Ten Days at Sea

She stood in front of him, swapping weight from one foot to the other, clearly warming up for some exercise.

"Good morning Brett. Come on, the day light is a wasting! We are going to go for a run. I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this! I had a marvelous sleep and feel tons better and am really ready for this. Now go put on your work out togs, there's a good chap. Chop Chop!" was all delivered in rapid staccato, with a look of benevolent expectation on her face.

Brett just stared at her -- her hair was pulled back at the back of her head, with a clip, making her face quite severe, but highlighting her cheek bones and showing off her magnificent eyes. She wore no makeup, but it was clear that she didn't need it -- her skin was porcelain white and clear of any blemish, apart from the bruise. It was all he could do not to just reach out and grab her and kiss her, he was so mesmerized.

"Come on, man. The day is passing. Get with it!" she admonished. Brett was sure she knew what kind of effect she was having on him, and delighting in teasing him this way. Particularly when she said, "I'll just wait here and stretch, while you go get changed," and then bent down, presenting her absolutely astonishingly pert and perfect back side to him, as she went to touch her toes.

He pulled himself together -- he was a merchant marine seaman, and by god, he wasn't going to go all gaga over a woman. Get it together, man!

Averting his eyes and muttering about 'Sirens' under his breath, he retreated to his cabin to change into shorts, a T-shirt and some running shoes, not even considering whether he should just tell her no or not.

Five minutes later, he opened his door to find her leaning against the door jam, arms folded, smirk on her face.

"Ready now, slow boy?" she taunted. "Come on. Last one around buys breakfast!" she shouted, and took off, running down the narrow corridor.

Brett just walked out of his cabin, closed the door, and stood, waiting, till Fiona returned ten seconds later, red faced, because the direction she ran in only took them to a stairwell that went down into the infrastructure of the ship.

"Yes, well," she said, with a determined, if pained, look on her face. "Fine. You lead the way then, Macduff." And she gestured at him, to go in the other direction, Brett doing his very best to maintain his stone face.

Brett led her out of the tail end infrastructure of the ship, where the quarters and other crew facilities where, down to the actual exterior. The ship was laden down with shipping containers, piled on top of each other, eight levels high, towering above the deck. The deck itself was fully loaded, with a narrow channel around the edges, just wide enough for two people to walk abreast. When they got out, it was fairly cold, and Brett stopped Fiona from just taking off, explaining that they needed to run single file, since while the channel was wide enough for them run together, there was various items of equipment that would jut out and make it difficult.

"As it is, this is an older vessel," he explained, as he started stretching out his legs, concentrating on each different muscle group. "The newer ones actually don't have this ledge -- they have a channel that goes underneath the containers -- the containers are loaded to the edge, on top of a supporting infrastructure, and there is a deck beneath them, that runs around the edge of the ship. Like those old strolling decks you see on some of the old time liners."

"Really?" asked Fiona. "How astonishing. Don't those containers weigh tons?"

"Well yes, but the supporting structure is part of the boat's infrastructure," answered Brett. "They can support the weight and not collapse because it's actually the frame of the ship itself holding them up."

"Hm," replied Fiona, with a nod.

"Ok, I'm warm, you ready?" asked Brett.

"As I'll ever be. Five times for a mile, yes? So, let's do, oh, three miles? Think you can keep up, big boy?" she teased him.

"Look, Fiona," Brett said, seriously, putting out an arm to stop her taking off. "Please, understand you haven't run in a while, you are getting over a major life event, and you are likely going to be tired out. Let's take it easy and see how it goes, Okay?"

Fiona smiled at him, indulgently, if even haughtily. "Yeah. Eat my dust, Yank!"

And ducking under his arm, she was off.

The trail was easy to follow, and she maintained a decent pace. Brett was fine being behind her, since she could then set the pace, and also, he got to look at her magnificent ass, as it jiggled around, surprisingly firm. He could watch her glutes and see her form as she ran.

As it was, they were both soon warm, and as the sun came up from the horizon, the day got warmer, and they were both soon sweating. Fiona managed four complete loops before having to slow and walk, obviously out of breath. Brett could hear her, talking to herself, cajoling and castigating her performance. He refrained from trying to talk to her, regulating his own breathing and keeping up his own pace. He was not the least bit surprised that the desire to run would be outweighed by her ability to do so. She didn't seem like the type who would take her own limitations to heart.

