Kept for His Appetites (6 page)

The milk pan boiled over and my blue-and-white chef’s pants were damp in the crotch.

The breakfast spread came together only slightly later than planned, and I took the first trays up to where he was working in the barroom lounge at the rear of the yacht. He was talking through a wireless mic and earpiece, saying something about stockholders and splits as he followed me back to the door to chase me out, and he made a motion like lifting a cup and closed the door after me. So that was to tell me he wanted coffee, and not to disturb him, I assumed. Not too much post-coital glow in evidence there.

My mood plummeted deeper, and serving breakfast to Kaysha when I found her did nothing to revive it. She looked as rough as she had the day before slumped in a dark corner of the lounge behind the foredeck, with no makeup and her hair unkempt. She at least had on a bathing costume under her open robe. She greeted my tray of breakfast and coffee with a look like a soaked and angry cat.

Splash,
the yacht bobbed gently on the sea, the sun washed the decks pale and hot, the sky was a cloudless blue and the sea against the hull was the only sound. The cool breeze delightful.

I was utterly miserable and wretched.

At about ninety-minute intervals, I made food for the public areas. That was how I understood the orders he had given me. As far as I knew for that day, food was required only for he and Kaysha, although for all I knew there could have been another couple of dozen people on a yacht that size. André, the driver and pilot apparently fed himself, although I never saw him. Unless it had been he I saw in the cabin with Kaysha my first day aboard. When I made snacks, I couldn’t find anyone around to serve them to. I looked on all three decks and in the main lounges., so I left a small tray of buffet food in the rear lounge and another in the lounge by the foredeck. The way that I understood my instructions, it didn’t seem right for me to search for diners in the more private quarters and cabins.

On my way back to the galley I heard muffled sounds from a porthole. By reflex I peered in and saw Kaysha kneeling in the darkness, a large, male hand gripping the back of her head, holding her by her hair. My breath froze and my heart thumped so hard in my hollow chest, I thought that Kaysha would hear it, and so would the other occupant of the cabin. Or occupants, I had no way to know if there were more than one other person in there.

In the shadows, all that I could make out was Kaysha, her head being jerked back and forth, quite violently, in front of a pair of sturdy, trousered thighs. Her clothes hung loose from her arms, and her big, round breasts bounced. Was I witnessing her being forced? I had no way to tell. The sounds she was making were animal and guttural. They were wet, primal and urgent. There were male sounds too, but I couldn’t make out any words, only grunts, groans and sighs. Kaysha was being what I have heard called skull-fucked. And who the man was there was no way for me to know. There were only two men on the boat, as far as I knew. But I knew very little indeed.

I shouldn’t be watching this. Maybe it shouldn’t be happening. I wanted to tear myself away. But I could not. Her head was pulled farther back and I saw her mouth, her red lips withdraw slowly over a long, thick cock. My mouth was dry, however much I tried to wet my lips. Kaysha made a loud, deep gasp and a string of sticky juice fell from her wet, shining lips as she was pulled off the end of the thick cock, and her tongue licked all over the head and the shaft.

I knew that I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t stay to watch whatever it was that was happening. Or maybe I should intervene. But I remained, paralysed, pressed against the wall. Unable to move, unable to leave, unable to do anything but observe and to try to catch my hot, heavy breath as the fat cock plunged back into her head, and her face was pushed all the way into a man’s groin. The excitement that I felt shocked me. Excitement at feeling trapped, and a massive charge like pure electricity at seeing a woman, a beautiful woman, engaged in what looked like a violent act of sex. My puss hummed. My breasts heaved under my tunic, my stomach fluttered, and my puss swelled and tingled. Watching this scene felt so very wrong.

Kaysha’s head was yanked back and forth along the length of that cock, and saliva dripped from her mouth. Her sounds became louder and more strained. The male voice moaned and rasped. If she was being forced then she certainly seemed to be co-operating, as her cheeks sank around that shaft and she sucked it, long and hard. She sucked it so tightly that I could almost make out its shape inside her mouth. The male voice groaned and grunted as she sucked, harder and harder as her head jerked back and plunged down, over and over. Without my reaslising it, my hand had slipped into the front of my pants, and my fingers made their way to stroke my mound, and down further, either side of my clit. They rubbed and pulled the skin around it, creating rhythmic waves of tension, spurred on by the sound of Kaysha’s strangled, gargling moans and the deepening growl of the man she was sucking on.

The fingers of my other hand were burrowing into my puss, up between the lips, hunting for that spot to the front. I couldn’t stop. My thighs tightened, my buttocks clenched in rhythm, and my puss sucked hungrily on my fingers as my clit buzzed and tingled unbearably. He made a long gasp and my waves of thrill climbed and swelled and began to burst like an ocean breaking on a beach. Kaysha yelped and growled, the man let out a long, ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,’ and as white, sticky fluids burst out around her lips, her lips as they pumped along that cock, that cock as it pumped and pumped the sticky spunk into her mouth. My own wild, intense, splashing, thrashing orgasm burst through me, and it was all that I could do to keep the noise from bursting out of my own mouth. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard and shaking all over.

