A “Foursome Moresome” story

Oh yes, another sun-kissed day of fun in the sun. The third day of a seven-day cruise to the Caribbean, and I was bored out of my mind. Hard for even me to believe, but there are only so many times you can work out in the ship’s gym, play shuffleboard, or flash the upper deck bartender to get free drinks.

I rummaged in my suitcase for my blue bikini. I wanted to read, and sitting out by the pool beat staying in my cabin; at least there I’d be able to people-watch when I got bored with Faulkner. I tied the strings on either side of the thong panty and then reached behind me to do up the one around my neck. The dolphin on my hip winked back in the mirror at me. Michael had said that tat suited me to a “T” - cold as a fish and as likely to stay in one place. The same Michael who had dumped me a couple of weeks before the cruise, yelling at me about maturity, commitment, and responsibility. Oh yeah, I can learn a lot about maturity from a dope-head who lived in his mother’s basement and worked nights at Safeway. I was better off without him.

I gathered my hair up in a ponytail and slipped on some shades, protecting my baby blues. With a beach towel and book in hand, I was ready to hit the pool.

I noticed them almost as soon as I sat down on the lounger. Man and woman, mid-thirties probably. The man had a wedding band, so I assumed they were married; whether or not to each other was hard to say. They were staring at me, but acting like they weren’t. You know, quick furtive glances, and doing such a bad job of it, I hid a smile behind a fake yawn.

I checked the ties on the sides of my bikini bottoms, for show, stretching out my long legs and giving them a nice expanse of skin to look at. I rolled over onto my stomach and reached back to untie the top from around my neck. I wasn’t fond of tan lines, but going totally nude was against ship’s policy. I wiggled around a little, getting comfortable and pushing my breasts up nice and tight against the hard plastic lounger. I reached for my book and pretended an interest in the words on the page. In reality, I was watching the couple out of the corner of my eye, and wondering just how hot I could make them.

The thong wasn’t bothering me, but I reached back with my left arm to straighten it anyway. I ran a finger underneath the material, sliding it from the top to the bottom, caressing the crack of my ass with my knuckle. In the process, I’d raised up off the lounger high enough to let a dusky, puckered nipple show. I sighed deeply and wiggled back into position. The husband got up and padded over to the high dive. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the start of his erection poking against his swimming trunks. I lowered the glasses and stared right at the woman. I don’t think her eyes had ever left me since I first sat down. I smiled widely and flicked the gold stud in my tongue against my upper teeth. She flushed and turned her head away, watching her husband do laps in the pool.

Finished with my fun for the time being, I opened my book back up and immersed myself in “Absalom, Absalom!”

Two hours later, I’d forgotten about the pool couple when the woman took a seat at the bar next to me. I was in the Seafarer’s Lounge, my drink courtesy of Johnny the bartender. Johnny wiped the bar in front of her. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said, pointing at my shot glass.

“One screaming orgasm, coming right up.” He winked at me and turned to mix the drink.

“A what?”

The look on her face was priceless. I couldn’t resist. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a screaming orgasm before? You look like a screamer to me.” I licked my lips.

She blushed and ran a hand through her wind-tossed auburn hair. She took the drink and swirled it around in the glass, avoiding my eyes.

“Drink up. All it is is vodka, Kahlua, Irish cream, and amaretto. It won’t bite.” I tipped my glass up to my lips and downed it in one gulp.

She slammed back the shot and then choked. Laughing, I slapped her on the back. “You’re not a hard drinker, are you?”

“No,” she wheezed out. “I stick to mainly wine.” She wiped a tear out of her eye and then stuck out her hand. “I’m Stacey, Stacey Robinson.”

Geezus, people still shook hands when they met? I took her hand; nice smooth skin and manicured nails. Not working hands at all. “Kelly Thomas. So what brings you to the Caribbean, Stacey?”

“My husband and I are on vacation.” Her voice was strangely flat when she said it.

“Well then, why aren’t you off bouncing the bedsprings instead of talking to a strange woman you just met?” I motioned for Johnny and ordered a club soda while I waited for her answer.

“Do you always say what you’re thinking?”

She said it in such a way that I was reminded of my mother. In a split second I was ten years old again and had just been caught playing “doctor” with little Alex Myers from next door. “I’m sorry, I sometimes speak before thinking,” I said, contritely. I slid off the barstool. “Nice meeting you, Stacey Robinson.”

Her hand touched my arm lightly as I went to walk past. “How about we have a couple more drinks and I bore you with the story of how I came to be on this floating city?”

She looked like she needed someone to talk to, and if truth be known, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an honest-to-God female gab session. I sat back down. “Only if you let me bore you first.” She laughed and I ordered another round from Johnny.

I never got around to hearing her story that afternoon. We sat around, drinking whatever Johnny brought us, and commenting on the ship’s accommodations, the upcoming ports that we were scheduled to pull into, and other non-consequential things. She didn’t seem all too eager to hear my boring life’s story, and I didn’t press her for hers. About an hour before dinnertime, she put money on the table for her drinks and asked me if I’d like to get together and do some shopping at one of the ports. I could never have too many clothes, plus I enjoyed her company, so I accepted. She promised to call me, and then walked away. I motioned Johnny over for another drink.

I awoke the next morning with the worst hangover of my life, and I’d had some hellacious hangovers before. I moaned as I rolled over, and barely made it to the trashcan by the nightstand before I threw up.

I sat on the nubby carpet beside the trash can, wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip and trying to calm my lurching stomach. At least we were in port and not sailing at the moment.

After tossing my cookies into the wastebasket, I called room service for some toast and juice, and then made a call to housekeeping to change out my trashcan.

I spent the whole day in my cabin, alternately sleeping off my drinking binge and hugging the porcelain goddess.

Stacey called later in the morning to see if I wanted to head into St. Kitts, our port for the next day, and I told her that I hoped I’d be feeling better by then. She sympathized with my plight, asking if there was anything she could do for me. The gesture was nice, but all I could do was sleep off the drink. We arranged to meet on the upper deck the next morning, and I went back to my fitful sleep.

Day five of our cruise dawned bright and beautiful, same as the first four days. St. Kitts seemed to be calling my name, carrying on the soft sea breeze the promise of adventures to come, and I dressed with a sense of anticipation. Slinging my huge mesh purse over my shoulder, I headed out to meet Stacey.

I happened to pass by the gym on my way to my rendezvous and noticed the man who’d been sitting with Stacey the other day. I assumed it was her husband. He was bench pressing an amount of weights that I couldn’t quite make out from my distance. I looked at my watch; I was running early, so I decided to go in.

He looked even better up close — sweat-soaked skin and tangy-tart body odour could be powerful aphrodisiacs.

“Hi,” I said, looking down at him. “Remember me from the pool the other day?”

He grunted and set the weights down in the grooves. Sitting up, he reached for a white towel to wipe the sweat running in rivulets down his face. “Yeah, vaguely. Blue bikini, right?”

He more than vaguely remembered me, I’d bet on it. “You got it.” I looked around. “Having fun?”

His laugh was as masculine as you could get. “Hardly. One doesn’t work out to have fun; it’s done to keep in shape. Either out of sheer vanity or for solely health reasons.”

“Which one are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered honestly. “Sorry about my lack of manners; my name’s Jake Robinson.”

“Kelly Thomas,” I answered.

“Well, Kelly, it looks like you’re dressed for something other than working out,” he said, looking at my clothes and garish pink purse.