Genie's Wish Ch. 04

A genie's wish rolled back Jack's clock. Now 50 years old in a 20 year old body, follow along as he pays it forward.

Working on a superyacht in the Caribbean, Jack helps an heiress with her deepest conflict. His gift grows in unexpected ways.

TAGS: <redacted for spoiler>, seduction, voyeur, workplace, sex at work, younger man, creampie, adultery, bareback, happily married

Eight Chapters:
Breenie*
Four Days Earlier
Sex On the Beach*
Bonfire Night
Squalls
Above The Whirlpool*
Bareback*
Gigi

* Chapters with sex scenes

BREENIE

The young woman lying on top of me under the stars parted her lips from mine with a humid *smak*, and took a happy deep breath. "Ahh. Jack." KK squeezed my hips between her calves and her knees fondly gripped my waist. The lounge-style deck chaise creaked softly.

I chortled good-naturedly and held her by her hips, looking up into her all-American face. Her blonde ponytail curled around one side of her throat as she returned my gaze. The dark, star-spangled tropical sky above her was partly obscured by the superstructure looming to our left.

I couldn't think of Eurybia as a mere "boat," though since she was a yacht, she wasn't properly a "ship" either. Thankfully we were in the shadow of her commercial-intensity steaming lights. Most of the bridge-deck was well aft of them, and two decks below it, one level above the main deck, my eyes were adapted well to the dark by now.

What light there presently was subtly changed for the darker. KK and I pulled the crotches of our respective skimpy swimsuits back into place, re-covering our respective slippery genitals, and she took a look around.

The lights illuminating the lido deck down below and aft of our spot up on the second level had been turned off. "Oh, would ya look at them," KK breathed quietly at me. She indicated restraint with her fingertips on my bare chest as I began to shift for a look. I stilled, and the creaking I had caused to emanate from our poor double-loaded deck lounger ceased.

KK carefully climbed off of me, and crouched low behind the deck stanchion, peeking below the railing to observe the whirlpool built into the lido deck below. We were about twenty-five feet forward of the pool, which took up the primary space of the aftermost part of the main deck. It was surrounded by the aft bulwark and railing, ample space on deck for sun chairs, and a sunbrella-shaded wet bar.

The deck lights illuminating these features had just been extinguished, I saw, as I joined KK at the railing. I followed her lead and kept my head below it, looking around the stanchion between the horizontal bars. Only the underwater fixtures in the whirlpool remained lit, eerily percolating a Cherenkov-blue glow upward into the darkness.

A pair of bodies twined around each other in the water. The jets were turned off, leaving the water transparent and the surface of the pool unobstructed by bubbles, rippling with their slow movements. One figure was fair haired and golden-tanned, the other olive-complected and hairy pretty much all over. They were lit from their sides and below, leaving their shoulders and heads in the dark above the blue-glowing water's surface.

"It's Breenie and Gord," KK offered. I could see that. The pair were nude. Their swim garments had been stripped and left to drift.

Breenie was a bit old for a daddy's-girl, but as the daughter of the major-league international finance executive who owned the 188-foot vessel Eurybia, she was perfectly entitled to romp around naked in the whirlpool with her husband after dark. All the crew on the vessel, including myself and KK, worked for Breenie's father, and knew to treat her with just as much deference as they would the man himself, if not more.

I watched with KK. Other crew wouldn't have caused trouble for us if we had been happened-upon by any of them, and KK and I took our chances that no guests would be prowling around the after part of the second deck at this hour. There was only a secondary dining room inside the enclosed structure here, and the exposed after-deck we occupied was something of a dead-end area.

We were sated with each other after our own romp in the dark. We knelt shoulder to shoulder, laughing juvenilely to each other, sotto-voce, as we watched Breenie and Gord fuck. They had pretty much gotten right to it after dousing the deck lights down there.

Breenie was leaning over her crossed arms, elbows propping her above the pool's edge, while Gord let her have it from behind. KK pointed out in a whisper that there was an underwater lamp pretty much right below Breenie's crotch, and even under the churning surface of the water, we could see Gord's balls flopping back and forth behind Breenie's thighs.

