‘Is that your natural hair colour?’

The launch of the super yacht ‘Mira’ was a major event. I was there because I do the interior design section of my regional newspaper and my colleague, Luke, was there because he covers local industry. The yacht had been built in a local yard and the gala press day was designed to show it off.

We’d been invited aboard for a sumptuous champagne lunch, followed by a short cruise with a dinner later. We had each been allocated our own cabin and had been asked to dress for dinner. I’d worn the gunmetal silk evening dress and was standing on the sun deck admiring the view and the setting sun and sipping gratefully at a large Calvados.

I turned to see who had asked the question. She was tall, elegant and very lovely. I’d noticed her, of course, throughout the day. Long, jet black (real) hair and flashing Italianate eyes over a slender nose, full but not fleshy lips and a firm chin. Her white dress was tight to the waist then flowed in wide folds to her ankles, trimmed at the hem with gold and brushing gold sandals with heels that were, I thought, dangerous for a boat trip.

‘Yes, it is.’ I smiled.

My hair is a rather unruly blonde mess – long but not as long as hers, straw blonde and quite, though I say so myself, glossy. I had tried to tame it over the years but had now given up the unequal struggle and let it do its own thing.

She stared at my left breast. ‘Ah, so you’re the Western Times lady. I hoped I might find you.’

I looked down self-consciously at the identity badge pinned to the fabric which covered my braless breast. She wore no such badge so had the advantage of me.

‘I’m Mira Destovsky.’ So, this was the Mira after whom the boat, well ship I suppose had been named. Her father, an oligarch, was said to be one of the richest and most liberal of the Russian multi-millionaires and devoted to his shrewd and beautiful daughter. Despite her name being everywhere I had never seen so much as a snap of her prior to meeting her like this. Everything about her said ‘money and class.’ I said how pleased I was to meet her. She replied that she had hoped we might meet, she wanted to show me some of the ship that had yet to be completed and to see what I thought of her design ideas.

‘Why me?’

‘Because I admire your work. Most so-called design reporters are fluffy, gushing morons. You write with knowledge and constructive criticism. You are, so I have heard, a lesbian?’

The juxtaposition of the flattery and the impertinent statement threw me momentarily. Flattery works for a journalist just as much as anyone else but we are supposed to be hard headed and resistant. I ignored her question and thanked her for the compliment.

‘Please, follow me.’ Polite though the words were, there was also a command in them. I followed. As we passed a table she took my empty glass and placed it then took my hand and led me down a stairway. “It’s called a companion way on a boat,’ she told me and we descended onto a deck which we had not been shown before. She moved a rope stretched across the bottom of the stairs and we walked along a corridor lined with twinkling chandeliers and light oak doors. The last of these led into a large room, so far unfurnished aside from a carpet of a most curious terracotta hue which covered about one third of the floor, the remainder being a sprung dance floor of the same oak as the doors.

‘The ballroom. I plan to have tapestries with a mix of gold and blue. We will use it for state occasions, birthdays, parties for senior politicians and celebrities for my father’s fund raisers. What do you think?’

I strolled around the room and made a few suggestions which, to my surprise she recorded in a note book she had been concealing in her bag. She was serious; she debated each suggestion with clarity and objected to some, concurred with others. She led me to another room of similar proportions. It was, she said, to be a conference room. More debate. Yet more followed as went through a series of rooms.

I found myself stepping out onto another sun deck below that on which I had been standing earlier. A bar was built and stocked to one side and she poured two Calvados and handed me one in the heaviest glass I think I had ever held.

‘So, is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘That you are a lesbian?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It does if I am going to fuck you.’

I had been standing with my back to her admiring the last of the sun as it dipped behind a wooded headland at the edge of the bay in which the ship was moored. I stayed still, not turning lest she see the surprise in my eyes. All through her guided tour I had been studying her, her mannerisms, her body, her beauty. Was this fabulously wealthy woman of whom I had heard so much and seen so little seriously suggesting sex?

I whispered, ‘It’s true.’

‘Good.’

I felt her hand on my shoulder, cool against my naked skin.

‘I can buy women but I can’t buy you, can I?’ I shook my head, not daring to speak. Her hand passed through my hair. I cannot tell you how intimate the moment was, I don’t think I was breathing. I felt her lips on the flesh at my neck. I knew the silk between my legs was wet; not damp, wet. A hand cupped my left breast and her palm caressed my hard nipple which strained against the dress. Courage came to me. I stepped away from her and turned to face her.

‘Why?’

‘Because we have both been wanting to all day, haven’t we?’

I leaned against the rail of the deck and looked into her dark, enquiring eyes. Of course, she was right.