I slipped. My head stuck the wall on the side of the cabin, and there was immediately silence inside. I pressed myself against the wall as I heard a rushing and stumbling from within. As the sound of something unscrewing began at the porthole, I slunk away along the wall as fast as I could. I got as far away as I could, as fast as I could. I found my way below decks to the little cabin that I knew. Slipped out of my chef’s whites and my panties and into the shower. Ran the water and showered quickly, all over. Tried to wash away the images and sounds from inside my head. And the water ran in my mouth and dribbled out. And it ran down my neck, and splashed over my breasts, and ran in rivers over my stomach, and cascaded down over my hips, between my thighs, and it dripped and trickled and ran down my legs. But the slippery soap reminded me of the thick, hard cock, and the thick dribbling cum, hanging in stringy strands from the thick shaft of flesh, sliding fiercely into her wet, red lips. And the soap slid between my thighs, and my hand helped it into my hot lips, and I pressed and I came and I let out a moan, a long, long moan, and I vibrated from my sex to my toes and all over, and over, and over until I sat huddled and shaking in the corner of the shower, water running all over me.

As I dried myself and dressed, the yacht’s powerful engines started up and she began to move.

Not really knowing whether the buffets that I’d put out had been eaten or even noticed, I prepared more food, because that was what I was supposed to do. And it helped me to push the thoughts of what I shouldn’t have been doing out of my mind. If not out, then at least closer to the edges. Dips and chips and plates with ham and cheeses and other little finger-food fancies were lining up on a couple of trays and I was calming down, when I heard his dark, low voice behind me.

“We won’t need that,”

As I turned, I jumped and dropped a bowl of mayonnaise. Some of it spilt on his grey pants. As I reached for a damp cloth, I hesitated. His eyes watched me as I dithered and fretted, not knowing what to do. He took the cloth from me and said,

“We’ll be docking at Paragon Hall in about ten minutes. Get your stuff together from your cabin and be ready to disembark.”

I looked into his eyes and I searched his face for a clue, any clue, as to whether that had been he, whether the cock that Kaysha had been choking on had been his. Whether the business he’d had to ‘take care of,’ had involved violently skull-fucking her. And whether he, or she, or anyone knew that I had witnessed that scene. And, honestly, what the fuck?

The answers to none of those questions were evident on his face. All I could see was the superior smirk, beneath the usual thunderous brow. His eyebrow raised slightly, as if to challenge me, ‘go on. Ask.’ I didn’t. With a tiny purse of his lips and the slightest shake of his head, he turned and was gone. As soon as he left, I missed his cologne. Was he going to put me off the boat, or dismiss me, or what? I had no idea what to expect, and packed my pathetic little pile of belongings with trembling and trepidation.

It turned out that Paragon Hall was the huge stately pile we had docked at the previous day. Perched on a small hill behind about a hundred and fifty feet of grounds, dozens of windows shimmered and shone in the edifices of the massive gothic mansion. Three people-carrier vans were parked up by the jetty, and a uniformed attendant stood smartly by each.

By the time I was off the boat, Kaysha had boarded one of the vehicles, and it was pulling away. Through the tinted windows, it looked as though there was a man in the back with her, but I couldn’t be sure. I was beckoned into the second car. The attendant took my small bag of belongings from me, shut the door behind me and pulled off. The first car went around the house, and I didn’t see where after that. My driver parked by the wide spread of stone steps leading up to the columns of the great stone porch and the main doors of the house. A large man in white gloves with a dark suit and tails told me a room was made up for me, and that a maid would take me upstairs.

The small, pretty and neatly uniformed maid looked up at me without expression, then said,

“Follow me, please,”

turned and led me in through the double doors that must have been ten feet high and six inches thick, into a hallway and lobby the size of a museum. Her eyes barely glanced back as she started up a sweeping staircase like a set from a black and white movie, like something that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers might dance up and down.

At the top of the winding staircase, we turned along a wide, high-ceilinged, dark panelled corridor lined with paintings. She opened a door to show me into a large room, with high sash windows overlooking the lawns and the ocean and the jetty where
Splash
was moored. The room had a couch and two armchairs, a large mahogany wardrobe and a high, thick, four-poster bed.

The maid opened a door, indicated with her arm and indicated a bathroom, not much smaller than the main room. She said,

“Lunch will be served in the dining room downstairs, in about half an hour,” and she left me, closing the door behind her.

The room had another door, which the maid had not opened, a large door with an ornate, carved wooden frame. I tried the handle. The door was locked. I went back to the window and looked out at the ocean. What the hell was I doing here? What did this ridiculous man have in mind? The very thought of him made my stomach feel weak. A sound from across the room startled me. It was the locked door, being unlocked. Then opening. It was him.

In a black jersey and loose black slacks, his feet apart, planted in penny loafers, he said,

“Settling in alright?”

I was furious, I was confused,

“I feet as though I’ve been kidnapped,”

His lip curled in amusement. He said,

“Nice cell, though,” He came into the room, towards the window, towards where I stood, trembling and struggling not to show it. He looked past my shoulder and through the window,

“Nice view. You could probably open the window and climb out if you were desperate to escape, don’t you think?” I wanted to shout at him, hammer my fists on him, this infuriating man. His expensive cologne was mingling with that tiny, distinctive scent of him and muddling my head even more. He said,

“Of course, you could try making a break for it, down the staircase and through the main door. You could probably force Creighton to summon a car for you.“ Now I really wanted to slap his smug grin right off him, but he went on,

“You could hijack a car by, say, telling one of the drivers where you wanted to go.” My heart thumped and my hands clenched. As he came closer, my thighs tightened and flexed, too. My body was about to betray me, and I fought for control. He came so close. And he stood so tall over me. My big breasts could feel the warmth of his stomach through my chef’s tunic. My breath was thickening and quickening. My pants were getting hot. And damp.