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There’s a change of perspective here, as Amy narrates the next leg of the adventure.
Amy thinks Ned has a pretty good reading on her and the other girls, but sometime prefers to speak for herself, and maybe take the chance to reverse the position and open up on her relationship with Ned.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
I supposed I’d like to start this by saying that Ned is such a dear in organising this trip to Hamilton Island Race Week in such a short time. When I saw the information on it, it looked like such an exciting thing to participate in.
I suppose part of why I love him so much is embodied in his ready, unreserved agreement to my suggestion, even though I was completely oblivious as to how much work and planning Ned knew he had to do to make it happen. But he did it just the same.
And I was really pleasantly surprised by how quickly all the others piled in.
It was lucky for me the event was in August. With the tax and accounting year finishing in Australia on the 30th June, August offers a bit of a hiatus from the busiest times, even for a reasonably senior accountant like me. And of course, since he works for my firm, it meant Adam could get time off too.
But Liddy, Ellen and Harry are all doctors and Shelley is a nurse, so for them to all be able to get time off at such short notice was incredible, even if Harry could only join us for the racing.
I was disappointed that Issie’s engineering role didn’t seem to offer the same degree of flexibility and she could initially only take off the time we needed to bring the boat up to Hamilton Island, so I was really excited when she got an extension of her time off too. After all, Issie is the member of the Screw Girls I’ve known the longest. In navy parlance, we are the plank owners of the whole Screw Girl thing (even if Ned thinks he owns the yacht).
It was Issie and I who seduced Ned in the first place and who wrangled Ellen aboard with us when she felt at risk from the rather mean owners of the yacht she was on at the time. It was Ned and I who most felt the pain of loss as Issie felt the need to go home to Italy as her body’s maternity clock started screaming at her.
I can’t deny things had changed by the time Issie came back more than a year later. Relationships and the active membership of the Screw Girls had moved on, but the bond between us was as strong as ever. And Issie is an ‘organiser’ unlike any of the others. When she’s aboard, things happen in a good way. Only Tash was ever able to fulfil that role in her absence.
What I didn’t think enough about, even if I suspect Ned was instantly alert to the issue, was how complex the sexual arrangements would be. When it was just Ned and the Screw Girls, it didn’t matter. A cynic might say it was just one big orgy, but that simplifies it too much. We worked with an understanding that we were all sharing Ned and we all needed our sexual needs satisfied and Ned’s ability to do so protected — which is why Issie introduced the whole ‘fuck me’ clothing concept. In that context, my inability to suppress my screaming while I’m having good sex with Ned didn’t matter. It was just a case of ‘Amy’s at it again’.
But as Ned will tell you, there are times I’m a bit naive. Because, in the end, my screaming was the source of, shall we say, some difficulties as we sailed on this trip. Yachts are small things and sound travels. Especially for Ellen and Issie, as former Screw Girls, the ear piercing sounds of their former lover banging away at me caused no small degree of frustration.
And while Ned was worried about Shelley and Adam too, part of that was because he had a rather innocent assumption their relationship was still being operated on something of a, cough, plutonic level, instead of the ‘fucking like rabbits’ level it was actually at.
Anyway, I was mighty glad when we got ahead of schedule and had time to explore some of the beautiful islands up here; more so when it gave me the chance to do so alone with Ned and find a quiet alcove where we could explore a lot more than geography.
But I was also thinking forward to the fact we’d be sharing a three bedroom unit with this group and it may have some of the same noise limitations as the yacht. So I was very chuffed that Whitehaven Beach had offered one last chance for a good full throated rooting before we moved onto Hamilton.
It wasn’t long after Ned and I got back to the yacht that we pulled the anchor up to complete the last leg of our journey to Hamilton Island for the regatta.
I suppose we’d all got some idea of what awaited us at the Island. During the course of this weekend, more than a hundred yachts were going to be transferring into the marina there, of which we were just one. The overwhelming majority of the crews were going to be men.
