A vacation in Jamaica seemed a good solution to our recent marital problems. Cathy and I had not been getting on that well recently. To put it bluntly, I’d been caught with my pants down. Actually, she’d caught me with my pants and underwear down with my little blonde secretary kneeling in front of me, stark naked, and my hard dick in her mouth! Cathy had blown a fuse; calling me every name under the sun and throwing young Pippa out onto the street wearing nothing but her smeared lipstick. Cathy hadn’t spoken to me for ages and, to be honest, it was becoming a major drag – the vacation was by way of an apology. I really hoped it worked. Cathy was a beautiful woman and I didn’t want to lose her over a brief flirtation with Pippa. Mind you, if we could get things back on track, it would have been worth it – Pippa was a horny little bitch – just nineteen years old – and I’d been taking her back to my house during our lunchtime at least three times a week for the last month or so. She would do just about anything I asked – and I asked quite a lot! When Cathy came home unexpectedly and caught us, we’d been at it for nearly an hour. I can remember thinking at the time that it was a good job she hadn’t been twenty minutes earlier; then she would have seen me with my dick so far up Pippa’s young butt, I thought I’d split her in half!
The vacation started well. The sun shone brightly and tanned our skin. We relaxed and Cathy even started talking to me a little. Not much, but just enough to make me think she had mellowed a little. The boat trip was my idea and I thought Cathy would appreciate it.
“What the fuck do I want with a boat trip?” she almost yelled at me when I told her it was all planned.
I tried my best to describe the wonderful sunbathing she would be able to do. I talked my butt off for half an hour telling her that we would be the only tourists on the yacht and that we could enjoy a romantic lunch and then swim in the clear blue ocean in the late afternoon sun. Cathy listened to my rambling’s with a sneer on her face, but I knew her well, knew what she liked. She was definitely coming round to the idea.
I had known Alan Cooper – or “Capt’n Coop” as he liked to be called – for about two years. My business dealings had brought me to this area on several occasions. Coop owned and skippered a forty foot yacht and hired it for charters to tourists. It was early in the season and I’d had no problem getting him to agree to a private charter for the day. We’d haggled a bit over the lunch menu, but when I thrust another few large bills into his calloused hand, he’d smiled and told me that I would not be disappointed.
Cathy and I arrived on the quay side at nine sharp. Coop was already aboard and quickly introduced us to his two man crew, James’s and Fin. Coop explained that both of these college boys were his son’s and that they would help sail the boat and look after us. They were both good looking lads with the dark, swarthy complexion of long term local residents. I briefly wondered how Coop had managed to sire two boys so late in life – I’d always had his age at no less than sixty – but when you saw all three together, the family likeness was unmistakable.
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