Mira – 1

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Tem 24, 2022 // By:analsex // No Comment

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‘Is that your natural hair colour?’ The launch of the super yacht ‘Mira’ was a major event. I was there because I do the interior design section of my regional newspaper and my colleague, Luke, was there because he covers local industry. The yacht had been built in a local yard and the gala press day was designed to show it off. We’d been invited aboard for a sumptuous champagne lunch, followed by a short cruise with a dinner later. We had each been allocated our own cabin and had been asked to dress for dinner. I’d worn the gunmetal silk evening dress and was standing on the sun deck admiring the view and the setting sun and sipping gratefully at a large Calvados. I turned to see who had asked the question. She was tall, elegant and very lovely. I’d noticed her, of course, throughout the day. Long, jet black (real) hair and flashing Italianate eyes over a slender nose, full but not fleshy lips and a firm chin. Her white dress was tight to the waist then flowed in wide folds to her ankles, trimmed at the hem with gold and brushing gold sandals with heels that were, I thought, dangerous for a boat trip. ‘Yes, it is.’ I smiled. My hair is a rather unruly blonde mess – long but not as long as hers, straw blonde and quite, though I say so myself, glossy. I had tried to tame it over the years but had now given up the unequal struggle and let it do its own thing. kaçak iddaa She stared at my left breast. ‘Ah, so you’re the Western Times lady. I hoped I might find you.’ I looked down self-consciously at the identity badge pinned to the fabric which covered my braless breast. She wore no such badge so had the advantage of me. ‘I’m Mira Destovsky.’ So, this was the Mira after whom the boat, well ship I suppose had been named. Her father, an oligarch, was said to be one of the richest and most liberal of the Russian multi-millionaires and devoted to his shrewd and beautiful daughter. Despite her name being everywhere I had never seen so much as a snap of her prior to meeting her like this. Everything about her said ‘money and class.’ I said how pleased I was to meet her. She replied that she had hoped we might meet, she wanted to show me some of the ship that had yet to be completed and to see what I thought of her design ideas. ‘Why me?’ ‘Because I admire your work. Most so-called design reporters are fluffy, gushing morons. You write with knowledge and constructive criticism. You are, so I have heard, a lesbian?’ The juxtaposition of the flattery and the impertinent statement threw me momentarily. Flattery works for a journalist just as much as anyone else but we are supposed to be hard headed and resistant. I ignored her question and thanked her for the kaçak bahis compliment. ‘Please, follow me.’ Polite though the words were, there was also a command in them. I followed. As we passed a table she took my empty glass and placed it then took my hand and led me down a stairway. “It’s called a companion way on a boat,’ she told me and we descended onto a deck which we had not been shown before. She moved a rope stretched across the bottom of the stairs and we walked along a corridor lined with twinkling chandeliers and light oak doors. The last of these led into a large room, so far unfurnished aside from a carpet of a most curious terracotta hue which covered about one third of the floor, the remainder being a sprung dance floor of the same oak as the doors. ‘The ballroom. I plan to have tapestries with a mix of gold and blue. We will use it for state occasions, birthdays, parties for senior politicians and celebrities for my father’s fund raisers. What do you think?’ I strolled around the room and made a few suggestions which, to my surprise she recorded in a note book she had been concealing in her bag. She was serious; she debated each suggestion with clarity and objected to some, concurred with others. She led me to another room of similar proportions. It was, she said, to be a conference room. More debate. Yet more followed as went through illegal bahis a series of rooms. I found myself stepping out onto another sun deck below that on which I had been standing earlier. A bar was built and stocked to one side and she poured two Calvados and handed me one in the heaviest glass I think I had ever held. ‘So, is it true?’ ‘Is what true?’ ‘That you are a lesbian?’ ‘Does that matter?’ ‘It does if I am going to fuck you.’ I had been standing with my back to her admiring the last of the sun as it dipped behind a wooded headland at the edge of the bay in which the ship was moored. I stayed still, not turning lest she see the surprise in my eyes. All through her guided tour I had been studying her, her mannerisms, her body, her beauty. Was this fabulously wealthy woman of whom I had heard so much and seen so little seriously suggesting sex? I whispered, ‘It’s true.’ ‘Good.’ I felt her hand on my shoulder, cool against my naked skin. ‘I can buy women but I can’t buy you, can I?’ I shook my head, not daring to speak. Her hand passed through my hair. I cannot tell you how intimate the moment was, I don’t think I was breathing. I felt her lips on the flesh at my neck. I knew the silk between my legs was wet; not damp, wet. A hand cupped my left breast and her palm caressed my hard nipple which strained against the dress. Courage came to me. I stepped away from her and turned to face her. ‘Why?’ ‘Because we have both been wanting to all day, haven’t we?’ I leaned against the rail of the deck and looked into her dark, enquiring eyes. Of course, she was right.

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