A yacht for two… and more

Katya and I were that "perfect" couple, the kind everyone sighed about: "How lucky you are." I was a thirty-four-year-old owner of a small construction company; Katya was twenty-nine, a former gold medalist with honors, and now a happy housewife who managed to run the house so well that even my mother couldn't find fault. Katya always did everything right. She cooked right, dressed right, had sex right. We both came almost on schedule, after which she would gently dry herself off, kiss my cheek, and whisper, "Goodnight, honey, you have to get up early tomorrow." I adored her. And at the same time, I was suffocating. Because behind this correctness lurked a woman who, back in college, secretly read Fifty Shades under her desk and blushed to the ears whenever I accidentally caught her doing so. She'd quickly close the tab and say, "That's stupid, I was just curious." And then we'd make love missionary style because "it's safer and more hygienic." I knew she was jealous of me, even for the slightest hint of air. If any girl at a company party looked at me for more than three seconds, Katya would become an ice queen for the entire evening. But she never flirted. Never. Even when I deliberately left her alone in the company of my friends, she acted as if she were at a diplomatic reception. I wanted to break that armor. Not destroy it, but break it. So that she would finally feel what it was like to be desired not just by me, but by everyone who saw her. So that instead of the eternal "what if someone thinks badly," a predatory "let them look" would appear in her eyes, for once. So when I was offered to rent a yacht in Croatia for two weeks, I said “yes” faster than she could open her mouth with her usual “let’s go to Turkey, everything is included and it’s safe.” "Just the two of us?" she asked suspiciously when I showed her the photos. "No," I answered honestly. "There will be a captain and a sailor. It's a small yacht, only thirty-eight feet. We can't handle it without a crew." She frowned. I could see the gears turning in her head: "two strange men, cramped space, the sea, alcohol..." "But none of our guys will see," I added softly. "Complete anonymity. And I'll be there twenty-four hours a day." She gave in. As always, after logically weighing the pros and cons. We flew into Split, and two hours later we were moored in the small marina of Trogir. The yacht was called "Luna"—snow white with dark blue stripes, neat, just the way Katya liked it. Captain Marco—forty-five years old, tanned, with a graying beard and eyes the color of old whiskey—shaked my hand as if we'd known each other for ten years. Sailor Luka—tall, twenty-eight, with a swimmer's shoulders and a slight smile—immediately looked at my wife a little longer than necessary. Katya was in her usual "correct" look: a white blouse buttoned up to the top, light linen trousers, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. Not a single extra inch of skin was visible. "Welcome aboard," Marko said in English with a soft Croatian accent. "I'll show you to your cabin." Our cabin was in the bow—a wide bed, a porthole right above the pillow, a tiny bathroom. The crew cabin was in the stern. Between us was the saloon and the galley. Cramped. Very cramped. The first day passed quietly. We cast off and headed out to sea. Katya sat on the bow in her blouse and hat, studiously ignoring the way the wind kept pressing the thin fabric against her chest. I saw Luka, standing at the wheel, glance at her figure a couple of times. Marco pretended not to notice, but I noticed the corner of his mouth quirk up as my wife awkwardly adjusted her blouse. That evening, we drank local white wine on the stern. The sun had already set, but it was still warm. Katya relaxed a little—two glasses had done their job. She even let me unbutton the top button of her blouse "just because it was hot." "You have a beautiful wife," Marco said, looking not at me, but straight at her. "Very... proper." Katya blushed and turned away to the water. We spent the night in the cabin. She was aroused—I could feel it from the way she kissed me hungrily. But she still came quietly, burying her face in my shoulder, as if afraid someone would hear. On the second day, I insisted she wear a swimsuit. The very one she'd bought "just in case" back home—a one-piece, black, high-waisted one-piece. But even in it, she looked killer. Her full C-cup breasts, her slim waist, her rounded hips—the yacht accentuated all of this in a particularly striking way. We dropped anchor in a small bay. The water was emerald and clear. "Let's go swimming?" I suggested. Katya glanced back at the deck. Marco and Luka were busy with their duties—pulling up the awning and checking the ropes. “Only if you’re first,” she said. I jumped in. The