Kept for His Appetites

by Alice May Ball

  I looked at him and said,

  “That’s at the front, right?”

  That grin. He nodded, and said,

  “Or we could be in the lounge behind the foredeck, or on the skydeck,”

  He looked at me. I pointed upwards and raised an eyebrow like a question. He smiled and nodded,

  “We could be on the rear deck,”

  “That’s the way I just came aboard,”

  That grin widened,

  “That’s right. Or there’s a bar area, right above here. There are relaxation areas below decks for crew,”

  and he gestured toward a small door at the back of the galley,

  “but, to be honest, I doubt you’ll have much time to relax. Sorry.”

  He could have looked a great deal more sorry.

  “But there is a cabin for you below, and a set of whites,”

  Chef’s whites? I guessed that was what he meant. He said,

  “I think they’ll fit,”

  He took this as an excuse, or a license to give my body a long, appraising examination that swept along my thighs, over my hips – I couldn’t stop watching his shining brown eyes – he looked over my waist, when he settled on my breasts, he blinked and looked up. My eyes were still on his, so they met. I felt a bang like an electric shock. He just looked like a little boy with his arm in the cookie jar. Like, OK, you caught me, but what did you expect. And anyway, cookies, right? He just went on grinning and said,

  “Yes. I think they’ll fit.”

  He blinked and pressed on with the business of the day.

  “The one other thing is, whether there are two of us or it’s just myself, I’d like you to prepare dinner. Quite late, about 9.30. Again, take a look at what’s available here. If you want anything more. Anything.” I looked into the deep brown pools of his unreadable eyes, “Food, I’m talking about. There are steaks and there should be some marlin or swordfish, but anything else you need, you’ll have to let André know in the next hour.”

  “Who’s André?”

  “André is the captain. He drove you here. I guess you didn’t chat.”

  “If he had any small talk, he didn’t share it.”

  “André isn’t a morning person. Shame for a skipper and a driver. He pilots for me, too, but rarely before lunch.”

  I wanted to make sure I was keeping up here. My mind had been to the races during our chat.

  “OK, so snacks every hour and a half, dinner for one or two at 9.30.”

  “Think you’ll cope?” there was that little smirk again.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Excellent. Obviously, feed yourself with whatever you like.”

  I considered that for a moment. An idea or two presented themselves, but I ignored them. For now, at least.

  “And André?”

  “Feed André if you want to, but André is perfectly well able to feed himself, so I wouldn’t bother. Unless it gives you pleasure.”

  And he was gone. But not without the rolling ballet of his departing buttocks under the drape of his soft white pants burning onto my memory.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  I checked the refrigerator and the larder. There was enough food for a small navy. I squeezed through the little doors and down the steps ‘below decks.’ A cabin door stood open, with chef’s clothes in cellophane on a hanger. There was a mirror in the cabin, and in it I saw a male figure in shadow behind me. I thought it was my employer from the bulk and the outline, but I heard a low sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. It didn’t’ sound like the voice that I knew. But then, I didn’t know much.

  I looked again and I was alone. In the small cabin I changed into the whites. The chef’s tunic had buttons up both sides and it fit across my figure with more flattery than I’d have believed it could. It had the same flowery lettering I’d seen on the back of the boat, saying, ‘Splash,’ right across my left breast. I wasn’t too sure how to feel about that. I wondered for a moment whether I could wear the tunic inside out. Or not wear it. ‘Get a grip, girl,’ I told myself. I’m putting on unfamiliar clothes, in a gently rocking boat. Anything could be apt to make me nervous. Little things like being watched by large men I couldn’t identify, just for example. At the thought, I whipped around. No, nobody there. I pushed the cabin door to check that it was closed. The blue and white checked pants were a pretty good fit and, when I checked over my shoulder in the mirror, they seemed to drape nicely enough over my generous curves to give me a small glow of satisfaction. Pants aren’t my best look, though. They don’t make enough of my legs. From the narrow slatted window, waving light reflected from the sky and off the water. I was determined to feel like this was all going to go well, and to be very glad that I was here.

  Back in the galley, I started making with the finger-food and nibbles.

  For the first service, I found our host with his first guest under an awning on the foredeck. The kind of stick-thin, pampered, leggy, hard-faced blonde I’d expect to see with a guy like him. She wore shiny hot pants, a sleeveless navy top and had a navy kerchief knotted tightly around her long neck. Silver straps on her high wedged sandals set off her long stretches of golden tan. Almost good-looking enough for a model. They were sat together on a couch, quite close, with laptops, iPhones and large, printed pages on a table in front of them. They seemed to be talking about ‘reports’ and a ‘stockholder’s vote.’ I didn’t pay much attention. On a table at the side I laid out plates of little, bite-sized pancakes, little squares of buttered toast, fruit, preserves, jugs of juices and a flask of fresh coffee. The woman’s voice had a soft, valley-girlish whine. It rose in pitch as she seemed to be talking about unusual loads and heavy packets. My cheeks burned. In the diner, I would have given her a few snappy returns, but here I felt constrained, thinking that some kind of ‘silver service’ manners would be expected. My cheeks prickled and my chest heated, and I resisted making any response. I heard her voice rise again and then stop. In the corner of my eye, I saw that his hand was on top of her wrist. I made sure to lay out a neat and inviting buffet, but I didn’t spend any longer than I had to. I glanced at him, just to see if what I’d done was OK. He cocked an eyebrow then went straight back to his conversation with the maybe-model, or whatever she was, so I had to take that cock of a brow as my performance appraisal for now.

