Working Desires: A Dirty Office Romance Boxset

by Hazel Keys

  “Well then,” I turned to my latest business partner, “Mr. Clancy, with your connections, I was hoping you could steer us toward a good charter...”

  Mr. Clancy smiled back. “I know just the captain to take care of you.”

  Chapter 2:Tara

  The alarm beeped annoyingly, right by my pillow. I reached out and hit snooze, praying for just five more minutes of sleep. It was not to be, however, even though it was only five in the morning. This was the life we’d signed up for.

  The light in our tiny cabin came on and Suzy instantly slid down from her top bunk. I tried to turn my head in time but it was too late. Suzy insisted on sleeping naked which never bothered me, except first thing every morning when I was presented with a daily, eye-level and in-your-face view of her hairless and exposed vagina, or a pair of smooth, bare buttocks, before she would disappear into our little shower room. It was certainly not my ideal way of waking up, regardless of how firm, tanned, and sexy that ass was.

  I could hear tooth-brushing and off-key humming noises coming from the small head that served our cabin, so I hauled myself out of my bunk. Blinking the sleep out of my eyes, I stared at myself in the mirror on the bathroom door. Jeez, I looked awful. My shoulder-length blonde hair was all tousled and frizzy, my blue eyes bloodshot and puffy, and the close proximity of the mirror was showing me every single open pore and blemish. I let out a long sigh and groped about on the shelves for my Lycra running shorts.

  I found them and pulled them on, then stood and turned away from the cabin door. This was a habit I developed after the second time Troy burst in uninvited, and we ended up nipple-to-nipple. The cabin really was that small. It always amazed me how he always seemed to know exactly when one or both of us were half-naked but, of course, he never knocked. Sure enough, as I pulled my nightshirt up over my head, I heard the door open and an excited "wow-ee" come from the doorway. I quickly wrapped my arms around my bare breasts and shot Troy an evil, yet playful, look over my shoulder. It was hard to be mad at him. He didn’t mean any harm, he was just being silly and flirty. Our boat’s third deckhand stood there, shirtless, and gorgeous, a solid slab of muscle, all tanned skin and cheeky smiles, with long, wet, brown hair framing his sharp, stubbly face.

  “Get the fuck out, Troy!” I snapped at him, as he stared at my bare back, hoping for a glimpse of side-boob. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat as Suzy stepped serenely out of the head, still totally naked and completely unashamed. She gave me the diversion I needed to grab my sports bra and tug it over my tits.

  “Morning, handsome,” sang Suzy, as she squeezed her long, lithe body around me. She smiled as she walked slowly, yet threateningly, toward the open-mouthed Troy. She reached him, placed a hand on his firm chest, and effortlessly shoved him out the door, closing it behind her. She turned to me and giggled as the outside corridor was quickly filled with loud complaints and protests.

  I smiled back at her. “Will you put some damn clothes on?” I insisted.

  “Only if you give me a big kiss first, beautiful!” she teased, playfully caressing her proud and prominent breasts seductively.

  “Oh, you bitch,” I laughed. While it seemed to me that Suzy was a try-sexual – meaning she’d try pretty much anything – she knew I was only into guys. She’d still mess with me every chance she got, though. “Shut up and let’s go, shall we?”

  “Just waiting for you!” she called behind me as I stepped into the head and locked the door. As I brushed my teeth, my mind wondered over the two months I’d spent so far crewing this yacht. Part of me wished I could be as outgoing and confident in my body as Suzy, the second steward to my third. There was, after all, not a lot of room for privacy or modesty among the crew, below-deck of Venus, the 161 foot, $20 million luxury motor yacht we all worked charters on. The cramped, claustrophobic crew quarters meant everyone was bound to see your junk or your tits at some point, so why should I worry?

  Plus, every night we weren’t on charter usually involved vast amounts of drinking and dancing, as you’d expected from a crew of mostly early-twenty-something beautiful people, working hard in the Caribbean and earning a ton of money. Of course, there was more than a fair share of making out and hooking up going on too, although the latter was not quite as common as you’d think. Especially since the morning after would leave both parties trapped on a boat with no way of escape.

