A Weekend Job
Copyright© 2025 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - A weekend job on a billionaire’s yacht should have been easy money for Lena. Forty-eight hours. Two weeks’ pay. The tips are huge, the temptations addictive—and seduction is irresistible. Will she resist?
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Workplace Cheating Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Food Oral Sex Public Sex AI Generated
Scene 13 – Saturday 5 pm – Jacuzzi
The top-deck jacuzzi was sunk into the teak like a glowing turquoise jewel, steam curling off the surface, the Mediterranean sky bleeding orange behind it. Music throbbed low, something slow and filthy.
Marcus was already in the water up to his waist, white boxer briefs long gone. The pop-star (everyone knew her face even without the mask) straddled his lap facing him, water lapping at her perfect silicone breasts while she rode him slow and deliberate. Her husband (tall, blond, Scandinavian-model cheekbones) stood behind Marcus, hands on his shoulders, cock sliding in and out of Marcus’s mouth in lazy counter-rhythm.
The sight punched the air out of Lena’s lungs.
She had come up for air after the dining-room dessert course, still sticky with cream and Marcus’s cum, lace bra half torn, thong missing entirely. Now she stood at the jacuzzi’s edge in nothing but the sheer black robe hanging open, money still tucked into random straps and folds.
The pop-star looked over first, saw her, and smiled like a cat who’d spotted cream.
“There’s our girl,” she purred, voice recognizable even through the moan she couldn’t hold back. “Get in.”
Marcus pulled off her husband’s cock long enough to look up. Water beaded on his lashes. His pupils were blown wide.
“Lena,” he rasped (half plea, half command).
The husband turned too, cock wet and shining, and crooked a finger. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Lena let the robe slip off her shoulders and fall. She stepped down into the hot, churning water naked, skin prickling from the sudden heat. The pop-star reached for her immediately, pulled her in by the waist, and kissed her deep and slow (tongue tasting of champagne and Marcus).
Marcus watched them kiss, hips still rocking up into the pop-star, and groaned around the cock in his mouth.
The husband moved behind Lena, hands sliding down her wet back to cup her ass. “Been watching you all day,” he murmured against her ear, accent crisp. “Want to feel you come apart between us.”
Lena’s answer was a broken gasp as two of his fingers pushed straight into her still-slick pussy. She was so ready (from Marcus earlier, from the table, from everything) that they slid in without resistance.
The pop-star broke the kiss, shifted off Marcus’s lap, and guided Lena forward until she was straddling him face-to-face. Marcus’s cock nudged her entrance, hot and impossibly hard.
“Look at me,” he said again, same words as the dining room, rougher now.
She sank down onto him in one slick glide.
They both cried out.
The husband pressed against her back, chest to her spine, cock sliding between her cheeks. He waited until she relaxed (until Marcus kissed her stupid and the water and the jets turned her bones to liquid), then eased in.
Slow, relentless pressure. The stretch burned, then bloomed into something overwhelming. Lena’s head fell back against the husband’s shoulder; Marcus’s hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise.
Full. She had never been so full.
They found a rhythm (Marcus thrusting up, the husband pulling back, then switching). Water sloshed over the edge with every move. The pop-star floated beside them, fingers on Lena’s clit, kissing whoever’s mouth she could reach.
Lena came first, sudden and shattering, clenching around both cocks at once. Marcus followed seconds later, groaning her name into her neck as he pulsed deep inside her. The husband lasted longest (pulling out at the last second to paint hot stripes across her lower back while she was still shaking).
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, water bubbling around them. The pop-star laughed softly and licked a drop of the husband’s cum off Lena’s shoulder like it was frosting.
Marcus’s arms tightened around Lena’s waist, possessive even now.
“Still mine first,” he whispered against her wet skin.
Lena could only nod, boneless, floating, already ruined and remade in the same breath.
