar-tics!" he cried, catching the rope that Watson threw, pulling them hard up against the bottom step. There was a flurry of activity down in the RIB, as the buoyancy vests were quickly discarded and offerings handed across- a huge serving of green fish curry and a bottle of good white wine. Barrett took Vicky's hand and helped her across, then waited for Watson to board. Then, holding his breath, hoping against hope, he watched as Beck made her way up. And yes! She did it! Bent forward slightly to steady herself, giving the slightly drunk Barrett a clear line of sight, straight down the front of her dress. And what a sight to behold. A tiny, perfect pair of smooth-skinned little titties, deeply tanned, candy-pink nipples at half-mast. Looking up, Beck all but caught their reflection in the man's staring eyes and straightened, getting her balance, before stepping aboard.

Watson climbed up the steps onto the afterdeck and looked around. Barrett's wife was visible inside, doing the Lambada with a tall, male guest, clad in skin-tight Lycra shorts of electric blue, pulled hard up into her generous slit. On top she wore a singlet that had been hacked off at the midriff, revealing the underside of her slightly pendulous breasts. Broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, she looked vaguely masculine, and her legs, now in the public domain, were sturdy and muscular. Clapping eyes on the old man she summarily ditched her dance partner and skipped to the after deck, sweeping Watson into a hug while ostentatiously shunning his female companions. "Damian!" she cried, full of red wine and good cheer, "You came!"

"Look what our guests brought." her husband jollied, on his way past with the stainless steel pot. "Fish curry."

"Look at me," Libby said, ignoring her husband "I'm the moon goddess." Raising her arms so the ragged hem of her singlet rode up over the bottom of her breasts, she did a slow pirouette, giving Watson an eyeful of her taut, electric-blue butt.

The old man looked around, lost for words.

"Come on, Damian." Libby said, taking his hand, "let's dance."

Watson looked over his shoulder for backup, to find Beck standing with her arms crossed, head tilted, smirking at him through a face full of 'I told you so.' Slack-jawed, wide eyed, Vicky looked like she'd just been slapped, wondering if the highlight to her night had just been hijacked.

"What can I get you, girls?" Barrett asked after adding the curry to a table full of offerings.

Beck dipped her head and swept her tousled blonde mane over one shoulder. "French Champagne?"

"I've got some nice South Australian bubbly. Would that do?"

Beck looked at Vicky and turned up her nose. "Mmm..." she said, idly weaving a plait, "I don't usually go for that foreign muck."

Barrett stood blinking and Vicky put a hand on his arm. "Thanks," she said, "that would be lovely. Becky's such a stick in the mud. I'm always telling her she needs to expand her horizons."

Their host moved off and was immediately replaced by the lady of the cat's ex-dance partner- a tall, barrel-chested man of indeterminate age, somewhere between forty and sixty, with rapidly receding, tightly curled grey hair and a scarred, ruddy face like a well-kicked football. Lantern jaw, prominent brow, like an extra off the set of a caveman movie. "Evening ladies." he nodded, blatantly undressing Beck with hooded eyes. "What's a pair of babes like you doing out here all on your own?"

Beck's asshole alarm blared into life. "We're not on our own." she sniffed. "Clearly, we have each other."

The male turned to Vicky, unperturbed. "Has anyone ever told you, you look just like Liv Tyler?"

"Dammit!" Vicky cursed, then summoned up an American accent. "Rebekaaah!" she whined like a petulant child, "You promised no one would recognise me."

The big man grunted with laughter. "So that's your name is it? Rebecca?"

When Vicky opened her mouth Beck put a hand on her arm. "Close enough."

"Kurt." the male announced and held out his hand. Beck extended her hand as a matter of reflex, but rather than shake, the male, Kurt, took it and kissed it instead.

Tipsy, stoned and yet to catch up, Vicky giggled. "Ooo... how continental."

When the big man went to repeat the performance with Vicky, Beck deflected his hand. "I don't think so."

Kurt arched his eyebrows. "Why so hostile little sis? I'm just being friendly. What do you reckon, Liv? Shouldn't she just lighten up?"

Beck crossed her arms, as much to guard her treasures as anything else. "Oh I'm not being hostile. Let me tell you, you'll know all about it when I am."

Barrett bowled up with two sweating flutes of bubbly. "Ah!" he said, tilting his head in their admirer's direction, "I see you've met Kurt. Girls, this dude here is an absolute legend. Eh, mate? How many books are you in again?"

"Four or five." Kurt shrugged. In fact it was closer to none, but he couldn't read anyway so just played along.

"Ever heard of the Outback Wrangler?" Barrett chirped. "Compared to this guy he's an absolute wanker. I mean the stuff Kurt's done, he's the real deal. Eh, mate? Go on. Tell the girls how you tail-threw that buffalo."

Kurt's eyes never left Beck as he weathered the gushing sycophancy.

"Oops," Barrett muttered, "Libby wants a wine. Enjoy, girls, and don't let him go without making him tell a few of his stories."