  As the day went on, a couple of middle-aged men appeared, very expensively casual and elegantly mannered. When I brought trays to the sky-deck, and later to the bar, both of them took watched with appreciative interest. One, a great bear of a man, looked like an ultra-sleek sports coach, I can safely say that he was a tit man. His chin sagged whenever I arrived, and he had that ‘aw, please. I’ve been good’ look that tit men sometimes have around me. Oh, that and he stared at my tits all the time. I’d say the other was an ass and leg man. His head tilted as he tried to sneak peeks. And he didn’t look like he’d been good at all. Neither of them said anything directly to me, but had they been customers in the diner, they would have earned themselves a crack or two, and a sample of my views in return, but not here in yacht-world. Here I was feeling very much seen, and I was absolutely determined that I would not be heard.

  He had been right when he said that I would have almost no time to relax. I did snatch one short break below decks, I sat in the round common area with a glass of my own cold, freshly-made lemonade.

  I congratulated myself on the day’s work so far. All of the snacks, dips and nibbles that I put out were tasty and well presented, and almost none of it remained on the plates. The guests always brightened up to see my ninety-minute arrivals, all but one that is. The woman. I heard somebody call her ‘Kaysha,’ or something like that. She and I weren’t set to be best friends anytime soon. As for my silver-haired employer, thoughts of him still made my throat catch and I’d start to feel hot in my pants.

  From somewhere along a corridor I heard the sounds of a scuffle. Along the corridor was a large mirror
and it showed an open cabin door. In a cabin about twice the size of mine, the lanky model Kaysha or-not was feverishly wrapping herself around a man. I could only see the back of the man, and that was in shadow. It looked like the figure I had seen behind me when I came down to change. Which I had thought was my employer. The woman’s top swiftly came off. No bra. Two perfectly proportioned breasts bounded out and against the man’s chest. Fakes, I thought with a little satisfaction. They looked pretty fine bouncing under that kerchief, though. Not a tan line to be seen anywhere. I was standing, to close the rec-room door. Or maybe to get a better look. Her hands were on his back and her teeth grazed the top of his shoulder. She dragged her mouth up and down his neck, and her hands slipped down below his belt, squeezed his ass, and then slipped round, in front of him. She nibbled his ear, and his back began to arch and his neck stretched. Her head started down and her eyes rolled upwards. They met mine. A shock ran through my body and the door in the mirror slammed hard enough that I felt the floor shake.

  I was breathless. She would think that I was spying. She was bound to. Well, I kind of was. But I hadn’t intended to be. And the fact that it had made my juices run and left me hot and breathless was neither here nor there. And none of her business. Was it. And, anyway, if she had wanted privacy, why hadn’t she closed the door?

  I closed both doors to the rec-room and I sat back down. The heat was oppressive. Was that him in the cabin, just a few feet away, with that woman climbing all over him? Was it him that I saw earlier, watching me from behind as I was changing in my cabin? Why was I obsessing about this man so much? I wasn’t going to get him. I wasn’t going to snag this tall, marvelously attractive billionaire with the yacht and the driver who sometimes pilots. I wasn’t going to get his silver hair tangled in my fingers, his mouth at my breast, his buttocks clenching in my hands, the taste of his – oh, OK, break-time was over. Much more of that and I’d be delirious.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Late in the afternoon, I was laying out little cocktail sausages with chips and dips on the skydeck. I’d wrapped the little sausages in pieces of bacon, and dripped honey and a little mustard onto them. The tit man – well? Nobody introduces me, what am I going to call him? The tit man takes his time watching me come in, watching me lay out the plates, the dips, cutlery, napkins, watches me take the empty tray back down the steps. Watches especially whenever I lean forwards. When I come back with cups, glasses, coffee and juices he watches again. He doesn’t stop whatever it is that he’s saying. Doesn’t miss a beat. But he also doesn’t miss a chance to watch my breasts moving under the tunic. And the legman is getting his sneaky eyeful, too. I don’t catch whether the man that my interest centers on is watching or not. Kaysha came over, almost running. As she got up close, she collided with the tray I was picking up, and dips went flying. Guacamole and red salsa dip was all over my pants. She said,

  “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” in that odd kind of rattling purr that she has, and as she said it she practically poured a cup of hot honey and mustard down the inside of my leg. I grabbed a couple of napkins and cleaned up the best I could, and I felt our host’s hand firm, heavy and warm on my shoulder. My cheeks were burning, hotter than my thigh was from the hot sauce. He said,

  “Don’t worry. André will clean up. There should be a spare uniform in the cabin next to yours. Just take your time. Take a shower if you need it, we’ll all be fine.” and he looked at me. His eyes were smoldering, but I couldn’t read the look on his face. I felt so stupid. Nothing makes an adult feel stupid quite like having sticky, multi-colored food on your clothes in public. I looked at Kaysha and she was wearing one of those innocent little girl looks. I wondered how far it was from the skydeck to the water if you took the quick way. I made a hasty withdrawal, with no feeling of poise or elegance whatsoever.

