Kill Schiffer

Kill Schiffer

By

Susan Hart

Copyright 2015 Susan Hart

Synopsis: Kill Schiffer: What about spending the weekend on Killian Schiffer’s luxury yacht, anchored off Santa Barbara California? He’s hired the crew and waiting for his first three passengers. Little does he know that he’s in for, literally, the ride of his life when the wealthy couple from South America boards, along with a gorgeous marine biologist from San Diego.

He’s already bedded his female steward and as she looks on, Schiffer finds an instant sexual attraction to the biologist and wonders if he’ll be able to survive his maiden voyage with two women who appear to be after one thing; him.

This is a steamy adult romance thriller fresh from the vivid imagination of Susan Hart, who lives in Southern California.

Chapter One

There’s something invitingly sexy about a boat, any boat. Doesn’t matter if it’s the most grand yacht ever made, a cruise ship with golden handrails or a two-seater tied to a dock, it is sexy. Blame it on symbolism, I guess. That’s why so many are named for women; they’re clitoric symbols because they bring sexual pleasure in one form or another.

That old adage, You’re the captain of your own ship goes a long way when you’re talking about a boat, but it carries some weight when you’re discussing sex, too. Trust me, I know.

Killian smiled to himself as he laid the paperback book on his nightstand. Stretching his arm, he reached for the bedside lamp, switching the luxurious cabin to total darkness in a second. He pushed the button above his bed that operated the blind covering the broad window over his bed.

As it rose, moonlight spread across the room.

The captain slid his hand down to his groin and lifted his flaccid penis. Alone again, Buddy, he said to it, pulling the skin of its shaft up to the top of an uncircumcised dickhead. His was a practiced move that both he and his dick were well accustomed to.

A few minutes later, the long, thick cock was erect and ready. His hand moved faster on the shaft, his other hand gently rubbing balls that drew up high into their hair sac as the climax mounted. When it was time, he held the hot skin at the bottom of his dick and watched his juice fly into the air, spurting like the first few tries of a fire hose to disgorge its pressure. In the morning, he would wipe away the evidence like he had always done.

Captain Killian Schiffer was, indeed, the captain of his own boat and had been for years. He wasn’t the only crewmember, but no one else made decisions about the operation of his yacht or who traveled on it. He handled the money, the trips and who the passengers would be -- all handpicked by him.

There were many people whose names were on the waiting list for one of his cruises. His custom-made yacht, Nero’s Nymph, was the envy of Santa Barbara’s yachting community and the boating aficionados of California at large. The showpiece was his only asset, but it was solely his. So was his story.

As a small boy, Killian had two favorite things to play with: His boat and his dick. From the time he was just old enough to be alone in the bathtub, the small boy loved the way his little dick would bobble in the water as he played with his plastic boat. With his hand, he could push either of them beneath the surface, but they would both pop right back up. It was a fascination to him that you could submerge something completely, but it would always find its way back to the top.

Hans Schiffer, Killian’s father, was a bastard at best. His mother was a submissive weakling who never stood up to her husband in favor of her child, sometimes even telling on him to gain her own favors. By the time he was old enough to go to school, the young boy detested both his parents, and made no effort to be around them when he could avoid it. Hans was a successful importer who amassed a fortune by the time he was in his early forties. Killian’s mother never worked, but she became very adept at drinking.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing her without a glass of some form of alcohol either in her hand or close by.

Because his parents were so disinterested in him and his life, Killian was raised by a beautiful, young imported German nursemaid named Letta, the person most responsible for teaching him about things that would come to him at different stages of his life.

Especially sex. He could well remember one night as she laid beside him on his bed reading a story to him. His hand was under the covers playing with his dick as was his bedtime habit. It just so happened that particular night that he did it while she was there. Suddenly, she stopped reading and jerked the covers back, exposing his hard little peter being held snugly in his hand.

He blushed quickly and jerked his hand away. Letta smiled.

Ah! I see what you do under the covers, she said in her very broken English. Only naughty boys do that, Killiann!

Instantly, tears welled up in his eyes, his little heart broken as the one person in the world he actually loved scolded him. I’m sorry, he whimpered. I didn’t know it was naughty.

Letta felt sorry for him, so she gathered him in her arms, knowing her hugs were the only show of affection he ever received. It’s okay, honey, she cooed. Why do you do that?

It feels good, he sniffled. I like the way it gets hard when I play with it.

Well, don’t get caught doing that around anyone, she cautioned. If you do it, just do it when you’re alone in bed.

I will, I promise, he said.

She kissed his forehead and tucked him tightly into the covers.

Love you little one, she said, turning out the bedside lamp. I will see you in the morning.

Love you, too, he said, turning on his side. He took great consolation in the fact that Letta would be there, too. She always was. Taking his little penis back into his small hand, he pulled and tugged until he felt the familiar stiffness swell. It was in this manner that he would most always fall asleep, many times with Letta’s face drifting through his mind. It was easy to love somebody who loved you, or so he thought at his young age of innocence.

It became his nightly ritual that he would play with himself as Letta read to him, but she never mentioned it to him again; she let him play.

Look, Letta, he said one night, pointing to the tent in his sheet made by his little member. Want to touch it?

She smiled at his unknowing question. Do you want me to touch it? she asked.