Scene 14 – Saturday 11 pm – Top deck orgy setup
The sky was black glass scattered with stars. The yacht drifted somewhere off Capri, engines cut, rocking gently on its own wake. Every light on the upper deck had been killed except for strings of warm bulbs draped overhead like low-hanging constellations and the blue glow of the jacuzzi still bubbling behind them.
Mattresses, daybeds, and thick rugs had been dragged into one huge open-air bed that covered half the deck. Bodies already moved over it in slow, liquid waves (skin gleaming with sweat and oil, mouths open, moans rising and falling with the music).
Victor stood barefoot at the center in loose white linen trousers, no shirt, a heavy crystal glass of something dark in one hand. The crowd parted for him like he was royalty.
He raised the glass.
“One last tradition,” he called, voice carrying easily over the music and the wet slap of flesh. “Every year we choose a centerpiece couple (someone who arrived as strangers and will leave as something else).”
His gaze swept the deck and landed on Lena and Marcus.
They were already naked, still damp from the jacuzzi, marked with bites and fingerprints and each other’s cum. Lena’s hair hung in wet ropes down her back; Marcus’s lips were swollen, eyes glassy with exhaustion and hunger.
Victor smiled like a proud father.
“Tonight,” he said, “we crown them.”
A low cheer went up. Hands reached (gentle but firm) and guided them forward.
Someone had placed a wide, low massage table at the exact center of the deck, draped in black silk. Candles ringed it in a perfect circle, flames trembling in the breeze.
Sabine appeared first, naked except for the gold chain still glinting between her thighs. She took Lena’s hand and led her up the two shallow steps.
“Lie back, beautiful,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Lena’s bruised mouth. “Let them worship you.”
Lena’s legs shook as she climbed onto the silk. The fabric was cool against her overheated skin. Sabine eased her down until she was on her back, arms stretched above her head. Soft silk ropes (more symbolic than restraining) looped loosely around her wrists and were tied to the table legs. Two women knelt to do the same at her ankles, spreading her wide, knees bent and feet flat so everything (absolutely everything) was on display.
Marcus was brought forward next. Victor himself stripped away the last of his clothing (though there was almost nothing left) and guided him between Lena’s thighs.
“Look at her,” Victor said quietly, for Marcus alone. “Look what you did to her.”
Marcus’s eyes raked over Lena (spread open, dripping, trembling). His cock jerked, already hard again.
Victor leaned in, voice velvet. “One rule tonight: you finish inside her. Every drop. We want her overflowing when the sun comes up.”
Marcus’s answer was a low, broken sound.
Guests circled closer (some kneeling, some standing, all touching themselves or each other, waiting).
Sabine climbed onto the table and straddled Lena’s chest, facing Marcus. She threaded fingers through Lena’s wet hair and tilted her face up.
“Open,” she said softly.
Lena opened her mouth. Sabine settled forward, thighs framing Lena’s face, and lowered herself slowly until Lena’s tongue found slick, swollen heat.
The first lick tore a moan from Sabine that echoed across the deck.
Marcus watched for one stunned second (his colleague, his secret, now eating another woman while twenty strangers watched), then stepped forward, lined himself up, and drove into Lena in one brutal thrust.
The table rocked. Lena cried out into Sabine’s pussy.
And the orgy officially began.
Scene 15 – Saturday midnight – The main event
The world narrowed to heat, breath, and motion.
Marcus’s first thrust punched the air from Lena’s lungs and drove her mouth harder against Sabine. Sabine moaned, rolled her hips, smearing wetness across Lena’s lips and chin. The gold chain between Sabine’s thighs tickled Lena’s nose with every grind.
Hands were everywhere (soft ones, rough ones, anonymous). Someone pinched Lena’s nipples in perfect sync with Marcus’s thrusts. Another pair of fingers (cool, slick with lube) circled her ass, then pushed in alongside Marcus’s cock, stretching her impossibly wider. A third mouth sealed over her clit and sucked hard.