  In the shower room below decks, I was able to sponge off the tunic, I didn’t even have to take it off. The pants were a wreck. I shrugged them to the floor and headed for the adjacent cabin to hunt for spare clothes. This little cabin, same size and layout as mine, was recently occupied. Maybe currently. There were a couple of books and magazines, there were women’s clothes in the drawers and hanging in the closet. I found a fresh pair of chef’s pants. I was afraid they would be too small, but no, the opposite. These were bigger than mine. That was kind of a surprise. Maybe I could find a belt or something to tie them with.

  I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The buttons on the tunic were still open on one side, down to the waist. It was wet at the side, right where it said, ‘Splash.’ A big hunk of creamy breast swelled and fell under my white bra, there in the shadow. Otherwise, the tunic covered me down to the top of my black, sheer panties, and my legs were naked below. For some reason I started to remember him on the skydeck coming over, coming up behind me. Feeling him, behind me. The weight of his hand on my shoulder. The heat of his body, just behind me. Just behind my ass. I could have leande back, and felt the whole of his body against my back. I remembered the feeing and the taste of his finger, in the diner. My breath got thicker. I felt heat in my panties, warmth and wetness. The scent rose to my nostrils. Food and feeding is always a sensual business, but I didn’t feel like this working in the diner. Not even on nights. Not even on the sticky hot, funky hot, summer nights.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  As the sun was going down, I was putting sliced ham and cheese, some olives and dressed watercress and spinach leaves onto a tray when I realized that the boat was moving. All day, we’d been bobbing on the water, but still in the marina, and I had got used to the idea that we weren’t going to go anywhere. Well, now we were going somewhere. Where, I hadn’t the slightest idea. Could be around the island, could be Spain for all I knew. I took the tray to the skydeck. No-one there. I went to the bar, nobody. I got to the sunlounge behind the empty foredeck, and I thought that was empty, too. As I turned to leave, I heard his low voice, coming from a chair in a dark corner.

  “No tasty snacks for me, then?”

  The evening sun was so strong from the side, and it made the shadow so deep that I could hardly see him. It was him, I knew his voice. And I felt like he’d caught me. Caught me at something I shouldn’t have been doing. It was like he’d caught me thinking about him. I felt so ridiculous. Was he trying to catch me out? What was he doing, hiding in a corner on his own boat? And why did I feel so hot, so clumsy, so gawky like this. I went to a low table, and started to put out the snacks.

  “They look great.” he said, and then, “It’s all been excellent.”

  I felt him looking at me. Like he was waiting to weigh my response. But I still couldn’t even see him. It was just my over-active imagination, that’s what I told myself. Still, the crockery rattled as I bent to lay it all out.

  He said, “Are you pleased?”

  Me? I hadn’t been making all these little finger-food treats for me. Well, I had tasted them, of course. You have to. You always need to taste food that you’re preparing. But what did it matter whether I was pleased or not? Still, there were only the two of us here, even though I couldn’t see him. With nobody else around, I didn’t have his guests to defer or demur to, or whatever it is that you’re supposed to do to the guests in silver service, and I was determined to take the opportunity to talk to him like a person, and not someone constrained in a role. Professionally, not like some kind of a servant. But still I wanted to hold myself in check. My mouth is a demon for leading me into all kinds of trouble, and I didn’t want this situation getting out of hand. I raised a hand to try and shield my eyes, to get a chance to see him. No good, I could barely make out his shape in the chair. I said,

  “I’ve been quite happy with the food that I served, yes. With no preparation, no warning of what I ingredients I was going to have or what I would have to work with,” how was I doing? Was I sounding professional, like I knew what I was doing? Did I sound like I was on top of the situation? I could
n’t tell. “There were plenty of tasty things in the galley, and I think I made,” OK, don’t go too far, “I think I made quite a nice variety of refreshments and repasts.” ‘Refreshments and repasts.’ Cute. That’ll do, girl, you got out of that just fine. Don’t say any more now.

  “Were there many complaints?” Oh, there you go. Like a little sauce with that? More spice maybe? You idiot, my inner voice growled. His voice was a quiet rumble.

  “Not too many, no. Although the way that you wore the dips got some attention,” he paused. My heart thumped. My mouth was dry. I waited for what felt like a long time. At last he went on,

  “Mostly flattering attention, you may be pleased to know.”

  I could hear his grin. And I knew that I wasn’t imagining it.

  “Well, one of your guests seemed to think that the dips would look better on me. Who am I to argue?” was what I wanted to say. But I managed to hold that one back. Instead, I said,

  “So, why did you ask me to do this? It looks like you have someone already, and if she had quit, or got fired or was off this weekend, I’m sure you could easily have got someone from an agency. Why me?”