Kept for His Appetites

by Alice May Ball

  “I had planned to do that exactly. I was about to get someone from an agency, but then I enjoyed what you did in the diner.” He was talking about the food now, right?

  “I thought you’d be good to have along for the weekend.”

  My face flushed. While I still couldn’t see him, and it was infuriating me, I had the sense that he was watching me closely. I was something he could just pick up and ‘have along.’ And presumably drop, just as carelessly. But then he said,

  “Maybe you’d like to be a more established member of the team.”

  ‘Team’? What was he talking about?

  “Anyway, dinner,” he said, “Have you decided yet?”

  “Decided?”

  “What we’ll have?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” I hadn’t. He said,

  “So?”

  I was struggling to stay on top of this conversation. I needed an exit line. Why could I never hold my own with this man? How was I always on the back foot? I had to say something. I said,

  “So, about 9.30, then?”

  He laughed. I left. I was half way across the foredeck when I heard him call out,

  “Isn’t there something else?”

  I stopped. Was there? What? If there was something else, why didn’t he just say what it was? Why the guessing game? I turned and stepped back into the sunlounge, my cheeks blazing. I didn’t trust my voice, and so I waited. He said,

  “Don’t you want to know how many of us will be dining?”

  I laughed. Fair enough, yes I did need to know that, and I said so.

  “Two.” he said. “And we’ll have it on the deck out there.”

  I was still smiling, feeling lighter, and I thanked him before I left again.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  I found some great looking steaks and I made fries, with mustard and a simple salad on the side. Not complicated, not especially clever, but if it’s done well, it can’t be beat. I bet there isn’t a restaurant in the world too smart to offer steak and fries as one of their top main courses. My daddy showed me how to cook a steak, and it’s never been anything but great.

  A table was already laid on the deck, with two chairs. There was nobody there. It was 9.30 exactly. The table was out under the sky, and bathed in moonlight. There was no sight of land that I could see. No lights, except for those spilling from the boat, and the full moon above. I set the plates out on the table, and the salad. The sea sparkled. Wispy clouds drifted above, the boat was still, apart from a gentle swaying. Ripples of the sea lapped at the sides of the boat. It all looked wonderful.

  I heard his voice behind me, “It looks wonderful.”

  How did he do that?

  He came around to one of the chairs, pulled it out and stood by, holding it.

  “What?” I said. Or something equally brilliant.

  “Two for dinner. You, and I.”

  About as wittily as I could I said, “but…”

  “Did you want to change?” he said, through that damn grin, “only, it will go cold, wont it?”

  We ate. His eyes were on me, the whole way through. His dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and they flitted all over my tunic. They brushed up my neck and, pleasingly enough, although terrifyingly, they spent a lot of time locked on my eyes, too. The steak was as good as I’d hoped. He poured us gorgeous, rich red wine. We chatted and laughed, we had an astonishing amount to talk about, and he listened to me with a fierce attention. It was all good. Really good. This was one fabulously attractive man, and his interest in me was clear, open and frank.

  I don’t have sex on a first date. Ever. It doesn’t matter who the man is, or the setting or the occasion. It’s a shortcut to disaster, never fails. So, it’s a rule, I just won’t do it, under any circumstances. And, especially, never with a colleague or an employer. Nuh-uh.

  He ripped his shirt open, the buttons flew. The table fell with a lot of clatter. Everything in my head screamed, ‘RESIST!’ No part of my body complied. His hands flew to my soft, round buttocks, and our mouths docked with an airtight seal.

  His lithe tongue plunged into my waiting mouth as he explored me. His hips drove into mine, and I felt his massive cock press against my pelvis, against my thigh, against my buzzing clit, my hot, soaking, desperate puss. He ground up between my legs, through those damned chef’s pants, through my dripping panties, I felt him from deep inside of me. We locked our thighs together as our hands swept all over each other’s bodies. I yearned for him deep inside of me.

  We pulled the clothes off each other as fast as we could, and I had him, up inside of me, deep inside of me. His sensational cock was a bonus, I wouldn’t have wanted him any less if he had a cock the size of my clit. But he hasn’t. He filled me so much and so hard, I couldn’t tell the thrill from the pain, and they were both glorious. Glorious and epic. His weight on top of me, between my to huge breasts, my breasts that his mouth couldn’t get enough of. My clit pressed down for the top of his cock, feeling his wiry hair and panting for more friction, and I whimpered and I purred. He throbbed, he caressed me, he slid softly and he plunged hard. He rocked me, slow, soft and gentle, and he ravaged me, hard, hot and hungry.

  We were both drenching in sweat, and my juices soaked our thighs as he thrust into me. I squeezed the whole length of him, and he pulsed back. I squeezed him with the wet, sinuous walls of my vagina, I devoured him with my sex. My hands clawed at his back, his hands squeezed my breasts, his mouth fixed onto my nipples. I nuzzled his fantastic pecs, I chewed his shoulders and murmurred in his ear. I pressed every part of me into every part of him. My hands pulled at his hair, he smelled wonderful, his hands were on every part of me. We shouted. He growled. I shrieked. I felt his cock, all the way up inside me. He pushed. A wave began inside me. Low down to start with. But rising. He pushed. I came. He kept pushing. I kept coming. I came and I came.