It frankly looked a little loveless. Gord in particular looked like a sire-dog at his business: His attention to his mate appeared barely perfunctory to me. He stared not at his wife's naked back before him, but instead over the aft railing into the wake following behind the vessel underway. He said nothing in return as Breenie seemed to coo encouragement over her shoulder to him. I wondered what foreplay had taken place before they had killed the lights down there. For all I knew, they had listened to me and KK.

The encounter didn't last long. The pair finished their coupling, and eased back into the molded whirlpool seats, looking skyward and catching their breath. KK and I scuttled backward away from the railing. Out of sight, we stood up, and chattered quietly to each other about the other couple's boldness as we made our way back to our own berths, two levels below the main deck, pretty much at the huge luxury vessel's waterline.

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

I hefted my two big duffels over the gunwales of Eurybia's tender, and followed them, climbing aboard the 28-foot motor launch. The skipper put her in gear until we stood off a few boat-lengths from the dock, and throttled up her quad Yamaha 150 outboard motors. Within moments we were rocketing across crystal-clear water with turquoise-blue sand a few fathoms beneath. A rooster-tail splashed back down into our wake as we streaked away from the island to where the superyacht was anchored.

I watched my own sailboat, my floating home, recede into the distance as we put a handful of nautical miles behind us. The structures in the island of Coffee Cay's main municipality, Burgess Town, merged into a blur until I couldn't distinguish the various red tiled roofs from each other.

The spare key to my boat was under one of them, and I expected to reclaim it from the Mar Tiburon Hotel's safe in about six weeks. Until then, Milagro would be fine without me in the harbor. I watched until I could no longer pretend I could still see her.

Facing forward and regarding the massive, multi-decked space-age schooner on our course, I reminded myself I would be too busy working to worry. Alain had departed my boat at Coffee Cay, but had helped me make some connections in the region's commercial-crew scene. We had enjoyed many days of passage together, but now it was high season and Alain was off to greener pastures. He was a professional physiotherapist, and could really make bank doing massage at one of the island's more chichi resorts, eight miles outside Burgess Town.

He had provided his services exclusively on Winged Flight the previous year. The experience had plugged Alain in to the network of local connections who recommended crew candidates to the superyacht trade. Two weeks ago, that 153-foot vessel had departed the region's waters, bound for the multi-island Dutch overseas region of Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao, carrying at least three crew members poached from Eurybia. Her owner was a rival of Eurybia's owner and had likely calculated this insult.

I had been cruising the Lesser Antilles for more than a year. The funds in the kitty weren't gone, but along my travels I had been exposed to a variety of ways to replenish them without quitting the adventure. I was ready to give it a go, and hoped to make enough in the next month and a half to extend the voyaging by at least six more.

As Eurybia's hull seemed to grow, and her 120-foot masts speared skyward, it seemed hard to me to believe that she wasn't even that huge in the superyacht world. I didn't even begin to know how to estimate what building her might have cost Herr Memling, my new employer.

A few times removed, anyway. I had not been recruited by the banking baron himself, after all, but the vessel's purser, Klenze. Whose operating budget probably came from a holding company several shell levels deep. According to Alain, the owner himself might only be aboard five percent of the time. I imagined a helicopter pad on a forward deck, ready to receive and jettison the multi-billionaire at his personal convenience.

I looked for it as the tender drew alongside, but it was like trying to see onto the roof of a mid-rise condo stack from the street below. I offered to help with fenders, but the launch's skipper waved me off. He had a uniformed lad aboard, who handled the lines in efficient cooperation with a similarly polo-shirted and Bermuda-shortsed fellow working from the gullwing-doored docking platform at Eurybia's quarter.

I felt like a James Bond floating supervillain lair was about to swallow up me and my gear.

I thought to myself, "Imagine if Tris could see this." The nineteen-year-old yoga studio receptionist back in Florida had thought I was a drug dealer. Or a trust-fund baby, because she didn't know anyone else her age who lived on a sailboat, and had a German car and expensive shoes. I had been a professional consultant, and these were things I kept in the divorce, before the change*.

