Chapter 6: Emily Aboard

"Emily?"

Emily turned to smile at me as the breeze blew a lock of hair over her eye. Her bare breasts moved as she lifted her hand to brush the hair back, and stepped over to hug me, one hand on the rail to help her keep her balance. Behind her, Marcel, the islander at the helm, his ebony skin gleaming, had one eye on the compass and another eye on Emily. He seemed to have trouble deciding whether to focus on her boobs or on her trim bottom in the wrap skirt she'd changed into immediately after we'd boarded. The one that had a habit of coming open from time to time. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"Perfect, Daniel."

Her kiss was warm and full of promise.

It had proved to be much simpler than I thought it would be to set up a cruise to meet Emily's requirements. Expensive, yes, but there are charter boats available for every taste throughout the Caribbean.

A ketch rather than a sloop, a modern design, crew of five including the captain and one woman, no quarterdeck, but a foredeck made for sunning. If you squinted and used your imagination—lots of imagination—you might let the deck aft of the main cabin stand in for a quarterdeck.

Not hard to find pirates, either. Well, at least to find a crew that dressed in 18th century Hollywood pirate fashion. Shirts with wide sleeves, pants with a generous cut, wide belts. Full beards on the captain and two of the crew. No cutlasses—too much of a risk of getting hurt in a rough sea. Role-playing, oh yes. Best of all, the crew was available for as much or as little fooling around as the passengers desired. The guests, us, were under no obligation to the crew, nor they to us, but it was made clear, through discreet inquiry, that if the guests and the crew were in the mood, there were possibilities and no real limits. 'Yes' meant 'yes, ' if both parties were agreeable.

The crew came with up-to-date health certificates. We had ours, too.

The boys and Debra and Debra's roommate Jennifer meant the odds, seven men to four women, were pretty good for the women. The girls were in for a workout, even if the boys were more or less off limits to Emily and me and vice versa. The crew was mixed—two island men, two American men, and the female chef, a curvy Italian.

The captain, a genial experienced charter sailor from Florida, welcomed us aboard. In the main cabin, he ended his brief safety speech with a laugh. "In over twenty years in this business I've never lost a passenger overboard or run aground because the helmsman was distracted by a topless—or nude—guest, so please, while we're under way, keep your hands off the crew and help me keep Storm safe and my record clean!"

"Aargh!"

We turned at the sound. Signorina Beatrice, the chef, stood in the hatchway to her tiny galley, laughing, her pirate shirt open to the waist and her full breasts barely concealed.

We joined in the laughter. I'd already clued the captain in privately on my special plans for Emily, and I had the impression he and his crew were more than happy to make her day. Or night, as it were. The boys and Debra and Jennifer—and Emily, of course—knew the score about the crew. They all approved, I'd made sure of that. No surprises, even if there was no script and even if I hadn't shared all of my plans with them.

The women were topless before we cleared the harbor breakwater that morning. They stayed topless pretty much for the rest of the trip. I was available to provide sunscreen to Emily, and the boys competed to help Debra and Jennifer. More than once I saw Tom or Rob glance at my hands on Emily's boobs. I was pretty sure they were interested, or would be interested, in helping their mother out, and I was starting to wonder how flexible our 'hands-off' policy with respect to the boys might be. I think Emily was beginning to wonder, too, especially after our island adventure a year ago.

We had no such qualms about Debra, not since our experience on that island adventure. As for Jennifer, it was open season on her—provided she was willing, of course—and the boys had signaled she would be.

Just as she'd hoped, a pirate got Debra on the first day of our cruise. We'd anchored in a small cove at the far end of an island with no permanent inhabitants, although fisherman had little huts on the island for use when needed, and by late afternoon Debra was nude and oiled. She wasn't flirting with the crew—not overtly, anyway—but it was obvious the helmsman, the one earlier keeping an eye on Emily, was also interested in Debra. She found ways to let him know she appreciated his interest, even if she kept her hands to herself. Well, her hands off the helmsman, anyway. She and Jennifer made sure Tom and Rob were tumescent for most of the day.

After supper we settled ourselves comfortably on the foredeck. No one was in a hurry to go below to our cabins, at least not until the heat had softened. Dusk was upon us, the rising moon was nearing full, the sea calm, the water almost blood temperature, or it seemed that way, and after a couple of glasses of wine we were all feeling loose and happy and mellow.

"Time for a swim."

With that, Debra stripped off the swimsuit bottoms she'd put on for supper and jumped over the side. We were in water deep enough that there was no danger, but I wondered if she'd bothered to check before she jumped.

"Wait, Miss Debra. I'll come with you."

With that, Marcel, the helmsman, jumped after her. When I looked, the two of them were swimming for the beach, not fifty yards away.