I had been admiring her all day never knowing even who she was. She had dressed all day in the most beautiful of clothes and shoes. Her colouring did not suggest Russian blood and I had never imagined she was the fabled Mira. Now she leant against a wall facing me and slowly, so slowly lifted her dress. Her legs were bare.

‘Follow me.’

As her dress rose, so did mine, slowly up over my black stockings. Her long, slender finger stroked the front of white silk panties through which I could see the shadow of a dark strip of hair. I followed her, my own finger stroking the wet silk between my thighs. As her finger curled inside the hem of her panties, so mine curled under the leg of my knickers. Our eyes were locked as we touched ourselves.

Her free hand rose from her side to cup her own breast, to ease the material aside and expose it to me, her nipple almost black in the failing light. She rolled that nipple between her fingers and I mirrored her action. My own nipple, lighter and smaller on my small breast, rose to meet me, hard, aching.

Suddenly her dress fell and her breast disappeared back inside her bodice. I took my hand from between my legs and the skirt of my dress fell as had hers. I went to cover my breast but she moved, cat-like, predatory and prevented me.

‘Leave it, I like it.’

She took my hand and pulled me gently through a door, along a short corridor and ultimately into a huge bedroom dominated by a large bed. She sat on the bed, leaving me standing in front of her, one breast exposed.

‘Take off your dress.’

I don’t remember doing so, only that it was suddenly pooled at my feet. She passed her eyes over me and smiled at the wet between my thighs. She stroked the air with her finger and I moved to her, watching as she lifted her dress again. The finger tapped her thigh and I knew what she wanted. I straddled that thigh and lowered myself onto it.

Her hand reached to grab my hair and she pulled me gently to her mouth. My hips rocked on her thigh, pressing into her as our mouths opened to each other. Tongues danced, lips caressed, her hands found my breasts and nails bit into my nipples. Wet silk slithered over the soft flesh of her thigh. I tried to undress her breasts but she was having none of it so I satisfied myself with palming her hard nipples through the dress.

We kissed like that for an eternity. Breath came in gouts of indrawn air between sustained assaults of tongue and lips. I was becoming close to orgasm and she must have realised because she pushed me gently off her leg and stood to remove her own dress and that beautiful body, naked save for shoes and white silk panties edged with exquisite lace was revealed. I am sure I gasped.

Slowly she knelt and pressed her face to my knickers and she sucked them, tasting my wet as her hands caressed my arse. Then the knickers were around my knees and her tongue was probing between my lips, her mouth sucking each lip, kissing each thigh. I had to place my hands in her hair to steady myself. My head was thrown back as the orgasm boiled over. Her hands held me tightly to her, not letting me fall or slump. She continued to lick and kiss as my climax passed then slowly she rose, licking my body until her mouth once more conjoined with mine. Her arms enfolded me and she held me to her, two almost naked bodies pressing to each other, my neck bent so her mouth, a good few inches higher than mine, could cover me.

The bed was soft beneath my knees and hands. She knelt behind me and I felt her girl cock press at me then slide into my wetness. I had watched as she had slid the small inner dildo into herself then quite naturally had knelt as I was now to allow her to have me. I knew, without being told, what she wanted of me. She began to move her hips back and forth, her hands on my flanks, not hurting, just holding as her pace increased inexorably. She slapped my arse, not hard and rocked behind me, emitting guttural noises as her own crisis dawned. She came, loud and violently behind me. It was a sudden outpouring of words and sounds. She thrust into me as it continued, driving her cock into me then suddenly stopping, deep inside me, hands squeezing my skin as she became silent and motionless before emitting one last long sigh of pleasure and slumping, hard nippled onto my back. We stayed joined like that, panting and recovering, the rolled onto our sides, still joined by that rubber spike. She buried her face in my hair and covered my breasts with her hands.

At breakfast Luke asked where I had disappeared to the previous evening. I told him that Mira had shown me some of the incomplete parts of the ship.

‘Wow, that’s some exclusive for you, babe.’ God, how I hate being called ‘babe.’

Mira and I had stayed in that bedroom, she had taken me several times during the night and in the half light of early dawn she had made a proposal. How would I like to be her assistant and design consultant? The salary she offered was as breathtaking as her sexual appetite. I was single, without family and a freelance with no contract the paper. It was a no brainer for me.

‘I am a demanding boss.’

‘I had rather realised that.’

It was the first time I had ever been interviewed for a job in a shower, with my potential employer sliding a soapy finger into my arse as I washed between her legs.

I didn’t tell Luke about the job that I had accepted. As the ship’s boat took us back to shore and the real world I looked back and saw Mira standing at the rail. She didn’t wave and nor did I. I was not saying goodbye to her and we both knew it. I saw her hand go to her trousers and smiled. The plug she had pushed so gently into my arse moved deliciously as the boat rocked.

‘Bring it back to me on Monday,’ was all she had said.