“Jibe, Ho!” The sudden warning sliced through the steady moaning of the wind.
Startled, I sat up from my place on the railing and turned to the Skipper. Stars shattered the clear summer sky as the boom hit my head on its swinging path from port to starboard. The water jumped up to meet me and suddenly I was swimming in the frigid water of San Francisco Bay.
The shock of immersion brought me instantly to full awareness and I treaded water, watching the stern of “Good Faith” sail away from me, disappearing every few seconds behind a swell. The Skipper, now sailing single-handed, was a blur of motion: he snatched the yellow horseshoe-shaped life preserver from the stern pulpit and flung it to me with one smooth motion; it splashed down a dozen yards from me and I began swimming awkwardly toward it. The boat was already changing course, bearing away from the wind. He had eased the large Genoa, allowing it to run free, and as I was lifted up on the swells, I could see the big sail flogging wildly in the strong wind.
“Skipper’d better get that Jenny trimmed,” I thought stupidly. “He gets pissed when I let her flog like that.” He was always making snide remarks about my sailhandling skills, insisting that no mere woman could ever trim a jib to his satisfaction. I had made it a matter of pride to prove him wrong over the three months we had been sailing together. Now I had to do something stupid like getting tossed overboard by an accidental jibe—more ammunition for his oft-stated conviction that “Women don’t belong on boats.”
Bitingly cold salt water slapped my face, washed over my head. I could feel my legs beginning to slow their motion as the cold Bay water stole my strength. I remembered reading something about hypothermia a long time ago, and thought how nice it would be just to take a little rest before reaching the horseshoe. I let my arms drift at my side, just for a moment, and felt my body begin to sink. Breaking wave crests and wind went silent as my head went beneath the surface.
My instinct for self-preservation overcame fatigue, and I kicked my heavy legs and flailed my arms, breaking the surface in seconds, tasting air again. The yellow horseshoe floated peacefully a foot in front of my face. I flung my arms over it, thankful that its buoyancy would allow me to rest at last.
I looked around for the boat; the Skipper had maneuvered expertly to within twenty feet of me and had brought the boat almost to a stop. As he drifted nearer, he threw out a line with a loop tied into the end.
“Put that around you,” he called. I struggled into the loop, wondering how I was going to manage to climb aboard from the water. I just wanted to sleep.
Suddenly the line tightened around me and I was being pulled out of the water; he had rigged a line through a pulley at the end of the boom and was hauling me aboard with a jury-rigged crane.
He deposited me, dripping, into the cockpit and stood over me, glaring. The sun behind him highlighted his sunbleached hair and gave him a fierce appearance.
“Jesus H. Christ! How many times do I have to tell you? You have to pay attention to where the fucking boom is!” He peered at my scalp. “You’re going to have a hell of a knot there!” He prodded the top of my head with his fingers and I winced at the sudden pain. I looked dully at my blood on his fingers. My lids were heavy and I started to nod off.
“Aw, Jesus! Now you’ve got hypothermia!” I wasn’t sure whether it was anger or concern I was hearing in his voice. “Let’s get you below before you go into shock.” He lifted me in his arms like a baby and carried me into the small cabin. He laid me on the wide settee and took off my dripping windbreaker. I wondered why he was talking about hypothermia; I didn’t feel cold. I didn’t feel much of anything. I was very tired. I closed my eyes. I felt the Skipper pulling my sneakers off. The gentle rocking of the boat was so peaceful; I just wanted to go to sleep. He pulled my soggy sweater off, then I felt his hands pulling on my tee-shirt. I waved my hands aimlessly in feeble protest.
“We have to get you warmed up,” he said. “You remember the drill.” It was true—a victim of hypothermia has to be brought to normal temperature gradually, and that would be done first by removing all clothing. Wait a minute—ALL clothing? Relentlessly, the Skipper was undressing me. Suddenly my bra was gone, and in one swift motion he had pulled my shorts and panties off. I lay limply naked on the cushion as he retrieved a sleeping bag from a storage locker. He unrolled it and stuffed my unresisting body into the bag.
I heard more clothing falling to the wooden deck. Through my half-closed eyelids, I saw that he was naked, too, and he climbed into the sleeping bag with me.