After the eighth time around, Fiona stopped, arm out, leaning against the exterior wall, breathing heavily.

"Sorr...rryy," she gasped, taking lung fulls of breath. "Very...out...of...shape...it...seems."

"It's fine," said Brett. "I normally don't do more than a couple of miles a day," he added, which was a total lie since he normally did at least three to four miles whenever he could, but which was designed to give her an easy out, so she didn't overly tax herself this early in her recovery. He didn't need a relapse just because she was ultra-competitive, especially when it was obvious she was.

Fiona wasn't taken in for a second. She glanced back at him, a sullen look on her face.

"Don't BS me, boy. I know when I'm being talked down to..."

He just shrugged and said, "Ok, well, once more around then?"

"Yes, I think that will be fine," she replied haughtily, flipping her face at him. "Come on, slow coach."

She managed two more loops before stopping again to draw breath.

"I...think...that's...all...for...now," she managed to get out.

Brett grinned at her. "Well, you've already done far more than most of the crew do here, so don't feel bad," he said, eyes twinkling at her. "You've been ship wrecked and you STILL show most of this lot up!"

She smiled gratefully at him, and said, "Aren't you just a sweet one?" while looking right into his eyes. And, it felt to him, into his soul.

Shaking it off, he suggested they walk back to their cabins, and as they did so, he noticed she was limping.

He looked at her quizzically, and she replied, wincing, "Shin splints. Always had them when I run. Wish I could do something about them."

"Oh, that's not a hard thing to fix," he said, airily, as they walked slowly down the edge of the ship.

Fiona looked hard at him, suspiciously. "Oh, you just happen to have that fix, do you? I did eight years of Ballet, buster, and none of them could fix it. But you, have the secret to the universe, yes? They teach that on this rust bucket?" she demanded.

"Well no, but I learned this from a Nigerian we used to have on the crew," he answered, cautiously. He still couldn't tell when Fiona was genuinely annoyed versus pulling his leg.

"Basically, lean back," he added. "When you run, I mean. Lean back as you do it. It'll feel stupid to you and you'll feel like an idiot, but it'll stop the shin splints from bothering you."

Fiona stopped walking and looked at him, like he was an idiot. "Seriously?"

"Well yeah. Think about it. Shin splints come about because of undue amounts of pressure on the front of the shin. That pressure comes from the impact of the weight of your body over the foot. Now, you can't stop that entirely, but leaning back does two things. Firstly, it distributes the weight more evenly over your legs -- the back leg takes more of it, and secondly, it actually forces the down stroke leg to be a little more vertical, so the weight goes down the shin, not over it."

Fiona thought it over, and continued walking.

"Okay, let's say I try it. If I find it doesn't work and you are pulling my leg, so I can look stupid when running, then you'll regret it, buster!" she exclaimed. "Still, if it does work, I'll love you forever."

He glanced at her, and saw a hint of a mischievous smile, half flirty and half silly. Then she winced as she took another step, and he immediately moved in, concerned.

"Here, let me..." he said, pulling her arm around his shoulder.

"Yeah, you just want to get close to me, don't you, sailor boy? Been too long since you saw a woman, eh?" she teased. Brett didn't know how he could answer that without a sarcastic or inappropriate comment, so he just kept quiet.

When they got back to the cabin, Brett offered Fiona a 'Leg massage', knowing it was verging on the inappropriate. But, he was duty bound to offer succor, he reasoned. And if he got to touch her legs, well, so be it. It was up to her anyway.

She looked at him appraisingly, with a smirk on her face.

"Yeah, right. Do I get a happy ending?" she asked, twinkle in her eye.

"You'll get a spanking if you carry on like that," Brett answered without thinking, taking a chance.

"Ooooh, promises, promises," she answered back, tumbling onto her bed.

She extended a foot. "You may approach the royal foot, serf," she exclaimed in her plummy posh accent. "But be warned, these feet are to be admired and worshiped. Nothing else will do," she intoned imperiously.

Brett knelt down and took one foot in his hand, unlacing her shoes and taking it off, making a pantomime over the smell from her feet.

