A Frustrating Sleepover

Ronky riffled the deck of playing cards with her thumb, cleaved the stack neatly in half with a practiced twist of her wrist, and performed a perfect, interleaved shuffle, without once letting the cards touch the dining table. Then she dealt out the hands. Seven cards to each player. Tracy and Tabitha were already shitfaced, giggling uncontrollably as they scooped up their cards, and Bianca wasn’t far behind them. Julia had politely declined to join the game, begging off to turn in early.

I was grateful the girls had chosen a drinking game requiring little skill and even less strategy. Just flip some cards, pass them around, and see who drinks. I was too distracted for more than that, my thoughts occupied by my encounter with Sam. Offended and angered by my words, she’d kicked me out of her cabin, still lying breathless on a pile of dirty laundry when I gently closed the door behind me.

Had I pushed her too far? Maybe.

Our first time together certainly hadn’t gone as I’d hoped, but she’d said a couple of things that troubled me. I’m not like those other girls. I’m not a slut. She hadn’t said them casually either. Slipped into the middle of the conversation like some offhand or random comment. No, she’d been clear and ardent in her declarations, and insistent, even demanding, that I not only accept them, but believe them too.

Sam could be such a paradox. A loner and introvert who could nevertheless slip into a leadership role and command everyone’s respect. An analytical thinker with meticulous attention to detail, who refused to wash a dish or do a single load of laundry. An avowed virgin, saving herself for marriage, who’d taken dozens of cocks up her ass, and craved even more.

I’m not like those other girls. It wasn’t clear if she’d meant to phrase it that way, or if it had just slipped out in the moment. Regardless, that simple statement was loaded with implied meaning. Evidence of the negative opinion she held of the other five girls with whom she shared the boat.

The other girls are inherently bad. The other girls perpetuate negative stereotypes. The other girls do, like, and say stupid things. The other girls are just basic bitches with bleached brains.

“Drink, bitch!” Ronky shouted, leveling a finger at Bianca, who’s red face revealed just how often she’d been on the receiving end of that command. She chugged down her beer, much to the delight of the others, then slammed the empty cup down and belched loudly. All four leaned over the table in fits of laughter.

The oven timer in the galley beeped, letting everyone know that the highly processed snack food it had been tasked with cooking was now ready for consumption. Bianca slammed her hands down on the table and pushed herself up onto wobbly legs. “No, no. Please, don’t everyone get up at once. I got it.” She plodded away to the stairs, yelling over her shoulder, “Deal me in!”

I tossed the rest of my hand into the discard pile, and took a sip of my cocktail. Ronky shuffled, and quickly dealt a fresh hand.

From the very beginning, Sam held herself apart and above the other girls. She often sat alone, quietly observing everyone’s comings and goings. She eavesdropped on their conversations, but rarely joined in unless asked a direct question. She knew things they didn’t know. Important things, not frivolous things, because she was smarter than them. More mature. She took things seriously, unlike them. She wasn’t an airhead like they were.

Then there was that other statement she kept repeating over and over. I’m not a slut. Again, the implication was clear. Sluts were fundamentally bad, with no impulse control over their base desires. Sluts didn’t care who they fucked, or how they were treated, because sluts had no self-respect. Sluts were happy to endure whatever abuse came their way. Sluts allowed themselves to be used, then tossed aside like garbage afterwards.

I’m not like those other five girls. I’m different. I’m better than them. They’re sluts, but I’m not. I deserve respect and consideration. They deserve whatever they get.

The clatter and clang of steel from below deck cut through the driving, bass heavy music pouring from the sound system, followed by a loud shriek.

“Shit!”

I was first out of my chair, and rushed to the galley. Bianca stood hunched over with her hands tucked under her armpits, cursing under her breath. A foil-lined baking sheet lay face down on the floor while bubbling pizza rolls did their thing, rolling around as the boat pitched from side to side.

“Are you okay?” I asked, coming to her side.

“No, I’m not okay! I fucking burned my hands.”

“What happened?” Ronky shouted as she came down the stairs, followed closely by Tabitha and Tracy.

“She burned herself,” I said.

“What was that?” Julia asked, joining the crowd from her cabin.

“What happened?” I heard Sam ask from behind her.

Julia said, “I don’t know.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “Bianca burned her hands taking something out of the oven.”

“It’s not fine, asshole!” Bianca shouted, tears welling in her eyes. “It fucking hurts.”

“Can you please give us some room?” I asked, and the girls crowding around us took a step back. I held Bianca’s elbow and guided her toward the stairs leading below to the crew deck. “Come on. There’s a first aid kit down in the crew mess.”

The ship’s crew quarters occupied the lowest level of the ship, below the guest cabins, and tucked discretely out of sight at the very bottom of the catamaran’s two giant pontoons. Also found on that deck were a pair of three-thousand gallon fuel tanks, fifteen-hundred gallons worth of freshwater storage, compartments housing the powerful Volvo marine engines, and the tender garages, where the wave runners were stored when not in use. The crew mess lay just forward of the captain’s quarters, on the ship’s port side.

I directed Bianca to the captain’s modest cabin and pushed the stopper down in the bathroom sink so I could fill it with cold water. “Put your hands in there,” I said, then went forward to the crew mess to browse through the large wall-mounted first aid cabinet. I returned with some bandages and gauze. “Let me see.”

Bianca lifted her hands from the water. Her fingertips, and the heels of her palms had red marks on them, but I didn’t see any blistering.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked.

“Yes, it fucking hurts.”

I lowered her hands back into the water and closed the tap. “That’s good. It means it’s a superficial burn. Let it soak for a few minutes. That should help cool it off.”