Now all the women on board might be ankara iri göğüsleri olan escortlar spoken for in one way or another, but that’s not to say we weren’t willing to indulge in a bit of innocent fun and teasing. Ellen and I, with a lot of encouragement from Issie and a willing participation by Liddy and Shelley, had decked out the crew in uniforms, starting with the bikinis and working out from there, that were intended to attract attention.
We never intended to be wallflowers. Going right back to when we were cruising the Pacific, the yacht had a vibe; even if it was one of near naked women. We had resolved to keep that vibe. More than that, to make it the boat’s signature feature.
Why a bunch of us girls would want to flaunt ourselves like that is a fair question; even if the answers — because each has their own to that — are complex and sometimes beyond explanation.
I might leave myself temporarily out of some of the generalisations I’m about to make, but a foundation would have to be the confidence each has in themselves. They’re not afraid of their bodies; and rightfully so given that each of them is absolutely stunning.
But Issie was the starting point. She always flaunted herself. Not necessarily with any specific purpose. She was just naturally inclined to tiny bikinis and sexy clothing. It was just a habit.
When the relationship with Ned started, as far as Issie was concerned, what was previously a habit became a rule. Issie figured that, with the age difference, Ned needed all the help he could get in servicing the sexual needs of the multiple women on the boat and running around in front of him half naked in what she designated as ‘fuck me’ clothing, if not completely naked, was a good way of ‘keeping his testosterone up’ as Issie so elegantly put it.
So in a way, Issie just continues to be Issie.
Ellen’s, willingness indeed enthusiasm, is a way more complex story.
From the day she first came aboard the yacht, you could just see she had the hots for Ned and he for her, even though he’s more than twice her age. They both know its unnatural. Something in a phenomenal exchange is the best they can do to describe the reason for it. Now while she, as someone who wanted kids, had the common sense to realise she needed a more age appropriate husband once the cruise was over and we were back in Australia, and Ned encouraged her to that outcome, Ned’s presence still triggers all sorts of hormonal instincts in her.
No longer able to fully share the intimacy of Ned’s body, at the least she wants to be able to see him and physically interact him in a minimally dressed state. And if her wearing a tiny bikini and other sexualised clothing is the way of blackmailing Ned into speedos, there’s no hesitancy on her part to do so. But it’s clear that on top of any blackmailing effect, she wants to flaunt herself in front of him too.
But there’s a second part of Ellen that reinforces that result. In that peculiar Aussie way that they have of playfully bagging out each other, Ellen enjoys a good banter. And if the yachts vibe offers some male the opportunity to have a dig at the boat, Ellen loves nothing more than batting things right back to him. So as far as she was concerned the vibe of the yacht was something we brought back from the Pacific cruise and she’ll happily participate in it and defend it.
Liddy? Well, in her 50’s, she’s absolutely stunning. In a complete about turn from her upbringing as a conservative orthodox Jew, when we first met her as she cruised the Pacific on another yacht, her standard at sea clothing was nothing more than a tiny, thong bikini bottom on a yacht where the married couple she was sailing with went naked. So our uniforms — including the bikinis – are positively modest by comparison (sort of) and were certainly not something she baulked at.
Since both she and Ned came out of long successful and fertile marriages cut off by the early death of their partners, they’ve easily melded together like a long married couple, just sliding into a loving, mutually supportive relationship. Among the rest of us girls, Liddy fluctuates between acting in a mother role and revelling in just being one of the girls among a group young enough to be her daughters. And if we’re going to dress to impress, she’s more than willing to follow.
As for Shelley, a bit like Ellen and Ned, she happily flaunts herself in front of Adam, with at least one objective being to keep him as naked as possible too. And given his figure, I don’t blame her. Adam’s presence has raised the hormonal levels of all the women on the yacht; and I mean that in a good way.
Which bring us to the men, or boys as we like to call them. Both have an aversion to displaying themselves in public in speedos and have needed to be coerced into doing so.
Ned might be of a generation that grew up in them In Australia and they are his preferred garment at sea or around the house on a elvankent götü büyük escortlar warm day. But he recognises they are regarded as deeply daggy by my more conservative generation and knows he shouldn’t impose them on the general public. Except that there’s a gaggle of his present and former lovers on the boat who want to see him in them, regardless of what the general public think. Through the sheer power of female nagging and the bribery of flaunting our own bodies, we’ve worn him down to comply with our requests.