  And last night had been one of those nights, involving far too much rum and tequila. As the last clouds of drowsiness finally disappeared from my brain, my head began to bang. I drank down a glass of water and struggled to recall the night’s shenanigans. Troy, I thought I could remember, had made out with Michelle, our normally very professional chief steward, who was still an astonishingly attractive redhead despite being over a decade older than the rest of the crew. Michelle was normally a little aloof and austere when she was sober but she could certainly party when the mood took her.

  Toward the end of the night, I did recollect, a bunch of the younger guys and girls had skinny-dipped off the side of the yacht, leaping laughing and naked into the black Caribbean waters, but that was pretty par for the course on those off-nights.

  As for myself, I remembered flirting a little with a guy in the bar we were at, and gradually began to recall responding when Alex, the very sexy ship’s engineer, began to compliment and flirt with me. Oh, God! That was all I needed. Alex was fit, certainly. A little shorter and not quite the Adonis that most deckhands, like Troy, turned into after a length of time at sea, but he made up for it with a really smart sense of humor and a quiet vulnerability. I just wasn’t looking for anything serious. Not right now.

  Remembering his interest in me, and the enthusiastic look in his eye as we flirted, my self-confidence began to return a little. I put on some makeup, brushed my hair, and, slowly the face in the mirror returned to someone I finally recognized. A little highlighting around my eyes, a little gloss on my lips, and I started to feel attractive again. And, thanks to getting up at five every morning and running around the boat for ninety minutes with Troy and Suzy, no matter what the weather or how much we’d imbibed the night before, all the tacos, nachos, and binge drinking had only a negligible effect on my body. Thanks to the work I put in, I managed to maintain my flat stomach, firm butt, slim legs, and high bust.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was no buff gym-goddess, like Suzy. But Alex still called me a knockout last night, which was always nice to hear. God, I hoped things were not going to be weird between us now, though. It’s seldom a bad thing to have a more senior colleague a little sweet on you, so long as he knows it’s never going to get serious, but I needed to keep my focus for the tasks I had ahead, and the secret plans I could never tell my crewmates about.

  *****

  After we ran, Suzy, Troy, and I went back to our quarters and showered for the crew breakfast-meeting. Around the table in the galley was a long, L-shaped couch built into the walls, and we three most junior crew members, along with Alex, were the first to arrive. First deckhand Mike, who displayed his usual early morning bad mood, and Sofia, looking typically frumpy in her second deckhand uniform, was next to appear.

  It always amazed me just how Sofia, short, pretty, and olive-skinned, could fly silently and almost unnoticed about the boat during a charter but, off-duty, she could quickly throw on some heels, a backless dress, and transform into a sultry, hard-partying princess with enough cleavage to get us behind almost any velvet rope. Maybe it was because she was only about five feet tall with no shoes on at work, which was the rule aboard Venus for both crew and guests alike.

  The door opened and in walked Captain Samson, all white hair and bushy beard, with Sam, the newly appointed bosun. Tristan, a Cordon Bleu chef from London, followed them, pristine in his sharp white jacket, and as gay as can be, along with Michelle, who carefully and subtly managed to sit at the bolted down table as far from Troy as possible. They’d clearly just come from their senior crew meeting.


  “Good morning, everyone,” Captain Samson’s English accent was crisp as he took a chair at the head of the table “I hope you all had fun last night.” Alex and I exchanged glances, and I saw Troy’s eyes flit over to where Michelle was sitting, although she didn’t flinch. “However, today is a work day, and here’s our charter.”

  Sam handed round sheets of paper that had a head-shot and some details printed underneath. When the first sheet circled around to me, it showed a big, African-American guy with a scar on his left cheek and gold where his front teeth should have been. Charming.

  “Jay Money Monarch,” began Sam. Unaccustomed to public speaking, he stopped and cleared his throat before continuing, “as you probably all know, is a multi-million selling rap and hip-hop artist who loves his bling.” I passed the sheet on and took the next one. This was a handsome, clean-looking chap, in his early thirties, who looked incredibly fit but that could have been just the photo. “Mick Holland,” announced Sam, “another billionaire and a motorcycle racer who currently competes at world level in the Moto-GP championship.”

