The wheelhouse

It was my day off, and the boat at the end of the pier was not mine to run. A friend who does not work my watch had left the dock lines set and the wheelhouse dark, and told me I could sit if I touched nothing that mattered. I did not touch the console to drive. I was not on shift. Anders came from the port bar, fifty, wind in his beard, a man who had never been on my crew. I told him that twice. He said he did not want a job. He wanted me. I said the feeling was mutual and temporary.

I stood in the small dark wheelhouse with harbor lights in the glass, grey bob, fair skin, windburn on my cheeks, the navy wool coat buttoned and blank. No insignia. No lettering. Black trousers, boots. I let him see the coat as a coat. Then I told him to lock the door from the inside and keep his hands off the wheel. He did. I opened my trousers myself. The coat stayed on. I wanted to be fucked against a console I was not operating, with the harbor watching the windows and not the rest.

His cock came out thick and ready. I stroked it once, said I was wet enough, and turned to brace on the dead panel. He pushed the trousers to my thighs and slid his cock into my cunt. The stretch pulled a laugh out of me, dry and pleased. He fucked me there, deep, the wool coat knocking his stomach, my hands careful of every switch I had promised not to throw. I told him harder. He gave it. My cunt took his cock and I stopped being witty. I rubbed my clit with two fingers and came standing up, a sharp clench, forehead near the glass, harbor lights smearing.

I said pull out. He did. I told him he could cum, and if he aimed at the hem he would be wiping it. He stroked his cock and came on the lower edge of the navy wool, a hot stripe on plain cloth. I laughed for real then. I took his hand, put it on the hem, and told him to clean his own mess with the handkerchief in his pocket. He did, careful, almost formal, which made me laugh again. The coat was a coat. Cum is not a decoration I wear off the pier.

We left the wheelhouse as we had found it, dark, lines still set, nothing running. He asked which sailing I worked in the morning. I said that was not a story he got. I walked uphill in the cleaned coat, trousers buttoned, the fuck still slick in my cunt, and I did not look back to see if he watched the water. The room was cold. I hung the coat on its nail and slept with the window cracked on harbor noise that was not my problem.