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Fucking A, this woman is hot and I’m all too happy to give her just what the doctor ordered. Her fingers whiten on the grab bar as her grip tightens, and she convulses lightly while she moans. I gradually remove my fingers from her clit while she comes down from her orgasm and guide her out of the shower into a thick, fluffy towel. I dry every inch of her slowly and carefully, and when I look up from her feet, she’s looking down on me with a small smile, and it’s one of the most beautiful fucking things I’ve ever seen.
* * *
7
ABBY
“Wouldyou like some more ice tea, Miss Abby?”
My heart jumps into my throat, and I take a deep breath to calm myself. Goddamn that Karol, always creeping around the boat, turning up everywhere. Just when I’m relaxing, really getting into my book or whatever it is I’m doing, it never fails. It’s like the guys told him to keep an eye on me.
Which I have no doubt they did. But does he have to be so freaking diligent?
“That would be great, Karol, thank you,” I say, partly to give the man something to do. I am up to my eyeballs in ice tea, but I want to stay on his good side.
If he has one.
With the guys gone—I think it’s been a week now?—he seems a little lost. I guess at times such as this, he could usually go ashore and do whatever he feels like. But because I’m here, he’s stuck with me.
There’s not a lot to do on a yacht, but I have come up with a little routine, or as much of a routine as I can put together. I get up in the morning, ride the Peloton, take a swim around the boat a couple times—someone from the crew always watches to make sure I neither drown nor attempt to swim back to shore—and then sun myself for a bit on the bow of the boat. I read for a while, then hang out in the kitchen with Chef, who gives me stuff to do, but barely speaks to me.
In fact, aside from not much more than yes/no answers, no one talks to me. I’ve tried chatting up all five members of the boat’s crew, and none of them wants anything to do with me. It’s like I have some sort of highly contagious disease. If I need something, someone gets it for me, but anything requiring more conversation thanyes, Miss Abby, orno, Miss Abby,gets a shrug and a smile.
Every couple days, Karol makes a trip to shore in the tender—never with me, of course—and comes back with supplies that the crew unloads and puts away. I really only pay attention to the food, which Chef always manages to turn into something amazing. Seriously. If I don’t watch it, I’m going to be sending Karol ashore to get me new clothes one size larger.
I have asked, and asked again, if I could go make the trip with him. The answer is always no. And with the guys gone, I am getting no information about what’s going on with my father. I can’t imagine what’s taking so long. Whatever is it the guys are demanding of him—something about territory, I’ve never really gotten the full story—I’d think would be well underway.
When I ask Karol when the guys will be back, he just says ‘soon.’ And will anyone tell me where they’ve gone? Hell no.
Another boat cruised by us pretty closely the other day, close enough to stop and talk and say hi. I thought of asking them for help, and just as I was about to, one of the crew appeared on deck and told them to be on their way.
How fucked is that?
So, I am a prisoner in a place most people would die for. A floating prison. Pure luxury from top to bottom. One of the guys even had some expensive designer clothes sent from the mainland to the island for me, which Karol picked up on one of his trips ashore. ‘Resortwear,’ they call it. Lots of white linen. It’s actually quite nice. It’s nothing I ever, in my wildest imagination, thought I would wear. But I kind of like it.
And even better, there were bags and bags of stuff in addition to my white linen collection. A bunch of pairs of Levi’s in both dark and light washes, all styles of tops, lace undies, Veja sneakers, and even a couple dresses I might actually wear.
If I don’t get out of here first.
Still, it’s pretty amazing they got my sizes right. They even asked if I wanted someone from a salon to come out to the boat and do my hair and nails.
It’s all so freaking weird.
Anything I want, it is mine.
Except freedom. Except the ability walk down the street, enter a restaurant, or even call my dad.
To go home and go back to school, live my life, continue my studies. Yeah, those are the little things that are flat-out off the table.
So, I’m working on a nice tan, I’ve read about a book a day, and I’m trying to teach myself to draw with the pencils and sketch pad Karol got me in town.
So stimulating!
Since I am minus my phone, the sketch pad has served another important purpose. I’ve drawn a calendar so I can keep track of the days.
And the guys have been gone for a week now.
What the fuck?