As a competitive swimmer, Adam’s well familiar with needing to wear speedos. But with a completely oversized cock and one that, at his youthful age, Shelley can get to explode into an uncontainable erection at the drop of a hat, or should that be a shake of her bikini framed butt, he has practical concerns about public displays of his body in them.
But that swimmer’s body is one that needs to be displayed; at least as far as us girls are concerned. And none of us mind a bit of a perve at that giant cock lying flaccid all the way across to the side seam of his speedos either. So like Ned, he’s been nagged and bribed into complying with the boat’s uniform policy (by which I mean, Ellen’s, Issie’s and my uniform policy).
As for me, Ned’s analysis of me is pretty right. Frank, my former abusive partner, set out to persuade me I was the ugliest woman in the world and made sure I was never dressed in a way that attracted the attention of other men. Whether I am, as Ned insists, actually the most beautiful woman in the world is a moot point. But what I have discovered is that I am certainly capable of attracting the male gaze, if not a lot more than that. And having that happen is by far and away the best antidote to Frank’s suppression of me.
So I positively enjoy flaunting myself and the attention it creates, even if I have developed into a fine art the trick of disappearing into the circle of girls if some suitor becomes too persistent. Because, in the end, and unlike Ellen, I have no intention of having children and do not need a younger father for them. Ned has offered me more love and better sex than I ever thought possible and I have not the slightest desire to take another selection from the lucky dip of single males, however much younger than Ned they are.
But the above was just a long introduction to a decision made by Ellen, Issie and myself as we sailed from Whitehaven Beach towards Hamilton Island marina.
Normally, when we’re harbour racing or approaching a marina, we’d be in our Summer race outfits of moulded on and very brief hot pants and small, plunging neck, tight, crop tops in the boat’s mid blue colour.
But to create more of a stir, we thought we should make our grand entrance in the boat’s uniform mid blue bikinis; yes the ones with the tiny diamond shaped front and Brazilian back and breast revealing tops. Most of us were already dressed like that anyway from a swim we’d had just before leaving the beach, so it was more a case of not getting dressed than of undressing.
As might be guessed, Ned and Adam were reluctant participants in their speedos, but Liddy and Shelley liked the idea and the boys ended up with no choice but to comply.
But Ned’s counter point was that he didn’t want to make our grand entrance to Hamilton Island Marina with a crusty old guy helming in charge of a bevy full of half dressed women.
So he insisted he surrender complete control of the boat to us; with Ellen on the helm and me in my usual role as crew boss. And so, respecting my orders, he accepted a role as being the guy with a GoPro attached to his cap to be the roving camera to supplement the one I mounted fixed on the stern rail looking up along the length of the boat to film our grand entrance.
As the boat approached the Marina entrance, I went below to follow the protocol of announcing our impending arrival on VHF channel 68, the channel identified in our handbook as the Marina’s working channel.
My conversation with them was broadcast on the repeater microphones we had set up in the cockpit.
“Hamilton Island Marina, Hamilton Island Marina, this is Wanderer, Wanderer.”
“Wanderer, this is Hamilton Island Marina.”
“Hamilton Island, we are approaching the entrance to your Marina to take up residence for the regatta.”
“Rodger Wanderer, stand by on this channel…
Wanderer, we have you booked for berth G-N7.
It is the right hand berth.
If you intend to go bow in, set up your fenders on your starboard side. If stern in then on the port side.
Proceed to the Marina waiting area inside the harbour and await the harbour tender which will show you to your berth and help you dock.”
“Rodger and thank you Hamilton Island, Wanderer will proceed to the waiting area.”
As I came up on deck, Ellen gave the order for the fenders and mooring lines to be got out and placed along the port side. We’d already etimesgut çıtır escortlar discussed whether to go stern or front in. On the one hand, it’s a lot easier to manoeuvre the boat into the dock bow in: both because steerage is easier and a combination of an aft spring line and a good bit of helm over rudder wash with appropriately applied power will safely pin you to the dock while all the other lines are made good.