Their host buzzed off, leaving Beck and Vicky once more alone with the self-proclaimed legend. "So what do you say, girls?" Kurt smirked. "Wanna get it on with a certified hero?"

"Do you know one?" Beck asked, looking around.

"You know," Kurt chuckled, "I love it when chicks play hard to get."

"Oh I'm not playing." Beck said then she and Vicky chorused, "It's the real deal."

A second male hove-to. Short, fat, with a paunch sagging over the waistband of his grubby shorts, he had dyed black hair in a bowl haircut. The front of his button-up shirt was open to mid-chest, exposing a broad expanse of sweating, hairy chest. "'Ello ello!" he hailed. "What have we got here?"

"Catch o' the day." Kurt smiled.

"You're telling me." Fatty said, rubbing his hands. "Which one's mine?"

"Take your pick."

"Really? You shouldn't have."

Beck curled her lip. "Don't worry, he didn't."

"Don't be too hasty." Kurt smirked. "The night is yet young. Let's get some of that bubbly into you and see how it all pans out."

Vicky looked at Beck with a shake of the head. "The whole world loves an optimist. Really, fellas, you're wasting your time."

Kurt took a slurp of his beer. "It's our's to waste."

"This party blows." his sidekick complained. "Come on, girls, let's go back to our boat. We can do a line or two and just kick back. What do you say? Honest Injun, just for the company."

"You know" Beck breathed, "I was just about to say you must be on drugs so there you go. If you imagine there's even the slightest chance you're out of your mind. Don't know about Liv, but I wouldn't be seen dead with either of you."

"See?" Kurt leant into his mate. "I think she's starting to thaw."

Beck rolled her eyes, feigning tedium while in fact she was frightened. She recognised the species, from way back when in another lifetime. These men were scavengers, carrion eaters, craven opportunists on the lookout for easy prey, the lost and the scared and the vulnerable. Taking Vicky's hand, she went to push past.

"Hey, hey, woah woah woah!" Kurt glared, barring the way. "Where do you think you're goin'?"

"Didn't you hear?" Beck sneered. "They just called my number."

"No," Kurt replied, "I've got that."

"In your dreams."

"You don't understand." Fatty hastened. "It's a total eclipse. 'Total eclipse, Captain's pick'. Knockbacks forbidden."

"Yeah," Kurt concurred, "haven't you heard? It's an old sailor's tradition."

"But I'm not an old sailor," Beck parried, "I'm a young one. So it looks like you're shit out of luck."

Kurt arched his bushy eyebrows again. "I won't tell if you don't."

"You know," Fatboy breathed, "where I come from? We always start the eclipse with a kiss."

"And where I come from," Beck coolly replied, "we slaughter a pig."

Again the lascivious laugh. Kurt had scored more free-range pussy than hot dinners over the years and knew the attractive power of abrasive bad manners. Chicks dug the rude and disrespectful, it was a fact, and he'd exploited the phenomenon with spectacular success. He took a slurp of his beer, smirking. "But this isn't where you come from, is it? So tonight we do it my way. What do you say?"

Beck hooked her arm through Vicky's elbow. "Where's our old man?"

'Our' old man? Vicky's knees almost gave way. "Err... he's right there inside. I think he's being served up for entree."

When Beck pushed past, Kurt wrapped his hand round Beck's tiny bicep. "Forget it, kid. You're not going anywhere."

"Kid?" Beck sneered. "Did you just call me 'kid'? Vi... Liv? Did you bring the pepper spray?"

"Won't be needing it." Vicky said and nodded at the man's massive hand. "That's assault you know."

The short, fat member of this comedy duo pushed his chest out, succeeding in merely enhancing his prodigious gut. "Says who?"

"Says me." Vicky replied with menacing calm. "I'm a lawyer."

The males looked at each other and Kurt's hand fell away. Pushing through the human barricade, the two young females stepped up to the sliding door and peered inside. Someone had rigged up a disco ball and the saloon was aswirl with multicoloured divots, circling like sparks in a whirlwind. Their hostess had her arms round Watson's neck and was humping his leg to the music, while Watson, looking desperate, moved as little as possible while still pretending to dance.

Barrett bustled past, laden with drinks, and cast his wife an indulgent glance. She'd marked her target by the looks of it, and he could look forward to later, watching when she made the kill. His wife the huntress, he smiled with a rueful shake of the head- wild, unconventional, promiscuous and thoroughly hot. A true free spirit and who could resist? As for the lucky contestant's tasty companions... well... nothing was impossible.

Watson counted eight or nine strobe-lit bodies in the saloon, an assortment of males and females of various ages, some young and well-heeled, others old and grizzled, crammed together in the humid confines. Another track cranked up, booming out of the speakers, spreading out across the serene tropical sea. Hand in hand, Beck and Vicky waded into the fray ad picked up the rhythm, nice and close, on the lookout for their unwanted admirers. When Libby pulled him down, lips pursed, trying to kiss, Watson ducked his head and threw off her arms. "Have you seen Norm?" he yelled over the din, "I mean the prof?"