  He turned me over. I was exhausted, naked, on my hands and knees, on the deck of a yacht in the moonlight. I thought I would pass out. Until he slid that marvelous thing into me from behind. It was like a jolt of electricity. I collapsed onto my elbows. My face was on the deck, my hair spilled and my breasts bounced. My arms flopped and flailed. Only my ass was upwards, and my thighs shook uncontrollably. As he moved, I came again. He pounded. I felt the juice run down my thighs, making a pool on the deck. He pounded into me. I moaned and I came. I was melting. He pounded hard into me. I came. I shouted, “Yes. YES. GOD DAMMIT. YES!!” I heard his voice rise,

  “Yes. God. YES!”

  I felt his searing hot spunk burst into me, and flood and fill me with a pulsing force. More with each thrust. It was unbearable. I came again and I drenched us both. The smell of our combined juices was overpowering. We panted and gasped. We fell into each other, wrapped each other in our arms, I held him against my breasts. He kissed me, all over.

  Later, we came to consciousness enough for desert. We ate ice-cream. Off each other.

  My life really would never be the same again.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Billionaire

  Aboard

  by

  Alice May Balls

  I awoke in a strange bed. Not quite a unique experience for a girl, well, not for this big, bouncy girl I confess, but it certainly isn’t a common occurrence. The bed was the more strange for the huge, white mountains of fluffiness that puffed like clouds. And it bobbed gently. They don’t usually do that. I looked around and some recollection kicked in as I saw the massive sliding windows with the ocean behind them and the pale wooden decking outside. Then the night all gushed and flooded from the back of my mind, where it had pooled and lurked in the dark. The pictures rose, crested, broke and crashed over my slow waking thoughts. Oh, no. no. No, wait. No, GOD, no. NO!

  One afternoon just a couple of days ago, I had been left alone to run the diner, and in comes a sleek, dark-eyed dream of a man in a Valentino or Ermendo Zegna suit. Big girl, sleek guy. Nothing happened, but I think he th
ought about it. I definitely thought about it. But maybe he wasn’t the big girl type of guy. Well, turns out he is. Long story short, I made him lunch and he asked me to cook this weekend, for himself and his guests. He didn’t mention that it would be on a huge yacht, but maybe that detail just slipped his mind, I don’t know. So anyway, yesterday I make with the snacky food all day, and in the evening he has me prepare dinner for two. Only when I’m serving does he spring it that the two to dine are to be he and me.

  So there we are, dining on deck beneath the moon and the stars, luscious steak, copious rich red wine, out in the middle of the ocean and all alone — I can’t bring myself to think about it. I mean it was wonderful. I mean it was really wonderful. And how could I resist. Actually, technically, if anyone was going to be resisting, it would have to have been him.

  Alright, suffice it to say that nobody did any resisting. None at all. There we were, all over the deck, neither of us resisting anything. OK, moving right along, here I am, it looks like a gorgeous morning on the ocean outside, this has the look of a master suite from my best knowledge of yachtery, which is zero. It’s big enough for the large bed, a white sofa and chairs with a glass coffee table and a large writing desk. No pictures, though, no personal effects, other than my own little pile of clothes. It’s all very, very quiet, and I can’t see that there’s anybody here but me.

  After I pulled on my chef’s whites from yesterday, I headed out on deck.

  I don’t know if I was expecting to find that we were still out at sea, or if we would be back at the Battery Park Marina. Whatever I was expecting, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the view astern. The boat was moored by a jetty, which poked out from an impressive concrete landing with ornate, wrought iron lamps, a couple of benches and a summer house. Looming over it all, a couple of hundred feet back and up some very formal slopes, trimmed with sumptuous trees, lawns, hedges and meticulous, geometric flower gardens, was some enormous golden gothic spread of a pristine stately home. I don’t know how long I stood on the rear deck, gawping at the towers, the arches, the colonnades and the dozens of gleaming windows of that great architectural jewel-box. A sumptuous feast of floral perfumes wafted on the air. The only thing missing was any sign of human life. All the time that I looked, all that I saw move were the branches of trees, waving lazily, the bobbing heads of flowers, and a few birds darting from one leafy perch to another.

  When I snapped from that daydream, with still no sign of anyone ashore or aboard, I looked in at the galley. A note was on the range. It said, ‘There may be guests aboard today, there may not.‘ No time wasted on any, ‘Hi, baby,’ or, ‘what a night.’ Ah, well. ‘Please be ready to make snacks, nibbles and light refreshments, as yesterday. Check to see if there are guests before you put any out though. I hate to see good food wasted.’ No mention of how we’d been in and all over each other for some exhausting hours not too long ago. Whoever said that romance was dead, obviously didn’t know what they were talking about.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  My morning was spent planning plates of tasty morsels then touring the decks, the bar and the lounge to whether they were any less deserted, if anybody had boarded without my hearing them or roused themselves from below decks. After every tour of the empty decks and lounges in search of hungry guests, I wound up in some kind of a hazy dream gazing up at the mansion ashore. Then I would start all over again, exactly as before, only this time planning some other tasty morsels. Tasting the treats is an unavoidable responsibility of the chef, and it was a duty that I did not shirk.