Lena shattered almost instantly (a violent, full-body spasm that ripped a scream into Sabine’s pussy). Marcus growled at the clench around him, hips stuttering, but he didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, slower now, deeper, eyes locked on hers over Sabine’s shoulder.
Sabine came seconds later, thighs clamping around Lena’s head, flooding her mouth with sharp-sweet taste. She stayed there, trembling, then slid down Lena’s body and kissed her (slow, filthy, sharing herself between their tongues).
The fingers in Lena’s ass withdrew. A new cock replaced them (thick, unfamiliar, bare). The stranger (faceless in the candlelight) pushed in alongside Marcus with one long, relentless slide.
Lena’s back arched off the silk. Two cocks inside her pussy at once (burning, impossible fullness). Marcus froze, buried to the root, feeling every inch of the stranger moving against him through that thin wall of flesh.
Their eyes met.
Marcus’s jaw clenched. Something feral flashed across his face (jealousy, possession, lust so pure it looked like pain). Then he leaned forward, braced one hand beside Lena’s head, and started moving again (short, punishing thrusts that dragged the stranger along with him).
The deck roared approval.
Sabine straddled Lena’s face again, this time facing Marcus. She grabbed his hair and kissed him hard while he fucked Lena in tandem with another man. Lena could only lick what she was given (Sabine’s clit, the stranger’s balls when they swung low, the place where Marcus and the stranger stretched her open).
The stranger came first (a guttural curse in Italian, hips slamming deep, pulsing heat alongside Marcus). Marcus lasted three more strokes, then buried himself and let go with a broken sound that was half sob, half roar. Lena felt both loads at once (thick, scalding, flooding her until she overflowed, cum and her own slick running down to soak the silk beneath her ass).
They didn’t pull out immediately. The stranger eased away first, kissing Lena’s inner thigh in lazy thanks. Marcus stayed inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breathing like he’d run ten miles.
Around them the orgy kept moving (bodies writhing, mouths open, the wet slap of flesh on flesh), but the circle had widened slightly, giving the centerpiece a breath of space.
Marcus’s voice was raw. “Still mine,” he whispered against her lips (quiet enough that only she heard).
Lena’s answer was to clench around him deliberately, milking the last drops.
Above them, Sabine laughed softly, stroked both their faces, and murmured, “Now we ruin you for everyone else forever.”
The ropes around Lena’s wrists stayed tied.
The night was far from over.
Scene 16 – Saturday 2 am – Afterglow pile
The candles had burned low, flames trembling in puddles of wax. The music had softened to a slow, heartbeat bass that matched the lazy rock of the yacht.
Lena was untied now, silk ropes discarded somewhere in the dark. She lay on her side in the center of the huge outdoor bed, limbs heavy, skin tacky with sweat, cum, and melted chocolate someone had drizzled over her breasts an hour ago. Every muscle trembled; her pussy and ass throbbed with the sweetest ache she’d ever known.
Marcus was curled behind her, chest to her back, one arm locked around her waist like he’d never let go. His cock was soft for the first time in hours, nestled against the curve of her ass, still slick. His breath stirred the hair at her nape (slow, steady, possessive).
Around them the deck had settled into a languid tangle of bodies. Some guests slept in loose piles; others still moved together in slow, sleepy fucks, too spent for anything athletic. The air smelled of sex, salt, and the last traces of expensive cologne.
Sabine lay facing Lena, one leg thrown over Lena’s hip, fingers idly tracing patterns through the mess on Lena’s stomach. Every few seconds she’d dip lower, gather a mixture of cum (Marcus’s, the Italian’s, someone else’s) and push it gently back inside Lena with two fingers, like she was keeping her full on purpose.
Lena shivered each time.
Marcus’s arm tightened. His voice came out rough, cracked from screaming her name.
“We can’t ever go back,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You know that, right?”
Lena turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. In the low light they looked almost black.