  I felt my hands shaking as the third paper was handed over to me. I felt the breath catch in my throat as I looked at the picture. “Seth Radisson,” said Sam. “Our primary charter.”

  Finally, I thought to myself, the one I’ve been waiting for.

  “A billionaire playboy type that does actually take his work seriously,” Sam read from his notes. “As always, don’t forget that the primary is the guy who’s paying. He’s our boss for the next few days and the one that’s going to tip you all.”

  I accidently scoffed to myself but, luckily, no one noticed. Just as no one noticed as I held on to the paper and stared at his picture. Look at him, I thought, rich, handsome, arrogant bastard. My eyes began to stare through the photograph, my mind flashing back eight years, almost to the day.

  I was the most popular senior in Santa Monica High School. I had wealthy friends, a BMW convertible, and all the cute boys chasing me. I was all set, eager to head off to one of the top colleges in the country, then carve out a career, maybe in fashion. My father’s successful yacht-building company had given me and my mother a privileged life that made others envious.

  The bubble burst, though. Times went bad and I didn’t find out until it was too late. The spare cash dried up and people stopped buying yachts. My dad tried to keep it secret that his business was in trouble, borrowing and dealing, trying to keep afloat until the economy improved. And he succeeded for a while, right up until my car was seized and towed, right out of the student car park in front of all my friends. After that, well, I couldn’t even get a ride home.

  Soon, the house went too and, not long after, my mother. She was desperate to get back the life she was used to, I guess, because we woke up one morning and she’d just vanished. I never saw her again. My dad never managed to recover. He was able to explain to me that they lost everything due to a hostile takeover from a huge firm. He told me it was a billion-dollar corporation called RHC, and that the founder and CEO was a guy called Bernard Radisson.

  He also knew that Radisson had been leaking the problems my father’s company was experiencing, as well as RHC’s secret plans for the acquisition, for months. The result of that illegal move was no confidence in the company, so the share prices dropped and no one dared lift a finger to help the Swift family business out. Two days after he’d been forced to sign the handover, selling his life’s work for a measly ten thousand dollars, my father shot himself.

  So, the way I saw it, Bernard Radisson and his greedy business practices were directly responsible for my father’s death. The Radisson family and RHC were murderers and now, at last, was my chance for revenge. Bernard had died three years ago, leaving his son, Seth, in charge of RHC, and he was now only hours away from being stuck on a boat with me for three days.

  Barely eighteen, with less than ten grand to my name, no place to live, and no college degree, I’d been forced to go to work so, after a few missteps and dead-end jobs, I eventually went back to the only thing I knew. I found employment on yachts. I liked to think I was smart, attractive, and resourceful, and that helped me build a career as cabin crew on several boats, moving up to becoming the chief steward of a huge yacht in the Mediterranean.

  Happily, I found I loved the work and, with tips, the money was good. And the lifestyle allowed me to never need to settle. I had no house, no car, no family. I worked boats constantly, calling each one home, for one season at a time. Any downtime I had was spent in cheap lodgings in whatever port I landed. Jamaica, Nice, Singapore, flipping from one side of the world to the other, chasing the summer vacation seasons. Not too bad at all.

  However, when I heard that Seth Radisson had chartered a boat, I knew my chance had arrived. Having no home or real family, there was no distractions, nothing to stop me kicking my plan for revenge into action. I jumped ship immediately, flew to Aruba, and pestered Captain Samson to take me on board Venus. I even lied about my experience, knowing he had a longstanding chief steward and I’d never get that job, I went for the lowest cabin crew position to make sure I got aboard. Then it was just a matter of working the few weeks, waiting for Radisson’s charter to come around.

  “Miss Swift?” called Captain Samson. “Are you still with us?” I jerked upright in my seat and nodded, finally putting down the paper with his face on it. “Mr. Radisson is paying for his friends and himself to have a good time,” he continued. “He always brings his attorney, George Osborne, with him and they told us at reservation that there would also be three to five… erm… lady-friends joining them.”