Outraged, Fiona declared, "This shall not do! The royal feet smell divine! How dare you, peasant! Off with his head, I say! To the executioner, immediately!"

Brett grinned up at her, and then started massaging her calf muscles. He could feel the tension and knots in her legs and worked on them, slowly, one muscle group at a time.

Fiona instantly shut up, and leaned back into the pillows of the bunk. Apart from a small "oooohhh" escaping from her lips and a look of ecstasy, she was silent, allowing his hands free roam over both lower legs.

Brett did one leg, then, removing the shoe, did the other. Then he alternated, one foot, then the other. Fiona didn't move, eyes closed, just making occasional whimpers.

Brett remembered having to do this for his mother, years ago. He remembered her instructing him in the best way to foot massage -- where to be soft and where to knead hard. He couldn't help but remember her telling him it was a skill he'd come to be thankful for, in the future, and at the time, he couldn't imagine how. Now, he understood.

He knelt before Fiona for at least ten minutes, massaging her feet, the balls, the toes, the ankle, her calf muscles and shins, and Fiona was, at this point, utter putty in his hands. Her skin was going red, and her eye lids fluttering under his ministrations.

"You want me to go... higher?" he asked, tentatively. One did not just lay hands on the thighs of British Royalty -- no matter how far removed -- without at last asking permission first.

"Oh god, yes," groaned Fiona, clearly in a world of her own at this point.

Brett licked his lips, wondering if this was a good idea. He'd made the suggestion now, and needed to follow up, but his own internal compass was warring with his desire for this woman. She was married to someone else, but by god, she was responding and he was absolutely into her.

What was it the British say? "In for a penny, in for a pound"? Well, at this point, he was in for about fourteen tons.

Tentatively, he moved his hands higher on her legs, gently kneading the tendons below and above her knee caps. More soft moans were elicited from Fiona.

Then, very slowly, he moved up to the thigh. She was still wearing the skintight pants, and it made it easy for him to feel the movement of the muscles underneath.

Fiona, at this point, had raised herself on elbows and was gazing down at him through hooded eyes.

"You are very good at this, aren't you?" she said, softly.

He stopped and shrugged. "Blame a mother who was on her feet all day. She came home and just wanted a massage, so I learned how. Don't get to do this very often though."

"What, all the hunky sailors here not clamoring for your magic touch?" she teased, laughing gently at him.

"Not as such, no," he replied. "Thankfully."

"Well, what are you waiting for, get to it?" she said, after they stared at each other for a moment.

"Want to turn over? I can do your shoulders and back too?"

"Oh, you wonderful man. I wish I could bottle you. My friends would pay through the nose for you," she husked, turning herself over and flattening herself out on the bed.

Brett moved up and started massaging her through her billowing T-shirt.

"Wait," she said, pushing herself up and taking the T-shirt off, revealing the sports bra underneath. "Makes it easier."

At this point Brett wished he had oils or hand warmers, to do the job properly. But, he was a merchant seaman. He would make do. It was in his job description, pretty much.

He worked on her shoulders, the outside, then inside. Then the knots in her shoulder blades -- this is where a lot of the tendons in the back come together, since that's what shoulder blades exist for -- to act as anchors for lots of the tendons. Inevitably they end up with knots, and since they are so close to the surface, they are generally easier to work out.

Then he moved down to the lower back. Fiona had plenty of knots there too, which after her experiences was to be expected. The trick was to be gentle -- the spine was right there and there were plenty of places where nerves extended from between vertebrae, that needed to be treated with extreme care.

And then... gulp, the lower back. At the top of her perfect tush. "Oh my god," he thought, "I am actually laying hands on this woman's ass. She's related to the Queen of fucking England, for god's sake!"

He risked a quick glance up at her head. Some people are fast asleep from this kind of work over, by now. Was she...? No, she was awake. He was aware her eyes were open, and the one he could see was regarding him, unblinking.

More gulping.

He went as low as he dared, and then came back up again.

"Lower," she husked, suddenly speaking.

"Um..."

"Lower I said. Or do I have to come up there and tell you with The Voice? Aren't you supposed to be making me happy?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Then Make Me Happy, slave. Now, please."