She observed me through the mirrored medicine cabinet door. “How do you know so much?”

I looked up at her reflection. “You really think I would take you out into the middle of nowhere for four months without knowing basic first aid?”

She smirked. “Well, didn’t you just think of everything,” she said in a somewhat mocking, but mostly playful tone.

I returned her snarky smile. “Not everything.” I lowered my eyes to her too-tight, nipple-chafing tank top, and the threadbare skirt below.

She followed my gaze down her body and her smirk grew into a satisfied smile. “Yeah, I guess not. You ever get that figured out, by the way?”

My eyes found hers in the mirror again. “I’m still working on it. Not a lot of satin and silk on this tub.”

Bianca held my gaze for a beat, then lowered her eyes to check on her hands. “Fuck,” she said under her breath. “I’m a fucking idiot. Can’t believe I just grabbed the tray like that.”

I gave her back a quick rub. “Don’t beat yourself up. Could have happened to anyone.” She looked at me, and I took my hand off her back. “Sorry. Forgot.”

She shrugged. “Eh, I’ll give you a pass this time, but only because I’ve got an itch.”

As I dragged my neatly trimmed nails over her back, Bianca ducked and twisted, guiding my hand to the elusive wellspring of her discomfort, until I’d scratched nearly everything I could reach. Finally, she sighed heavily. “Ahh! That’s the spot. Thanks.”

“Sure. Let’s see those hands again.” When she pulled them out of the water, I checked them closely and saw a few spots on her palms that may or may not develop into blisters. Better to not take chances. While she held her hands up, I carefully toweled them dry, then wrapped them in gauze, tying them at her wrists.

Bianca stood with her two white mittens lifted into the air and gave me an are-you-fucking-serious look. “How long do I have to have these things on for?”

“At least overnight. We’ll check them again in the morning. Burns on your hands are no joke, Bianca. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Shit.” She put her hands at her sides. “Well, thanks. I guess.”

I pulled out the bottle of oxy. “You want something for the pain?” When she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, I put a tiny drop on it.

“Bleh!” she said when she swallowed. “Nasty!”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be feeling really fucking good in a minute. Come on. Let’s go.”

Upstairs, we found the galley cleaned up and the drinking game resumed without us. Julia and Sam had returned to their cabins, and I pondered whether I’d blown my chances with both of them. Julia had been taken aback by the idea of me fucking the other girls on the ship, and Sam had taken great offense to the suggestion that she might have more in common with the rest of us than she cared to admit.

As Ronky sorted the cards in her hand, she suddenly shivered. “Brr, it’s cold in here. Anyone got a pair of mittens?”

“Oh, that’s really fucking hilarious, bitch.” Bianca groused, much to Ronky’s cackling delight. Bianca could barely lift her cup or pick up her cards. “Man, this fucking sucks. I’m still hungry. Were you able to save any of those pizza rolls?”

“Ew, no,” Tabitha said. “They were all on the floor.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the five second rule?” Bianca asked, then scoffed.

We played a few more rounds, but I found myself growing increasingly weary of the boring game, and listening to Bianca bitch and moan every thirty seconds when her cards slipped out of her mitts. I was also distracted by thoughts of Sam and Julia, and every time I looked at Tabitha and Tracy, I had flashbacks to the flybridge, and caught myself staring at them, imagining my cock in their mouths.

It occurred to me that I should probably confront Ronky and Bianca about the ecstasy, but I decided to let it go until I could get them alone. Next, I considered discretely checking to see if anyone wanted to fuck, but a convenient opportunity didn’t present itself, and everyone seemed to be having a good time just hanging out. Even Bianca, despite her injury, seemed to enjoy being the center of attention.

Left with no better alternatives than to call it an early night, I stood with my half-finished drink and made an excuse that I needed to go check on something, making no promises that I would return.

My laptop beckoned from the desk, tempting me to look in on Sam and Julia, or eavesdrop on the conversation upstairs, but I restrained myself. Let them have a little privacy, I thought. After checking the nav, I took a quick shower, and crawled into bed to watch a movie. Midway through the tense neo-noir crime thriller, a knock came at my door. Actually, more of a muffled thud-thud-thudding. I tossed on a pair of shorts and opened it.

Bianca stood on the other side. Her eyes widened when she saw me standing shirtless in front of her. “Woah, hey there, fella. I, uh, need a hand. Can I come in?”

I ushered her inside, shutting the door behind her. “What do you need?” I asked, but she’d already disappeared into the bathroom. A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable hiss of urine striking the bowl.

“Ahh!” she groaned. “Oh man, that beer really runs through you.”

I stood outside the bathroom with my arms folded, waiting for her to finish. Then I waited some more. She must have been holding it for a really long time. Finally, the last few drops landed, and I waited for a flush that never came.

“Yo!” she called. “Little help?”

“Use the side of your hand.”

“Not that. I need a wipe.”

“Are you serious?”

“Be grateful I didn’t have to drop a deuce. Come on, man. I don’t want pee dribbling down my leg.”

I came into the bathroom to find her sitting with her legs spread, her skirt draped over the front of the toilet. She held her bandaged hands up by her face. I pulled a length of paper from the roll, then crouched down and lifted her skirt. From between her pale, chubby thighs, I spied a few drops clinging to her labia.

“Just wipe it,” she said with an impudent little smirk on her face. “Just don’t go sticking your fingers in there or anything.”

“Yes, mistress,” I said in a sardonic tone. I gave her a gentle wipe and dab, then dropped the paper into the bowl, flushing when she stood.

“Mistress. I like that,” she said as she followed me into the stateroom.

I opened the door for her to leave, but she lifted her arms instead. “What now?” I asked.