The Good Ship Venus (Part 1)

I eyed the luff of the sails, adjusted the helm to starboard, and turned to my shipmate Nadine. “Okay, I got one:

The captain of the good ship Venus

Had a rather magnificent penis

It was long as a mast

And it filled me up fast

I bet you wish you could’ve seen us.”

Nadine snickered. “Long as a mast, really? Gross. Anyway, I think he’d be more on the girthy side.”

She was referring to the actual captain of the ship that we lived and worked on, the Schooner Evening Star (you can see how it was a small leap to the more rhymable Venus). Captain Eric was an attractive man in his late twenties, a few years older than Nadine and me. He acted almost fatherly sometimes, though with a sailor’s sense of humor. His wavy sun-bleached hair, eyes like the Sea of Cortez, and stubbly dimpled cheeks made his dirty jokes even more palatable for the nubile deckhands, with our equally raunchy minds.  

Nadine gazed up at the starry sky for a minute, pondering the bluish glow of white canvas against the dark. Then she glanced back down at the compass in front of me and grinned. “Alright, my turn:

Alexa, you’re steering us wrong

You’re sailing us straight to Hong Kong

Captain Eric would say

Not to go so astray

But you can’t take your eyes off his schlong.”

I laughed and groaned, turning the helm a bit more to port to meet our ordered course.  “I’ve been up here since sunset,” I whined, “It’s past my bedtime. You take over, Nadine.”

She sighed, knowing full well that it her watch had begun. “Oh, fine. Still steering 185?”

“One eight five it is. Or full and by, but she’s making it pretty easy for us now. All yours.”

I stepped down to write a few notes in the log once Nadine had finally grabbed the wheel.

“You get some rest, now,” she advised. “Don’t stay up too late fantasizing about Captain Venus’s penis.”

Yawning, I gave her the finger and finished the log entry before clambering away towards my bunk.  It irked me a little that Nadine was so immune to Eric’s charms, while I was so vulnerable. She was right; as I lay in my sleeping bag, staring up at the overhead only three feet above, I couldn’t stop replaying and reworking my interactions with the dashing Captain Eric.

Take that morning, for instance. I was on my hands and knees, cleaning the sole with a sponge and a squeegee while he plotted our course in the chartroom. I sensed him, or imagined I sensed him, sneaking occasional glances at my ass.

“You know,” he remarked, “Some people stand up when they clean floors, using a fancy tool called a mop.”  

“Yeah, but mops just slosh the dirty water around, missing all the little corners.” I hesitated, then decided to go a bit further. “And besides, I enjoy doing it on all fours. You should try it sometime.”

“Hmm, let me see.” He came closer and crouched low, gaining a clear view down the front of my top. “Hey, you’re right! This is a much better angle.”

I smirked. “Go back to captaining, Mr. Captain-pants. Leave the real work to the deckhands.”

He stood up, brushed himself off, and adopted a British accent. “Don’t talk back to me, wench, or I’ll tie you to the mast and whip you!”

I giggled. “Ooh, please do.”

Our cook, Dylan, called up from the galley, “If I have to listen to any more of this, I’m reporting you both for sexual harassment!”

I sighed and went back to squeegeeing up pools of liquid filth. There was something satisfying about the glistening oiled wood my sponge left behind. But our interaction continued in my mind, escalating quickly.

There was no one on board but the two of us. Eric strolled out of the chartroom with a hefty length of rope in his hands and silently beckoned, a look of mock seriousness on his chiseled face. He planted his feet by the main mast where it pierced the saloon like a column. I approached, and we faced each other for a minute, gently swaying with the motion of the boat. He stifled a grin, then scolded me in his cheesy fake accent, “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Miss Alexa.”

“Oh, shut up,” I retorted, and kissed him. It was sweet electric charge from our tongues down through my body for a second, but it seemed to give him courage and he pushed me up against the mast. He managed to wrap the rope around me several times, just under my breasts like a corset, and tied it behind me. My hungry eyes seared into his, and he pressed himself against me, laying kisses on my neck and the overflowing tops of my breasts while his hands explored the rest.

His light touch against my abdomen traced a line from hips to pelvis, and sparked a seismic spasm inside. With the support of the mast behind me and the hand that had made its way down to grip my butt, I kicked my legs up and hooked them around him, pulling him in even closer. I could feel a sizable bulge through his shorts, which he worked to unbutton one-handed. We were somehow suddenly naked, sweating, glowing, as he drew cyclones around my clit and plunged his fingers in below (and I did the same, alone in my bunk), then rammed me over and over with his seaworthy spar. I squeezed my legs around him and thrusted back, clenching and moaning and coming very quickly in my steamy sleeping bag.


[Continue with The Good Ship Venus (Part 2)]

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