“I know,” she said. The words felt enormous, final, and completely right.
Sabine’s fingers stilled inside her. “Then make the pact,” she murmured, lips brushing Lena’s collarbone. “Say it out loud so the sea hears.”
Marcus’s hand slid up to cover Lena’s heart. She covered his hand with hers.
Lena spoke first, voice hoarse but steady.
“Our marriages stay. No one ever knows. We come home Sunday, kiss our spouses, pay the bills, mow the fucking lawn.”
Marcus continued against her skin, lips moving like a prayer.
“But every time Victor calls (every weekend, every private island, every masked invitation), we answer. We come. We disappear for forty-eight hours and we do this again. All of it.”
Lena finished, the words tasting like champagne and sin.
“And we never, ever say no.”
Silence for a heartbeat. Then Sabine leaned in and kissed them both (soft, slow, sealing).
“Welcome to the rest of your lives,” she whispered.
Far off, a woman moaned in her sleep and rolled into her partner. The yacht rocked gently, cradling them all.
Marcus pressed his forehead between Lena’s shoulder blades. She felt the words more than heard them.
“Love you,” he breathed (so low only she and the night could hear).
Lena closed her eyes, felt Sabine’s fingers still inside her, Marcus’s arm anchoring her, the slow roll of the Mediterranean under them.
“Love you too,” she answered.
The candles guttered out one by one.
Somewhere in the dark, Victor smiled and made a note on his phone: Same weekend next year. Bring them both again. And the year after that. And the year after that.
Scene 17 – Sunday 9 am – Departure
The tender rocked gently against the yacht’s hull, engines idling low. The morning was already hot, the kind of Mediterranean heat that made everything shimmer. Monaco glittered in the distance like a mirage.
Lena and Marcus stood on the teak swim platform in borrowed clothes (soft white linen shirts, faded jeans that didn’t quite fit right). Their own uniforms were gone, ashes scattered somewhere over the stern last night. They looked almost normal again. Almost.
Victor waited at the top of the stairs, barefoot, linen trousers rolled at the ankles, two fat cream-colored envelopes in one hand. He handed them over like room-service bills.
“Ninety-six thousand each,” he said quietly. “As promised.”
The weight of the cash inside made the envelopes feel alive.
A crewman passed back their phones (still in the sealed wax-numbered envelopes). Lena’s screen lit up immediately: 38 missed calls, 112 messages. All from her husband. None of them opened.
Victor reached into his pocket and produced two small velvet boxes.
For Lena: a whisper-thin platinum anklet, two tiny masked faces dangling from the chain (one smiling, one frowning). For Marcus: matching cufflinks, the same masked faces engraved so small you had to know to see them.
Victor fastened the anklet around Lena’s bare ankle himself. His fingers were cool, deliberate.
“Wear it when you’re ready for the next invitation,” he said, eyes meeting hers. “We’ll know.”
He clapped Marcus once on the shoulder (man to man, like they now shared something permanent), then stepped back.
Sabine appeared last, wrapped in one of Victor’s shirts, hair wild, lips swollen. She kissed Lena slow and deep (no audience now, just goodbye), then Marcus, then pressed something into Lena’s palm: the gold chain that had spent two days between her thighs.
“Souvenir,” Sabine whispered. “So you never forget how you taste when you’re free.”
The tender driver cleared his throat.
Lena and Marcus climbed down without looking at each other. The crew cast off. The yacht shrank behind them (white, gleaming, already unreal).
Halfway to shore, Marcus finally spoke, voice rough from no sleep and too much screaming.
“We’re really doing this.”
Lena stared at the envelopes in her lap, at the anklet catching sunlight on her ankle, at the gold chain coiled in her fist like a secret.
“Yeah,” she said. “We really are.”
The tender sliced through the water toward ordinary life, carrying two people who no longer quite belonged to it.
Scene 18 – Sunday noon – Car ride home