“Why, Skipper,” I cooed drowsily, “This is so sudden.” He wrapped his long arms and legs around my body, giving me his own warmth. I remembered reading about this lifesaving method. I felt warmth beginning to return to my body, and I became more aware of my surroundings: the slight smell of his sweat, the wiry hairs of his legs against mine, the feel of my breasts pressing against his smooth chest. I nestled my face into the hollow under his jaw, feeling safe and warm.
As my body warmed in response to his, I clasped him to me more tightly. I was conscious of the feel of his skin against mine. I moved my pelvis slightly against him, squirming gently. I could feel a firmness growing between us. I held him more tightly.
“Seems like you’re recovered pretty well,” he said abruptly, reaching for the zipper of the sleeping bag. I wrapped my arms around him more tightly.
“Do you really have to leave right now?” I asked. “I think I’m still a little chilly.” I pressed him, feeling him begin to respond.
“Well, I suppose we can trust the autopilot for a while longer,” he said, settling down. The boat bobbed gently in the swells of the Bay.
I reached between us, finding his half-erect cock, feeling it harden instantly at my touch. I rolled the Skipper to his back and lay on top of him, conscious of the hard length of his cock pressed between us. I unzipped the sleeping bag from the inside, throwing it open. The cabin was pleasantly warm, and I sat on his chest with my legs splayed out, spreading the slick juices from my pussy onto his skin. I leaned over him to kiss him, brushing my hard nipples against his hairless chest, feeling the insistent stirring of his penis. I moved downward, leaving a path of small wet kisses down his chest, to his navel, over his belly.
Finally I was inches from his cock, grasping it firmly in my fist. I saw his chest moving up and down as his breathing increased. I moved my hand up and down the length of his shaft, feeling the ridges under the surface of the skin. One small drop of pre-come emerged from the tip, followed by another. I rested my lips against the tip, tasting the faint saltiness. My head was filled with his smell—the slight tang of sweat, the plain soap he’d bathed with that morning, the muskiness of his arousal. I opened my lips slightly and took another millimeter of him into my mouth, then another. The slippery pre-come was a steady stream now, and I lapped gently at it. Another millimeter, and my lips were fastened around the ridge where the sensitive head of his lovely cock joined the shaft. I began to suck gently.
His breath was coming more quickly now, and he stroked my cheeks with his roughened hands. I took more of him into my mouth, loving the feel of my lips sliding over the smooth veined surface. I moved his cock slowly in and out of my mouth, each stroke taking him more deeply, caressing the sensitive underside of the organ with my tongue. I grasped his balls in my two hands, squeezing them gently as my mouth moved over his cock. He was beginning to make inarticulate sounds now as I took his whole length into my throat. As I felt the head of his cock at the back of my throat I growled, knowing that the vibrations would create new sensations.
Finally, I felt his balls tighten in my hands and heard a long keening sound coming from him. The warmth of his semen spurting from his hard cock coated the back of my throat, filled my mouth, overflowing onto his belly, as hard as I tried to swallow it fast enough.
I kept sucking and licking at him, swallowing as much of his sweet fluid as I could, finally feeling the spurts slow, then stop, until at last his penis softened in my mouth. I released him and lay on top of him, kissing him deeply, spreading his own semen from my lips to his.
“Did I ever say thank you for saving my life?” I asked, innocently.
“I’m not sure,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “Did you?” I nestled my body against his, still tasting him in my throat. The boat continued its peaceful progress across the Bay, guided by the silent autopilot. We dozed for a while.
I felt the slight roughness of his hands against the smooth skin of my back, traveling the length of my spine, tracing the crack of my ass. I purred contentedly under his touch, pressing my hips against his. I pushed myself up on my elbows, grazing his chest with my nipples.
He brought his hands to the cheeks of my ass as I sat on his chest and pulled me to his mouth. My legs were widely spread, and he pulled me to him, bringing his mouth to my cunt, which was already wet and slippery from wanting him. His tongue explored the outlines of my delicate inner lips, probing into my pussy, lapping at my sensitive clitoris as it began to emerge from behind its fleshy hood. I could feel my juices flowing, and my hips began to move rhythmically as his mouth adored me.