  Sounds and sensations from last night drifted into mind to intrude on whatever I did. The feeling of hot skin, taught over flexing muscle in the ocean breeze, salty sea air carrying dark, musky scents in the moonlight. Wordless sounds of want, of giving. Of taking.

  And all the time, my idle wandering mind found new angles to approach how it had happened. Whether it had been his plan from the start for the two of us to dine on deck. To dine and to then entwine. Or had he perhaps kept open options for himself, between myself and the skinny, sulky Kaysha, or whatever her name was. Tanned, leggy and dripping expensive style, she seemed a more likely companion for the dark-eyed debonaire billionaire. It could be that she was his target all along. More likely than a bouncy, curvy diner waitress like me. I may have been the distraction, the drunken night to dilute his disappointment for failing to be nailing her. After that thought had assembled itself, it burrowed into every crevice of my thoughts and reproduced itself in remixed versions all the rest of the day. Those unwelcome ideas mixed and mingled with echoes of the sensations and sights of the night before to make a painful tang that rose from the pit of my gut to the top of my chest. Still something darker and deeper recalled the charges of the more delightful and ecstatic smells and sounds and touches.

  In the middle of the afternoon, I patrolled the decks and the lounges once more, checking for guests who might partake of a snack. The layout of the boat, Splash, was becoming familiar to me. My feet knew their way around, I had the rhythm of the decks, the steps and the doorways. Like any course repeated often enough, the full tour had become a dance that my body had learned. Up the steps from the galley, across the rear deck, duck into the cool, shaded lounge bar at the rear for a turn around the room, out of the door towards the bows, and four steps up to the sundeck level. Through the sliding glass into the sunlounge, across the deep carpet, out at the far side, up the steeper steps to the skydeck.

  From up there was the best view to the stern, that huge mansion commanding its hill and the expanse of grounds, still not a human anywhere in sight. The house itself was fascinating enough, to wonder what went on to occupy the dozens of rooms, and what kinds of functions filled the massive halls. I daydreamed for a few moments, or maybe a few minutes. Then back to the routine. Check the bar and lounge up here on the top deck, across to the other side and down the steps. The highest part of a boat, the farthest above sea level, is the part that rocks the most, so the stepladders either side of the skydeck felt the most precarious. Even moored up, there was a distinct sway.

  At the bottom, the shorter steps from the sundeck led back to the lounge at the rear, and there was Kaysha. Propping the bar up with a champagne flute in her hand, the green bottle frosted with cold water at her elbow. She wore a silver robe. She hadn’t tied it, so it just hung open. I didn’t want to peer into the shadows there, in fact I had no wish to linger around her at all. Her hair hung like it had tumbled off a shelf. I said,

  “Good afternoon,” about as formally, politely and evenly as I could and without breaking step. Where yesterday she had looked perpetually pouty, now she seemed desolate. My pace slowed as I walked past her, but she didn’t make a move or a sound.

  At least I had somebody to feed, something to actually do. The activity gave me some relief from my worry and confusion.

  Kaysha had moved to the only patch of shade on the skydeck when I brought out the nachos, olives and dips. She sprawled on a sunlounger. She hadn’t fixed her hair or put on makeup, nor had she tied her robe. She was like a lost waif, an unloved stray. I was coming close to feeling sorry for her, she looked so miserable. When the food was all laid out I asked if there was anything else she’d like me to get for her. She didn’t look up, but her head shook slowly. As I started backwards down the steep steps, I heard her say,

  “Be careful,”

  I looked across, but her face hadn’t moved, and her eyes were still down and lost in the shade.

  Halfway down the ladder, the boat bucked and pulled out towards the sea. Spray leaned majestically back as she cut her way across the gentle water. My grip on the rail tightened and I held on until the motion settled. Feeling her move, and especially from so high up, I had a sensation of the real size and power of this boat. Boats have never been a particular thing of mine, but such potent force makes a real impression.

  Behind us, the great house shrank into the distance.

  Someone was
driving or piloting Spray, and I wondered who it was. The wheelhouse or the bridge or whatever it was on this kind of a boat, must be fairly high, and facing forward. It wasn’t on or above the skydeck, so I guessed that it must be just below it, above the sunlounge. I looked up, and found windows facing forward and to the sides. That must be it. Through the tinted glass, I could see there was somebody in there, and it looked to be male. That was about all I could make out. In frustration I looked for a way to get there, but I couldn’t see a door and no steps or ladders seemed to lead there on the outside. The head of the silhouette seemed to turn towards me, but he made no acknowledgement, and I still couldn’t see his face.

  On my way back to the galley, I passed the glass doors of the room where I had spent the night. They were locked. Somebody must have locked them since I left. It seemed appropriate. Last night under the stars and the magical moon, I had the run of the yacht, and of her master too, or so it seemed. Now, in the brightness of day, the spell was gone, the dream was gone like a mist, leaving no trace that it ever was there. I was locked out. My access was now quite firmly restricted.