* See backstory, Genie's Wish Ch. 00

Alain was a good chummer I had met on Culebra, where he had been backpacking. He was game to sail with me for several weeks, as I could help him get back to Coffee Cay with zero travel expenses in return for his help handling the boat on passage. His ideas regarding work opportunities for me had come at just the right time.

My title would generically be "steward" but my job wouldn't have anything to do with foodservice. Unless it did. It probably would, I figured. What I was supposed to be doing was coordinating recreational activities and wrangling the water toys for the privileged passengers, friends and family of Memling.

My duffels were whisked away promptly as I boarded Eurybia by a junior girl of the crew. She gave me a laminated card with plan views of some of the vessel's several decks. It illustrated how I was to find my quarters. The pin affixed to her Eurybia-branded polo shirt said she was Kelly Krouse. The left breast which the pin stood proud of was hard-nippled, and stood proud of her athletic torso, as did the equally substantial right one. Naturally the vessel's interior was largely air-conditioned. The sun-kissed young lady promised my stuff would be dropped off at my berth pronto, waiting for me.

I thanked her, and felt a little confused, as if maybe I should have been tipping her?

But no, she and I were both staff, and this wasn't my vacation. I mean, it was, but.

I'd find a way to make my appreciation known to her.

SEX ON THE BEACH

I quickly settled into Eurybia's daily routine. The purser ran the service shifts just-so. The guests might be unpredictable but the help were expected to be reliable and stick to the schedule. The content of meals and activities were different each day, but if guests missed the hour, there were stores they could help themselves to and there would be another fresh meal offered later.

I rather appreciated working on a German guy's vessel. Alain had told me about Winged Flight's haphazard happenings. That vessel's Hamptons-dwelling owner expected staff to improvise in response to the whims of the passengers. The notion of "shifts" was a complete joke. Alain might spend 48 hours sitting on his hands, then with ten minutes' notice, be required to rub someone down at one thirty in the morning.

I had cruised the region myself before, and brought a modest amount of local knowledge to the activities team. The director, Mark, asked me for suggestions each evening regarding the next day's offerings. We would put together a plan around a particular location, gather a particular set of gear, and order a packable feast from the galley for however many passengers and staff were to venture out on the yacht's tender for a day of water sports, sun and fun.

For the afternoon and evening of my third day, we wrestled stand-up paddleboards, a towable dive wing, snorkel gear, a popup changing cabana, beach chairs, a ten-by-sixteen foot beach canopy, two collapsible picnic tables, and several spare pairs of sandals into the tender. I thoroughly appreciated the fitness I had regained since the change. I made manhandling the larger and heavier items look effortless.

Mark appreciated it too, in more ways than one. He was only 25, but unhesitating in yielding physical labor to the junior help. Junior in age as well as status. He relished his authority and was a lazy character. He didn't exactly delegate the heavy lifting explicitly, but he was somehow always doing something else when a big item needed moving. Then he was somehow always looking at my physique as I caught the task.

The plan was to visit a half-mile-long, perfectly semicircular, well-protected beach on an uninhabited minor cay, with a deep lagoon and marine forest inland behind the dune line.

I supposed the trees growing around the lagoon's borders might have been mangrove, but I wasn't sure at all. Before getting myself to sleep, I connected my smartphone to Eurybia's wifi network, and googled the subject over her satellite internet uplink.

Mid-morning the next day, the tender ran up as close to the beach as it could. Breenie was on this outing. Her husband Gord was in a lounge or stateroom aboard Eurybia, having insisted on staying behind to catch a favorite pro-sports game of some kind or another. I didn't pay any attention to what sort of game it was. After more than a year on island time, I barely knew what season it was, other than "not hurricane season."

Other guests had been introduced as: One of Memling's vice presidents, his adult children and their spouses. There was a New York State legislator who I recognized from the news, and his professional arm-candy forty years his junior. Two girlfriends of Breenie's were both entourage material. No mind of their own, and calculatedly less "put together" than Breenie by just a touch.