He encircled my clit with his lips, coaxing it, teasing it with his tongue, sucking at it. I threw my head back as I forced my pelvis hard against his mouth. I ran my hands over my breasts, pinching the hard nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, creating exquisite pain. I ground my cunt hard against the Skipper’s face, feeling his bared teeth against my sensitive inner lips.
I wondered for a moment if perhaps I had not survived my ordeal in the Bay, and this was really Heaven.
As the Skipper’s mouth and tongue worked their magic on me, I felt the familiar electric warmth in my belly that spread through my intestines, engorging my pussy, quickening my pulse until I thought my heart would burst. My eyes rolled back in my head as though I would swoon and the electricity swept through my body in waves and shudders, controlling me. My legs clenched involuntarily against his head. His mouth and tongue kept up their marvelous work, never slowing. My long piercing wail filled the small cabin, fading to punctuating sobs.
At last I went limp, falling backward, lying with my back against his knees, his mouth and tongue still a vivid memory. We lay there motionless for a long while.
Incredibly, I felt his cock stir under me. I turned over to see it beginning to come to life again. I stroked it gently, feeling its smoothness, tracing the small veins under the skin. The Skipper grabbed my wrist, looking into my eyes.
Without a word, he drew me to my feet and pulled me to the forward part of the main cabin, where the mast comes through the deck. Gently he pushed me against the cold aluminum of the mast and pulled my hands over my head, behind the spar. I felt a rope looping firmly around my wrists, then secured to an eyebolt on the overhead. I pulled against the bonds, but the Skipper’s knots were too strong; the harder I pulled, the tighter they became.
“You don’t want to pull too hard on those,” he cautioned. “It would be uncomfortable if it got too tight.” I stopped struggling. He looped a line around first one ankle, then the other and pulled my legs apart, securing the bonds to cleats on either side of the cabin. He stepped back from me to inspect his work: I was tied to the mast with my legs far apart, my arms over my head, helpless. He smiled, satisfied.
I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. This was not what I had expected.
“There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain,” he said, drawing a drawing his finger between my breasts. He cupped a firm breast in his hands, gently twisting a nipple between thumb and forefinger. “One moment it’s pleasure—” he pinched sharply, bringing a cry from my throat—”the next, it’s pain. What’s the difference?” He brought his lips to my bruised breast, kissing it.
He traced his fingers from the tender underside of my breast, down my belly, sliding them into my slippery slit. He exerted more pressure, feeling for the firmness of my clit, spreading my juices. He brought his slippery fingers first to his lips, then to mine, making me taste myself. Back to my pussy went his fingers, this time insinuating themselves inside me—first two fingers, then three, then four.
I felt my flesh stretching as his fingers entered me. What should have been pain was now only pleasure, and a desire to bring more of him into me. I spread my knees apart to give him freer access to my slippery cunt, willing him to come further into my body. His gentle fingers probed ever deeper into me, four fingers stretching the tender skin of my vagina, caressing my womb, reaching even to my cervix, until finally I felt him fold his thumb against his palm and push harder into me.
A resistance, a feeling of submission, then of fullness. His left hand, pushing against the small of my back, my buttocks, his right hand inside me, exploring, probing, caressing. His mouth on my mouth, on my breast, biting my hard nipples. I sagged against my bonds, hardly aware of the cold mast against my bare skin. Looking down, I could see his hand, buried to the wrist in my pussy. His cock, now fully erect, jerked slightly with his pulse.
“Please,” I said. “I want your cock inside me. Please fuck me; please.” Gently he withdrew his hand from my body, leaving me with a feeling of emptiness. I began to sob.
“Please. Please. I just want you inside me. Please. Please come inside me. Please just fuck me. I want you inside me. Please.” I struggled against my bonds, trying to bring my body to him. He reached behind me and loosened the line securing my hands to the eyebolt in the overhead and lowered me to the deck. My arms were still tied over my head, but now I was almost face down on the deck. He stroked my back with his fingers, tracing a gentle path from the nape of my neck, down to my ass cheeks, cupping them, caressing them.
Whack! A sudden sting, bringing an involuntary cry from me. I twisted my head around and saw that he had a short whip, an abbreviated cat o’ nine tails, with small tendrils no more than a foot long. He stroked my buttocks with the leather.
