Houseboat Deckhand Fucks His Milf Boss

The air hung thick and sweet with the scent of magnolia and diesel-tinged river water as the houseboat rocked gently against its moorings in the sleepy bayou town of Cypress Hollow. Vanessa Moreau, 42 years old and unapologetically lush, stood on the wide upper deck of her floating salon, The Siren’s Chair, running a wide-toothed comb through a client’s damp curls. Her fiery red hair was twisted up in a loose knot, a few rebellious strands clinging to the damp nape of her neck. The thin white sundress she wore did little to hide the generous swell of her heavy breasts or the ripe, heart-shaped curve of her ass. The humid breeze kept the fabric plastered to her skin in all the right places.

Twenty-two-year-old Jake Harlan wiped sweat from his brow as he secured the aft line, his tanned, athletic body moving with easy confidence. Shirtless, his lean muscles gleamed under the relentless Louisiana sun. He tried—mostly unsuccessfully—not to stare at the way Vanessa’s full tits strained against the thin cotton every time she leaned forward to snip another lock of hair. He’d been working for her for six weeks now, handling docking, engine maintenance, cleaning the decks, and whatever else the curvaceous hairdresser needed. The close quarters on the luxurious houseboat had turned the long, sticky summer days into a slow-burning torment of lingering glances and teasing smiles.

Vanessa felt his eyes on her again. She always did. A secret thrill raced through her each time she caught him looking. At first she’d told herself it was harmless, that a woman her age should be flattered by the attention of a strapping young man half her age. But the flattery had long since turned into something hotter, wetter, and far more dangerous. She could feel the growing ache between her thighs every morning when she slipped into another tiny sundress, deliberately choosing the ones that rode high on her thick thighs and dipped low between her breasts.

“Jake, honey,” she called, her voice a smoky Louisiana drawl that always seemed to stroke along his spine. “Once Mrs. Thibodeaux is done, could you check the starboard bilge pump? It’s actin’ up again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, the word ma’am sounding anything but respectful when it came out of his mouth like that. Their eyes met. Held. The older woman’s full lips curved into a slow, knowing smile before she turned back to her client, deliberately arching her back a little more than necessary.

The rest of the afternoon dragged in heavy, humid silence broken only by the lap of water against the hull and the occasional cry of a heron. When the last client finally stepped off the gangplank and disappeared down the dock, the tension on the houseboat thickened like syrup.

Vanessa stepped out onto the sun deck wearing nothing but a wicked little scarlet bikini that barely contained her. The top was two tiny triangles that fought a losing battle against the weight of her breasts; the bottoms were a thong that disappeared between the smooth, sun-kissed cheeks of her ass. She carried a bottle of coconut-scented sunscreen and a wicked smile.

“Jake,” she purred, stretching languidly along the wide padded lounge chair that overlooked the bayou. “Be a good boy and put some lotion on my back? I burn so easily, and I’d hate to ruin this pretty skin.”

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. The bulge in his cargo shorts was already obvious. “You sure about this, Vanessa?”