“Get your own beer, Bob,” I playfully snapped. I turned away from him. Slowly, seductively, I lifted a glass of sparkling champagne to my lips, pulling just a trace of the thick, sweet liquid into my mouth and swallowing it.
“Please Natty … the cooler’s right there at your feet.”
I glared at him. He infuriated me. Then why did you marry him … twice? I scornfully asked myself.
I watched as he stood and crossed the back of the boat to where I was sitting. “Baby, what’s wrong? Is your back acting up again?”
I looked at him and then our mutual friend Chris before my gaze fell to my lap. “I’m fine. Just a little tired and so fucking sick of this boat,” I said in my whiniest, most demanding tone.
He was very much accustomed to this tone. He heard it every day. “Natty, please. You wanted this weekend as much as I did … as much as we all did.”
I silently relived the conversation I had shared with my husband Robert the night before. He’s right, I reasoned. It had been my idea to take the weekend trip to island off the coast of California. I glanced at the island in the horizon and sighed. Thoughts of the bar at my favorite hotel entered my mind. I could see the dust-covered, hanging booth lights, hear the sound of a martini being shaken at the bar, and smell the stale cigarette smoke that lingered everywhere. My senses felt overloaded yet they longed to be submerged there. The bar was posh and exclusive and I could flirt and drink until I passed out, Which is precisely what I plan to do this evening, I reminded myself.
I mentally returned to the back of the speed boat only to observe the latest rants of our mutual friend Chris. “See? The future … the future is closer than what we think it is. Someday, someday there will be phones … in our cars, in our fucking cars. Someday, there will be a computer in every home, small computers that we can take with us … hold in our laps.”
“You want to hold a computer … in your lap?” I smugly retorted.
“I want to hold many things in my lap, my dear.” Chris was a flirt, even with his best friend’s wife.
“We’ve got much bigger fish to fry, what with Reagan putting a woman in the Supreme Court. What the fuck was Ron thinking?”
I batted my eyes at my husband. “Maybe he was thinking that he likes pussy and that if he’s noticeable feminist, Nancy will give him a little more action in the master suite of the White House.”
Chris threw his head back and loudly chuckled. “Natalia, you’re ability to properly use the words pussy and White House in the same sentence astonishes me.”
“Save it, Chris. Using the word pussy when discussing the White House is common practice among our crowd,” I replied with a wave of my hand. My hands were often moving at the same time my mouth was. I tried to be expressive in every aspect in my life, even with sarcastic retorts, and my tone and body language was always a part of the performance I called life.
I tipped back and emptied the last gulp of bubbling drink from the flute into my mouth before making my way to the wet bar for a refill. The champagne was working in my system, calming me, relaxing me. I watched the amber liquid fill the glass when Bob stepped up behind me. He stopped only when his body was against mine. I could feel the bulge in the front of his pants and I discreetly rolled my eyes.
“You need daddy to get you some medicine, baby?”
“What I need is for you to back the fuck off,” I snapped.
Robert, or Bob as I liked to call him, was a sensitive, older man. Extremely good looking and successful, Bob wasn’t a fraction as sought after as I was in the industry. He was competitive with me, even being a male actor, and although he knew I loved him he wondered just how much.
“Natty, baby … you know I just want you comfortable. Didn’t you listen to what Doc Stevens said? He wants you comfortable at all times.”
I turned to Bob and pinched my face in a disgusted expression. I glared at him through my eyelashes and quietly said, “Dr. Stevens wants to keep me sick so I keep paying him to treat me.” From the corner of my eye I noticed movement near my sternum. The pink capsule in Bob’s opened hand called to me and I drew in a sharp, shallow breath. I loved Darvon, the painkiller being cradled in the palm of Bob’s hand. I loved how it numbed me, kept my aches and pains from consuming me, kept me apart from the world, retained in my own bubble while everything outside my orb kept spinning.
I also knew that the pill in my husband’s hand was his tool for controlling me. Much like handcuffs to a criminal, Darvon was Bob’s restraining device for me when I was out of control. And I was out of control. My vulgar language and quick responses were telltale signs that I wasn’t going to be messed with.
Much like my unpleasant behavior, my stomach reminded me of my severe motion sickness. The churning discomfort inside me was strong. “Oh … I’m queasy.” I pushed his hand away and walked around him and to the side of the boat. I leaned over the hull and focused on the moving water beneath me. The ocean water was crystal clear and glassy, and I hoped the cool air and change of visual focus would ease my physical distress.
It didn’t. “Oh Bob,” I cried. I sloppily made my way to the closest place to sit.
“Natty, baby,” Bob returned, his tone higher and more loving than before. He helped me lean back in an overstuffed chair and fanned me with a frilly pillow. He handed me a seasickness pill, Cyclivine, and I quickly swallowed it without liquid. Bob turned and shouted, “Stop the boat, Dave.”
Dave, Robert’s friend and the boat’s captain, was a quiet man. He was huge and ruggedly handsome, and basically there to do whatever Bob told him to do. “Yes sir,” his deep gruff voice said from behind a window. I didn’t care for Dave. There was something off about him but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. The pill was a godsend but it made me tired. Before another word was spoken, I started spinning and against my own wishes, I slipped into a light slumber.