Whack! Another sting. Whack! Whack! I could feel the blood rushing to the punished area. Whack! The sound and the stinging of the whip brought a pulsing to my ass cheeks, but a strange sensation of warmth in my pussy as well. It felt as though my vagina were being inflated, swelling with each blow of the whip. I felt tears streaming down my face.
The Skipper lifted me up to my knees, kissing my face, caressing my breasts, clasping me to him. I was very conscious of his erect penis rising between us, pointing skyward. Suddenly he lifted me as though I were a feather and brought me down, impaled perfectly on his stiff cock. I strained against the ropes as his organ was buried to its hilt in my pussy. He lifted me up a few inches, then dropped me again, lifting me, dropping me, each time burying his rigid organ more deeply inside me. I clenched the muscles of my cunt, trying to grasp his hard cock, and he grunted with each thrust. Rivulets of sweat coursed down the smooth skin of his hairless chest.
His thrusts came faster and more urgently, and I felt my own climax approaching. Suddenly there was warmth and slickness inside me as the Skipper filled me with his essence. I strained against my bonds as my own orgasm took hold of me, filling the cabin with animal sounds of pleasure.
Finally, it was over, and he withdrew from me, sagging backwards onto the cold deck, his half-erect penis flopping slickly onto his thigh. The ropes had loosened somewhat, and I managed to pull my wrists and ankles loose as the Skipper lay inert on the deck. I picked up the cat o’ nine tails from the deck and swished it experimentally though the air.
“Hey! Skipper! I think you’ve got a mutiny on your hands.” I stood over him with my arms crossed, planting my bare foot on his chest. “You know what they say, Mate: ‘Payback’s a motherfucker.’ Now roll over.” The Skipper looked at me, smiling, as he rolled onto his belly. I caressed he white skin of his ass with the whip, then raised it high.
Whack! Whack! Pink streaks appeared on the Skipper’s ass.
Whack! I raised the whip a fourth time, beginning to enjoy reddening his pale flesh. The Skipper looked up at me calmly. “Aren’t you curious about where we are?” he asked.
I poked my head out the companionway hatch and saw houses on the shore. We had sailed into Raccoon Straits, between Angel Island and Tiburon, in posh Marin County. I wondered if the Skipper had planned all this.
“Think we ought to get ready to land somewhere?” he asked innocently. I was suddenly conscious of my lack of clothing and of our proximity to civilization. I pulled on a tee shirt and sweat pants and jumped into the cockpit. The autopilot steered us placidly toward the rocks of Belvedere. I disengaged it and turned the big wheel to head us south, toward Alcatraz Island. The Skipper stood in the companionway, still naked, smiling at me.
“You’ll want to ease the main a bit and bear away,” he said. We could fetch Hospital Cove with no problem from here. I looked over my shoulder at the imposing height of Angel Island as I swung the boat’s bow around. Hospital Cove, well sheltered from the strong afternoon wind, appeared behind a small rocky promontory. The Skipper pulled on faded khakis and came to the cockpit in one step. With swift, practiced motions, he secured a mooring line to the bow cleat, dropped the large jib neatly onto the foredeck and rejoined me in the cockpit.
“There’s your spot,” he said pointing at a buoy in the middle of the quiet cove. I sailed downwind past it, then spun the wheel to bring us into the wind. The boat came to a luffing stop within a yard of the mooring, and the Skipper cast the bow line around it. Once the boat was secured, we dropped the big mainsail and furled it against the boom. I congratulated myself, wondering if he would be as pleased with my seamanship as he was with the other skills I had demonstrated earlier.
He went back down the companionway to the cabin, reappearing moments later with a bottle of Pusser’s Rum and two plastic cups. “Ration of grog,” he grinned, pouring. “Old maritime tradition.” We hoisted our cups to each other and downed the drinks on one gulp. The rum’s warmth spread quickly through my belly, and he poured us each another drink. We lounged on the cockpit cushions, watching the sun disappear behind the tall hills of Angel Island.
Soon a comfortable darkness enfolded us as our boat swayed placidly in the cove. The lights of the Tiburon waterfront twinkled before us as we sat quietly in the cockpit, and as I snuggled closer to him, I knew one thing for certain: I was one woman who definitely belonged on this boat.
The Skipper didn’t seem to disagree.