Two middle-aged women are sunning themselves in the cockpit of a forty-foot charter yacht, one on her back on the bench seat to port, the other on her stomach, crossed feet kicked up into the breeze and reading a creased paperback, to starboard.
“Ivy,” the one on her back says, opening her eyes behind her sunglasses and turning her head a little, “I think your girlthing needs sunscreen reapplied.”
“Thank you,” Renée says meekly from the cockpit well between them.
Ivy closes her book. “Did you hear something, Edie?” she says, reaching for the sunscreen bottle. “I almost thought I heard something. But I’m sure a girlthing would only say something when she’s told to.”
“Sorry,” Renée murmurs, curling her toes, and they look at each other over her head. Edie chuffs a little laugh that makes her blush.
“Give me a hand, would you?” Ivy says, holding the bottle imperiously out to squeeze sunscreen into Edie’s palms.
Renée met them a week ago in a waterfront bar, while she was trying to brush off a pushy local lothario, tired and tipsy and with all of her currently-accessible worldly belongings at her feet in a backpack. The two of them strutted over and neatly slotted on either side of her at the counter, boxing him out, cheerily hailing her with Ah, found you—! and ignoring him until he desisted. They asked, after a couple more drinks and some chatter, whether she knew where she was staying that night, she admitted she didn’t, they exchanged mildly concerned looks and mentioned that their boat was moored just down the quay and they’d hate it if they weren’t sure she was safe—
They seemed less sketchy than most of the situations she’s put herself in during her aimless fuck-you-bigot-parents-I’m-going-backpacking year; so she spent the night in one of the wedge-shaped single bunks in the bow cabin, and then in the morning they fed her breakfast and asked what her plans were, that they were coast-hopping for the next couple of weeks and if she wanted to tag along for a stop or two…?
Ivy made her move on the third day. Swimming at anchor in a small, idyllic sandy bay, miles from anywhere, she climbed the stern ladder back aboard; naked, intent and salt-skinned, she took Renée’s hands and put them to her body, smiled, nipped at her lip.
“Tea?” Edie had stuck her head abovedecks to sweetly ask, when all the moaning died down.
Today Renée is sitting in the cockpit well, wrists bound behind her with rope, ankles parted and lashed to each eyeleted end of the fat inflatable cylinder of a boat fender, shoulders pulled back against the bulkhead and head tipped slightly down because her waist-length braid has been pulled up and back and neatly hitched to a halyard cleat. She’s grateful for the cushion Ivy put on the deck for her to sit on; she’s squirming enough to try to stay comfortable as it is.
“Girlthings look better without tan lines,” Ivy had decreed, Renée shivering at the still-novel, thrillingly humiliating feel of thing; and so Renée is naked save for a baseball cap.
“Lean forward a bit,” Edie coos at her, and Renée does her best, making a little squeaky noise at the pull on her hair; then shivers as they both begin to slick sun-warmed cream across her skin — arms and shoulders, hands, neck, face, her sides and belly and breasts, back, thighs and calves, feet.
She twitches and giggles and yelps at the feel of slippery fingers between her toes, ruthlessly efficient.
“I think your girlthing’s excited,” Edie sing-songs, fingers between Renée’s thighs while Ivy works sunscreen into the soles of her twitching feet with suspiciously thorough fingertips, and Ivy’s mouth curves with catlike satisfaction.
“What,” she says pointedly, running a fingernail from heel to toe, “just from sitting there being ignored?”
Renée jolts and yelps and blushes ferociously, turning her head as if there’s any way to hide from their gentle, cruel, sexy mockery; and then takes a long, shuddery breath at the movement of Edie’s fingers.
“Mmm,” Edie says appreciatively, taking her hand away and showing her shiny-wet fingertips to Ivy. “I think she’s ruining that cushion.”
“Are you sure it’s not just your fault for groping her?” Ivy asks her, raising an eyebrow, not even looking toward Renée.
“Your girlthing’s a slut!” Edie says cheerily, and Renée takes another shuddery breath just at the touch of the word, which makes both of them look at her; Ivy circles the bony point of her ankle with her thumb, mouth cruelly amused, eyes kindly checking on her.
And then they look away from her again, leaving her almost lightheaded.
“You’re a slut,” Ivy says fondly to Edie, taking her wrist and licking her fingertips.
“How dare you,” Edie says, throaty and perfectly cheerful, and slides one hand behind Ivy’s neck to pull her in, her other hand falling to Renée’s thigh for balance.
“Oh my god,” Renée mouths breathlessly as they kiss over her disregarded body, restlessly hot at the sight of Ivy’s hand on Edie’s breast; at the sound of Edie laughing at her into Ivy’s mouth.