.
I awoke to a loud thump. Startled, I sat up quickly and noticed both Bob and Chris on the floor of the boat laughing.
“You two clowns,” I moaned, wiping a little wetness from the corner of my mouth. I glanced out over the side of the boat and noticed that we weren’t moving.
“Show us, Natty. Show us your infamous steps from West Side Story. Please,” Bob begged.
“Oh Bob, no. I’ve shown you those steps a hundred times.”
“Please?” Bob asked again.
Chris quickly stood. “I’ll do it.” He held one had bent across his chest and the other bent but in the air and started spinning around and singing, “I feel pretty … oh, so pretty …”
I watched him, dancing off beat and singing out of tune, and I couldn’t keep from laughing. With mocked exasperation, I stood and huffed. “Stop. Please stop. You’re just butchering it.” I waited for them to open up some space on the deck before I cleared my throat and lifted my arms. Just like I had twenty years before, I spun around, singing the infamous tune like it was being filmed at the studio.
I finished the song and dance with a curtsey. My audience, Bob and Chris, stood and approached me. Both clapping and smiling, I knew my performance on the back of the boat hadn’t left them wanting.
“You know, Natty, I still can’t believe they didn’t let you sing your own songs in that production.” Chris swayed with the movement of the boat.
“Well, twenty years ago, I didn’t have the chops to pull of such musical numbers. Now … I’d out sing Marni in a heartbeat.”
“No fucking doubt,” Chris added.
I watched Bob’s eyes scale down my body to my toes then back to my eye line. “You’d out do her with more than just your voice.”
I glanced down at my apparel. My 43 year old body, although tight, healthy and still desirable, was well hidden by the floor-length sundress I was wearing. The only hint of sexuality I cared to show was a little cleavage because of the love I had for my own hardy tits.
Bob grinned. “Let’s recreate the scene from the back of the car. You know the one I’m talking about, don’t you, darling? The scene with you and Warren.”
Warren, I internally sighed. The thought of Warren, of the time we spent together on screen and off, instantly caused moisture to saturate my panties. I was so infatuated by Warren that mere thoughts of him aroused me.
“Yes,” I said, pulling my husband to a bench along the very rear of the boat. We sat at the same time and I wasted not a moment in wrapping my arms around Bob’s neck and pulling his lips to mine.
I kissed Bob with passion and fervor. Thoughts of Warren mixed with the love I had for my husband fueled the fiery kiss, like lighter fluid to a match, and the heat between us was rising. He nibbled on my tongue and pulled my bottom lip into his mouth, gently sucking it. He nipped at my lip with his teeth and I moaned. I loved it when Bob used his teeth on me. I pulled on him harder when he stopped to catch his breath.
“Bob, I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you forever. I’ll do anything you want, Bob.” I gazed deep into his eyes, only moving my gaze to watch the corners of his mouth turn up. I knew Bob loved to reenact the scene from the movie I had done with Warren. I counted in my head, exactly 10 seconds, and like we had done a hundred times before, we slowly, softly kissed each other the way I have kissed Warren in the film.
The kiss grew in intensity and I melted into my husband. Our hands pulled on each other. Our tongues and lips enmeshed together to the point that I couldn’t tell where my mouth started and his stopped.
“Oh Natty, I want you.”
I glanced at Chris then looked at my husband. “Send him away. Send him below,” I whispered.
“I get sick down there,” Chris said. It was obvious that he could hear us. He turned as he added, “I’ll just look away.”
Bob’s hand worked to lift the heavy fabric of my dress and I closed my eyes. “He’s going to watch,” I whined.
“No! No, I won’t. I promise.”
Bob chuckled and we both knew that Chris’s promise was as transparent as a piece of freshly cleaned glass. I was ready to move our adventure to the cabin of the boat when I felt Bob’s hand rub the outside of my thigh. I shivered. I loved it when Bob touched my legs, and suddenly I didn’t care about Chris or his wandering gaze.
“I’ll do anything you want, Bob.”
Bob smirked, a predatory grin I knew well. He wanted forbidden sex, hot, rough sex that would leave both of us spent and tender, and surprisingly, I wanted to give it to him.
Bob's lips took mine again. We kissed maniacally, pulling on the other’s clothing until we were both stripped down to nothing.
“You know what I want,” Bob said through a sigh. His eyes searched my body until they landed on my privates.
I walked backwards, slowly, cautiously, until I touched the wet bar I knew was behind me. Without letting my gaze leave him, I moved the stool under the bar until it was positioned where I could use it. I sat on the very corner of the stool. Even at my age, I was flexible. I lifted and spread my legs high in the air to show my husband my wet sex.
I watched Bob run his tongue along his bottom lip. Instantly, I felt a gush of warm moisture just inside my pussy. I called for Bob with my eyes and habitually, he reacted to my pleading expression. He rapidly approached me, fell to his knees, and forcefully buried his face between my legs.
His tongue spread my pussy lips and entered me, thick and wet. Bob was an aggressive lover. He wasted no time in fucking me with his tongue, occasionally working my clit over with his lips and teeth.