Beyond their obvious lack of charm, something told me I wanted nothing to do with that pair, beyond professional courtesy. This was the latest in a string of odd knowings which had come to me over the las several months.

Since the change, I had deliberately cultivated my senses of perception regarding women, in order to enhance my seductive skills as well as knowing how best to satisfy them when we paired. My being young and pretty helped, but getting inside women's heads and taking them places they truly longed for called for everything I had learned in my fifty years, honed to a master craft over the last eighteen months.

A few times since leaving Florida in Milagro sixteen months ago, I had had the feeling of learning or discovering something about a woman without knowing how. It happened infrequently enough that when I did begin to detect a pattern, I dismissed it. However, looking at Breenie's two girlfriends, I saw very distinctly that they were soulless, dead inside, and I knew it was part of the pattern. It was unequivocal, utterly palpable, though I couldn't say how I saw this. It very much seemed to me like it was coming through my eyes but there was nothing I could look at and say, that was it, that's the clue.

The tender was grounded on the flat, sandy bottom in calm, thigh-deep water, probably six yards from the waterline. I set up beach chairs first, and these two ladies were utterly unabashed about ogling me from them as I unloaded and deployed the rest of the heavy and complicated furnishings.

Honestly, it was a pretty sweet setup. Shade, tables, plenty of seats, the changing tent, four large and full food and drink coolers. I arrayed the paddleboards on the sand and the snorkel gear on a picnic table under the shade structure.

Besides myself, the launch skipper Ray, and a fenders-and-lines boy, Jorge, there were two off-duty staff who had come along as well.

KK would be compensated for working outside of her shipboard shift, as Breenie would be sure to tip with cash when making KK hop to some chore which required a female steward. Jorge and myself hauled the various bags the guests had packed for the day at the beach on and off the boat, but inevitably the various ladies and especially Breenie required a female peon to help with all sorts of schlepping and wardrobe handling at various points throughout the day as they made use of the portable cabana.

I had already hit it off with KK. Her berth was too small for two to spend the night in, but it had been great for fooling around. Her quarters-mate in the cabin's other berth was a Cuban-American hottie who did hospitality: Waitressing, food prep, bartending and such. Based on KK's post-coital pillow-talk confessions about her, I figured that helping the yacht's privileged female passengers strip and dress wouldn't exactly be unwelcome duty for KK.

Bo, the divemaster, wasn't supervising or leading any dives today, so he got a ride to the beach in the tender and kiteboarded away across the turquoise waters on his own for most of the day. He was never out of sight, or more accurately his kite wasn't. He really could cover some distance on that thing.

Wouldn't you know it, the guests weren't the least bit curious about the natural-history factoids I had at my fingertips, thanks to the previous night's internet research. They kept ordering me to show them the next cool sight to see through their dive masks, lying with their faces hanging off the ends of their paddleboards. No sooner would I find some flora or swimming creature or mineral or coral frond, and skin-dive to the bottom to point it out, did they scratch their asses, splutter for air and ignore the service help until, in their boredom, they jonesed for the next hit of novelty.

I got tired of that and left them to bellyflop on their paddleboards in the lagoon without me. I busied myself with showing the vice-president's thirty year old daughter and son-in-law how the dive wing worked. I coached them in the shallow water off the beach for half an hour before turning them over to Ray and Jorge to motor them out to greater depths and tow them underwater behind the tender.

KK repacked coolers in order to send one out on the boat with them. Her work involved lots of bending down and reaching in to this cooler and that one, moving things around. She didn't spill out of her bikini top, but it was close, and the banking VP and the son-in-law supervised closely. She scored a fifty dollar tip.

Meanwhile the rest of the party lunched at the picnic tables under the shade structure. While the guests sat stuffing their faces, with additional supplies of food and drink nearby for them to help themselves to, KK and I took our plates over the top of the dune, into the shade of the mangroves by the lagoon.

She asked me about the fishes I had found among the waterlogged tree roots back there earlier. Finally I was glad I had put in the effort to learn a bit about the local ecology.

KK told me I was smart, and I modestly shrugged and said I didn't know shit until I googled it. "Plus I've been here before. I had questions from the first time."