But stern in makes it much easier to board and disembark the boat and is far more sociable in terms of talking to other sailors walking up and down along the marina jetty as one sits in the cockpit having a drink after the race. But the boat is harder to manoeuvre and make fast.
Given Ellen’s boat handling skills, stern in was a no brainer.
So as the crew efficiently went around the process of laying out the numerous fenders and trying them to the side of the boat, displaying a line of cutely framed bikini clad bottoms elevated in the air along the side of the boat as they bent down to their task, we proceeded through the entrance to the breakwater, where a reasonably open body of clear water represented the designated waiting area.
We’d barely drifted to a stop as we awaited the arrival of the tender, when a broadcast came over the VHF from an unidentified source…
“All boats, all boats, get a gander at the yacht that has just come into the Marina.”
Almost immediately heads started appearing out of companionways up and down the numerous Marina jetties and those already sitting in the yacht’s cockpits were seen to stand up and move to the rail. The Marina soon gave the appearance of one continuous line-up of ogling men.
If this was the effect that Ellen, I and the other girls were looking for, we’d got it in spades. As Ned turned his head to scan the line of faces, I knew the GoPro on his hat was doing the same. I knew I was going to get some interesting footage out of this.
From my position near the stern, I looked forward along the length of the boat and felt a pride in our team. Just in front of me, in the centre of the boat was Ellen on the helm. Tall, lithe and confident, she conveyed a sense of being completely in control of the little mini riot we’d stirred up.
From behind and to the side of her I had this stunning view of her butt and the side of her breast. My goodness, she was one sexy woman. That butt, in that tiny bikini, was one to die for. I’ve seen that butt in action as she crazily humped Ned while we shared a threesome during the cruise — many times. No wonder her mere presence arouses him so easily.
On the other side of the stern from me was Liddy; a 50ish year old mother of three with flawless skin (a result of a highly modest religious upbringing in New York), a flat stomach and large projecting boobs with a minimal covering — even if the latter weren’t originals.
Forward, now ‘dressing ship’ (to use the nautical terms for the crew lining the rails) in a very undressed way that no navy would ever permit, was Shelley at the amidships cleat and Issie on the bow, with Adam standing by at the side gate in the lifelines least he needs to jump on the dock to secure the lines.
Ned, in so many ways the man responsible for this, who has changed for the better so many lives, was trying to look indistinct and unimportant as he stood there casting about at the scene we were in the process of creating.
The Marina tender soon arrived and came alongside. They directed us to a path down between two jetties where our docking bay awaited us. Indicating they’d be on the jetty to take our lines, they took off ahead of us to tie up and get themselves on the dock ready for our arrival.
In a way, they needn’t have bothered.
Oh yes, when coming into a new dock which doesn’t have any lines on it for you to just pick up, it is nice to have someone there to throw them too.
But as Ellen slowly motored down between the jetties something of a small wave of young and not so young men, and more than a few women, from other yachts followed us down the jetties on either side. When we came to a stop and it became evident to everyone which bay we were about to back into, the jetty and the two arms between which we were to place ourselves became crowded with bodies.
Ellen’s expert skill and judgement in reversing the boat into the spot counted almost for nought as hands extended out as soon as the yacht was in reach and manually guided the yacht down along the arm. The mooring lines that Issie was holding on the bow, Shelley was holding amidships and Liddy and I were holding at the stern somehow disappeared into the sea of arms and were made fast.
If the tender crew were in there, they went unnoticed.
Look, yachties are generally a friendly and helpful bunch. When we’ve come into a new jetties before, such as when we took the yacht up to Sail Paradise at the Gold Coast, it is often the case that nearby yachties will come onto the jetty to take your lines without even being asked. But many in this lot were clearly testosterone driven.
Long after the boat was well secured, many lingered on the dock and arm near the boat, chatting up the various women, including a cluster of half a dozen on the dock opposite me, asking questions like…
“Where are you guys from?”
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