The woman looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a third eye. "What the hell do you want with him?"

"I... err... just to, I just wanted to say thanks. For the scones."

"Thank him tomorrow." Libby glared, then tried to throw her arms around him. "It's the eclipse for god's sake. Let's party."

"No, really," Watson said, fending her off, "I just need to ask him something about cranio-facial. A mate of mine's mixed up in it. It's really important."

The woman took a step back so he could see her in her mouth-watering glory, the deep-slitted blue camel-toe, the see-down, see-under and see-through singlet, the fluffed-up curly hair hung with a single feather. Glitter on her face, lust in her eyes. "More important than this?"

"Well now you're just being silly."

A dancer collided with his back, propelling him straight into the woman's waiting embrace. She ground her mound against his groin, hoping to find something hard, then tugged the top of her shirt open for an unimpeded view of her tits. No man had ever resisted her and those who had were probably gay. She wanted to fuck and that was that... resistance was useless.

Watson raised his hand, fingers spread. "Five minutes."

Libby stuck her bottom lip out. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"You'll come back?"

"Wild seahorses couldn't keep me away." Watson lied, his total lack of conviction masked by the music.

"Well the prof's next door on the ship of nerds." Libby said disparagingly. "Him and the other mad scientists."

Watson did a quick inventory. Beck and Vicky were dancing their hearts out in the midst of the churn, while the woman's husband was busy circulating with drinks. A few of the guests were taking a break outside, hoeing into his green fish curry, including two men, one with tightly curled grey hair, the other with a hideous bowl haircut, hanging out by the left-hand hull. Freeing himself of the snare, Watson backed off. "Five minutes." he mouthed then made a run for it, leaving the hostess with the mostess turning on the spot in search of alternative prey.

'Well that was close.' Watson thought, walking the narrow plank between the port hull of one cat and the starboard hull of the other, where he found himself on a vessel of almost identical size and similar layout, a floating palace, at least compared to his own humble boat. Things were quieter on this vessel, the music from next door filtered by distance and superstructure, and the lighting was altogether more soothing. A good-looking middle-aged woman, one of a couple, looked up as he boarded. "Ahoy there," she smiled, "welcome aboard."

"Greetings," Watson bowed, "beautiful boat."

"Why thank you." the woman dipped her head then held out her hand. "Sally's the name. We swung by earlier if you recall."

"How could I forget?" Watson said and they shook. "I'm Damon Watson. Aurora."

"Goddess of the dawn?" the other woman winked, "You've chosen wisely."

"Aye," Watson nodded, "she has guided us well."

"This is my partner, Jill." Sally said as Jill and Watson shook hands. "And this," she gestured at their vessel, "is our Diana."

"Goddess of the hunt?" Watson asked.

The taller woman's face lit up. "Named after my Mum, actually."

"Your Mum's a goddess?" Watson arched his eyebrows. "That explains everything."

Sally clutched her heart and her girlfriend gave her a nudge. "Naww, look at you, you're blushing." Jill looked at Watson with a big, cheeky grin. "You know I've never seen her do that before. That's so cute."

"Oh, fiddlesticks," Sally laughed, "it's just the wine."

"You making a passage?" Watson asked, "Or just a day-trip?"

"We're about halfway through a circumnavigation, actually. Of Oz. We planned on a year but so far it's taken us five. Then we want to do the Pacific."

"Then I'll meet you on Easter Island." Watson boldly declared. "Look, I was wondering. Is Norm Sutcliffe around?"

"The prof? He's inside."

"Would you mind if I...?"

"Of course." Getting to her feet, Sally took his arm and walked him to the saloon. "Prof?" she called, "Sir Galahad to see you."

Sutcliffe was sitting on the saloon's horseshoe settee, next to a diminutive male in his twenties or thirties. Tanned, fit and muscular, dressed in cutoff denim shorts and a running singlet, he was diligently rolling a joint, while another slightly older male stood leaning against the galley sink. As he ducked inside, Watson set eyes on Sutcliffe's wife, Jo, sitting next to a beautiful young woman in a black button-up shirt and black cargo shorts. The conversation stopped and everyone looked at the newcomer as he entered.

"Damon!" Jo hailed, patting the settee beside her. "Come on in. We were just talking spiders."

"Naturally." Watson smiled.

As the round of self-conscious laughter abated, Jo gestured at the male, leaning against the galley bench. "This is Stan Holloway."

The man shot Watson a big, white, orthodontically perfect smile. "Hiya." he said brightly. American. Naturally.

"And this is Genevieve."

The beautiful young woman in black bowed her head. " 'Appy to meet you." French.

Jo gestured at the small, wiry guy who was busy rolling a joint. "And this is our resident scallywag, Mick. Mick, this is Damon. He's a drug squad detective."