water was perfect. When I surfaced, she was standing at the stern in a bathing suit, shifting hesitantly from foot to foot. - Come on, honey. No one's looking. She descended the steps. Gracefully, as always. But when the water touched her chest, she gasped softly and instinctively covered her cleavage with her hands. I swam closer. "Look," I whispered in her ear. "They didn't even turn around. But they could have." She glanced quickly at the yacht. Marco was indeed standing with his back turned, but Luka… Luka was just wiping his hands on a towel and looking straight at us. At her. Katya dived under the water to hide. That evening, after dinner and her third glass, she was no longer in a hurry to button her blouse. We were sitting in the salon, playing cards—a simple game of "fool." Luka beat me twice in a row. As he dealt the cards to Katya, his fingers accidentally brushed against her wrist. She flinched, but didn't pull her hand away. “You have very soft skin,” he said quietly, almost innocently. Katya blushed to the roots of her hair. “Thank you,” she replied and quickly looked at me. I smiled and poured her more wine. That night she was completely different. She demanded that I take her harder. When I entered her, she bit my shoulder and whispered: — They... they could hear us? “Would you like that?” I asked, moving deeper. She didn't answer. But she came so hard that I had to cover her mouth with my hand. On the fourth day I suggested swimming naked. "Only for our own people," I said. "We're alone in this bay. Marco and Luca are professionals, they won't stare." Katya was silent for a long time. Then she nodded. She undressed in the cabin. I went out first. I dropped my shorts and jumped. When I emerged, she was standing at the stern, completely naked. The sun was shining directly on her back, highlighting every line. Breasts, stomach, smoothly shaved pussy—everything was on display. She walked down the stairs slowly, as if each step was difficult for her. I swam up and hugged her underwater. Her nipples were hard. "Are they watching?" she asked in a whisper. I looked back. Marco was standing by the side, calmly smoking, looking away. Luka… Luka was pretending to check the anchor chain, but his gaze was fixed on us. “No,” I lied. “Nobody.” She relaxed. We kissed in the water, and I felt her body trembling, not from the cold. When we returned on board, she wrapped herself in a towel but didn't immediately get dressed. She sat in the stern, crossed her legs, and let the towel slide down a little lower than it should have. Luka brought us fresh fruit. He set down a plate and lingered a second longer on bukvoeb.run. His eyes slid over her chest, barely covered by the edge of the towel. “It’s beautiful today,” he said, looking into her eyes. Katya didn't answer. But when he left, she pressed herself against me and whispered: — I saw the way he looked... “And what did you feel?” I asked. She was silent for a moment. — I'm... ashamed. And... pleased. I smiled into her hair. On the seventh day, we dropped anchor off a small uninhabited island. The sun was already setting. Marco suggested an "evening ritual"—a moonlit swim. Katya didn't argue anymore. She came out onto the deck wearing only the light robe I'd given her before the trip. Underneath, nothing. The four of us stood by the side of the boat. I took off my shorts first. Luka followed. Then Marco. Katya looked at them—at two strange, strong, tanned bodies—and her breathing quickened. “Your turn,” I said softly. She untied her belt. The robe fell at her feet. Three pairs of eyes looked at her. Openly. Greedily. Without embarrassment. She stood there, trying not to cover herself with her hands. Her chest heaved with excitement, her nipples hardened, and moisture glistened between her legs—I could see it even in the dim light. “Beautiful,” Marco said in a low voice. “Very.” Luke simply swallowed. We all jumped into the water together. In the warm night water, our bodies kept touching each other "accidentally." Someone's hand slid down her thigh. Someone pressed their back against her. Katya didn't pull away. When we returned on board, she was shivering. Not from the cold. We went into the cabin together. She didn't close the door all the way. I took her immediately, hard, putting her on all fours by the porthole. She moaned loudly, uncontrollably. I knew they could hear. I knew they were standing on the deck, listening. When I came inside her, she turned around, looked into my eyes and whispered: — I want... them to see it too. Very close. I kissed her on the forehead. — Tomorrow, sunshine. We still have a whole week. She smiled—the same smile I had never seen her smile before. Correct Katya was slowly but surely drowning in the warm waters of the Adriatic. And I could finally breathe freely.