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Up the next morning and the john smells worse than a fat kid's gym locker. I almost rip off a technicolor yawn before the air clears. SpongeBob comes walking in with his shirt already covered with breakfast stains and doesn't even apologize when he walks past me and lays down a major fartillery barrage. I yank on my clothes like, pronto Tonto, and hi-yo the hell out of there.Up on deck, bingo -- no, not Flo, I mean most of the oldies on board are playing bingo with some greasy British dude babbling on. So I climb up to the top deck to get away from the gab and maybe scarf some fresh air.It's pretty empty up there, a bunch of plastic deck chairs and just a few folks lying around. I go over toward one side to snag a chair but as I'm passing some woman lying down with a big straw hat over her face she reaches out and taps me on the leg and asks me for a rum and Coke.I'm all set to say get it yourself when she lifts the lid and, yeah, it's Her! Mrs. Brady. In the flesh! Well, mostly. I. Whenever I did this, he would gasp and grab me tightly in his arms, squeezing me until I released the pressure. He would more often than not end up with a variety of yellow and grey bruises all over his body that wouldn't fade for almost a week.He undid my bra, put his hand inside my shirt, and grabbed one of my tits. I'm reasonably gifted in that department – I wear a 12D – and I love it when guys squeeze them. Justin knew this, and after stroking it for a second or two, enjoying the feeling of the soft skin of my boob in his hand, he squeezed it until it hurt. I yelped in pain and gave him a kiss, holding his head in my hands."Did I squeeze too hard?" Yes, but just too hard enough." I said, smiling. "This was a good idea. The sunshine, the breeze, it's nice."Justin put both of his hands up my shirt, stroking my back. "Yeah. It's a pity about the lack of privacy." He said, glancing in the direction of a middle-aged man walking his dog. I laughed, not really minding. We weren't doing.
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