There was nothing for it. Off to the races, then.

He slid his hands an inch lower.

"More."

Another inch.

"I'll tell you when. Keep going."

OK, now his hands were almost full of ripe, peach globes. There was no way this wasn't deliberate.

"Keep your mind on the job," he reminded himself, gritting his teeth, and adjusting his position so his rapidly expanding erection didn't poke into the delicious body underneath him.

Once his hands were completely full of delectable ass -- or 'arse', as she would put it -- she murmured, "That's it. That's the spot," and he was left massaging her butt cheeks.

Her breathing increased in frequency and depth, and the murmurs increased in intensity too.

"Yes, there, that's it," she muttered, squirming her torso around.

Brett was now stuck. When did he stop massaging? When was it appropriate? Should he just move his hands back up her torso? What was the etiquette here? When massaging a member of the British Royal Family on the butt, when did you finish and how did you disengage without causing offense? Was bowing -- or curtseying -- involved?

In the end, after a couple of minutes, he moved his hands gently back up her torso, and then, after kneading her back and giving her shoulders another rub, he sat back.

"All done. Ma'am," he murmured.

Fiona sighed heavily and then levered herself up, staring at him, unblinking.

"Oh my god. Felicity would just eat you up," she said, almost to herself. "Not that I'd allow her the chance..."

She rolled over onto her back, one hand up behind her head, regarding Brett. She was, to him, the specter of loveliness, bruises be damned. The hair, starting to escape from the bundle behind her head, wisps of it down one side of her face. Her face flushed, her lips pursed, a perfect and lithe body. Brett sat as still as he could, trying to make sure she couldn't see -- or worse still, feel -- his erection. The shorts, he wore, were baggy and so it wasn't as constrained as it should have been. She only had to look down or brush a hand against him, and there it was, needing to be explained.

"You really are very cute, you know that?" she said, at last. "Come here." And she beckoned him down to her.

This presented Brett with a conundrum. If he pushed himself down to face her, she'd feel his dick. The only way to do what she asked was to move himself back... he hesitated, and, losing her patience, Fiona suddenly lunged up at him, saying, "I said, Come Here!" and then, rolling her free hand around his head, pulled him to her, kissing him with fervor.

There was no doubt she was now encountering his erection, in all its covered glory. The biggest problem was that Fiona was a hell of a kisser, and Brett just wanted more. She was exciting, interesting, passionate, attractive and just one hell of a package.

So, he kissed her back, and resigned himself to the fact that she'd know his arousal. Which, if he was thinking about it, would have been inevitable at that point regardless. But men don't think about women are thinking about in situations like that; there's only enough blood to consider their side of the equation.

She hungrily kissed him, almost growling at him. Her mouth opened and her tongue darted in, to caress his. This was no peck, this was the kind of kissing they teach at slut school.

One of her hands was behind his neck, holding his head to hers, and the other roamed his body, finally clamping down on his, now painful, erection, squeezing it and groping him.

Eventually, she pushed him back, breathing heavily, staring into his eyes, mouth open, tongue running around her lips.

"Kit off. Now" she ordered, pulling her sports bra off with a two handed cross over.

Brett just stared -- her perfect just C cup breasts popped out, large nipples erect and puffed out. She licked her lips again and then repeated the word, "Now!" with urgency.

Brett knew it was wrong. She belonged to someone else. But she was here. He was there. They both so desperately wanted it, and it had been a long few months...

Before he knew it, he was shrugging out of his clothes, his seven-inch steel bar cock bouncing out of his briefs as he pulled them down, Fiona tugging hungrily from the front.

"Oh yes, that'll do," murmured Fiona, breathlessly, before she pounced on it, mouth open, engulfing the glans.

Brett's back arched as the tip of his cock vanished into the velvety recesses of Fiona's mouth. She started working on, with gusto -- slurping on it, and out, tongue running up and down the shaft, inhaling the scent of his balls before rubbing them on her face and then slobbering on them. There was no chance she wasn't enjoying this -- occasionally she'd look up and meet his eye with her gaze, with a twinkle in her eye.

The sensations from her ministrations to his dick were mind blowing. He had to start thinking about navigation issues to stop from blowing his load almost immediately.