  “They landed in Oranjestad yesterday,” Michelle piped up, “and will be boarding at eleven this morning. Stewards, a last look over the guest bedrooms and facilities, please, then into your whites for the charter’s arrival.”

  Suzy and I jumped up to obey Michelle’s instructions, as Sam called out his directions to the deckhands. The next three hours flew by as we three stewards inspected the opulent master cabin, with its huge central bed that gazed out on a panoramic ocean view across the bow of the ship, the three plush double cabins amidships and the stern twin room. We made sure the three bars, one on deck, one in the lounge and one in the formal dining room, were stocked with single malt scotch, good brandy, rum, tequila, and Dom Pérignon champagne, and that all the glassware and crystal shone. The deckhands scrubbed the decks, the hull and saw that the three Waverunners, the speed boat, and other assorted millionaire’s toys we carried were ready. The sundeck and the eight-person Jacuzzi were also thoroughly prepared, as they were the most popular places the guests liked to hang out. There was good reason that it cost upwards of $200,000 to charter this boat for a long weekend.

  Chapter 3:Seth

  The beautiful Caribbean sun shone down on Venus as she sat bobbing gently in her slip. Through the distant windshield, I’d seen the crew standing on the lower deck, all lined up in their shining, starched white uniforms, looking extremely dapper. They seemed to be paraded in order of seniority, ready to greet us as we boarded. Now, as the stretched black Hummer pulled to a halt by the jetty, I could just make out the yacht’s outline through the tinted rear windows

  Our driver, Geoffrey, opened the door for us to step out. “Don’t forget, ladies and gentlemen,” he reminded us, “you’ll need to remove your shoes as you step onto the landing platform.

  I tried to imagine how it must look to the crew, watching another group of privileged one-percenters unloading from some bloated limousine, ready to be waited on hand and foot. Jay Money got out first. I struggled as I tried to remember how we became friends. I know we both bought and moved into neighboring houses in Calabasas years ago, right after his first hit album and Grammy Award. He was a total cliché, always surrounding himself with women and bling but, oddly, we had a very similar sense of humor. You didn’t see it much in him, though; it didn’t suit his image. Late at night, though, after some drinks with only a few of us around, he could be reduced to hysterics o
ver Monty Python or Pete and Dud, just like me.

  I looked back up toward the crew and wondered what they were thinking as they watched Jay, 250lbs of dark-skin-covered muscle, dripping in gold, step out of the back of the car. He held out two bear-claw-sized hands. One was daintily taken by Jessica as she got out, a tall and very thin blonde girl in a light summer dress that plunged right down to her navel, lengthening her slight body, and gently cutting across her small, high breasts.

  The other was clasped by Coco, a dramatically made up African-American woman with, I couldn’t help but notice, probably the most amazing tits and ass I’d ever seen all crammed into the tightest booty shorts and crop top. I was sure I could see a couple of the crew members staring open mouthed as she slinked away from the car. I had never met either girl before and wasn’t sure where he’d found either of them. I think he told me they were in a Jay-Z video he produced last week.

  Next to get out was the Mick. He was a few years younger than me, and we were expected to be friends because our families were both rich and went way back. However, we were actually close because we both loved fast cars and, more importantly, motorcycles. We rode together as often as we could. He helped his companion for the weekend, another slim blonde called Antonia, from the limo. Her I knew, because she was a supermodel, and I’d seen her in some of the magazines my family owned. She was almost taller than Mick and I, and dressed in designer label shirt, shorts, and sandals with those huge, round dark glasses favored by models and celebrities everywhere. They linked arms, too, and headed toward Venus.

  George hopped out next. He was trying to be sweet and assist Valentina, a young and beautiful Latino girl, out, only to lose his footing and end up with her steadying him. She was clearly out of his league, dressed in casual beachwear that accentuated her slender waist and full breasts, with long, flowing black hair that fell thickly down her back. George smiled meekly at her but she looked unimpressed. She couldn’t have been much more than eighteen. I couldn’t say anything to him but it was obvious there’d been an evening of her rejecting his advances in some bar, until he’d offered to bring her down to Aruba for the yacht trip. I felt for my poor friend.