Yes! he said, pushing the sheet down to expose himself. Feel how hard it is!

Letta’s eyes widened at the sight of how large the young boy’s thing was. Reluctantly, but curious herself, she placed her finger on the tip of him. Hold it, he said. It’s really soft when you touch it, even while it is standing up. She wrapped her hand around his penis and moved the skin up and down a couple of times before she quickly moved her hand away and pulled up the sheet. He smiled at her. Feels soft, doesn’t it?

She returned the smile, kissed his cheek and turned off the light. Letta never saw Killian nude after that.

Until he was a young man.

It happened after Killian’s had graduated from high school. He came home excited one day because his father had finally bought him a car and he was anxious for her to see it. Rushing up the stairs of the huge house to Letta’s room, he pushed open her door without knocking. Come see my car, he said excitedly, but he stopped in his tracks.

There on her bed she lay, completely naked, her hand between her legs the way he always fell asleep in his own bed. His eyes widened and his body warmed at the sight of her. Letta, full bosomed, long legs and beautiful naked.

Close the door, she said softly, her hand moving in a steady rhythm between her legs. And come to me. Obediently, he closed the door and walked to the side of her bed, amazed at the sight before him. She patted the edge of the bed. Sit down, Letta whispered. Give me your hand.

She brought his fingers to her wet mouth, kissing them softly; she pushed his willing hand down to her tit, helping him to cup it, showing him how to fondle the nipple. A strange sensation passed through his body, his dick stirred in his pants. She pulled him toward her and kissed him, not on the forehead this time, but on the mouth. Lay down, she whispered.

Killian stretched out on the bed beside her and waited, understanding somehow that he was crossing a portal. He didn’t know exactly what that portal was, but Letta did, and he trusted her to lead him. Always had. For the rest of his life, Killian would be able to recall this moment. It would become more of a sensation than an occasion.

He knew instinctively that it shouldn’t happen from a moral standpoint, but still, it felt more right than wrong.

Letta turned on her side and began to unbutton his shirt. His breath quickened as he realized how different her touch felt to him now, but he let her continue. She removed his shirt and his pants, his dick huge and hardened now. Letta, he began.

Shhh… she said, putting her finger to his lips. It’s time. You need to know these things.

So it was that she taught him. She stroked his member the way he had always done until it was harder and bigger than he had ever seen it. Letta rolled onto her back and pulled him on top of her, placing his dickhead at the opening of her slit and rubbing it back and forth, wetting it enough to enter her easily. Push, she said, push it into me right there.

His breath came in short bursts as he felt himself slide into a warm, tight cave. Ohhh… he said, burying himself in the sensation of soft flesh surrounding his member. He paused, relishing the new feeling, before pushing his dick farther into her.

Pull it out a little, then push it in again, she said, her hands on his hips showing him the motion. He caught quickly, his momentum mounting to a natural timing of ins and outs. That’s right, she said, almost breathless herself, holding him close with her arms around his neck. Do it harder and harder! Think about being on a boat with the waves moving you. Find that sexy movement. He understood and complied with her instructions.

He came quickly, rising above her when his thrusts became harder and faster, his hands planted on the bed on either side of her as he pumped his wetness into her, wondering where all that juice came from because it was so much more than usually squirted across his room. When he had finished, she pulled Killian’s face to hers and kissed him on the forehead. Now you know, she quietly said. It is for this that your dick gets hard.

From then on, he and Letta fucked at least once a week until one day he came home, wanting her badly. But, when he went to her room, it was empty. There were no clothes, nothing of Letta’s was left.

She was gone. He went to his room angry at being deserted by the one person who he had loved and relied on all his life. He waited in the dark room until he heard his mother stirring around in the hall. Where is Letta? he asked bluntly, standing in the door of his room.

She’s gone, his drunken mother answered. You don’t need a nursemaid anymore. And you don’t need to be idling away your time in her room.

In her room? Killian questioned, hoping that his mother didn’t know they were having sex.

Yes, Killian, don’t act like you don’t hang out in there with her. I see you coming and going. You need friends your own age, not a nursemaid that’s ten years older at least to be frolicking around with. She could be trouble for you, so I sent her away today. She won’t be back.

Hurt, confused and lost feeling, he glared at his mother. Figures! You’ve never wanted me to have anybody around that cared about me! Killian slammed the door of his room, fell on his bed and cried. Eighteen years old and he cried at the loss of the only person he felt had loved him. He fell asleep praying his mother would die and take his fucking father with her.

He would use the emotions of that day to compare many things that happened in his future life, one of which was to measure his dislike of people to how he felt about his own mother. He would also use the experience of Letta to compare how talented a woman was in bed. Above all, though, he would never lose appreciation for the way Letta ignored his masturbation, letting him find pleasure in his own body when there was no one else who cared.

Within three years, shortly after his twenty-first birthday, Killian had lost both his parents. His mother died of alcohol poisoning and his father had a fatal heart attack. He went through the motions of burying them and handling the business affairs like a robot, secretly thanking the gods for shining their light on him the way he had asked.

He inherited everything, which left him insanely and sinfully rich. The first thing he did was commission the building of the yacht he had always dreamed of having. Not only did he want it badly, but he knew his father would probably turn over in the grave if he knew his son had squandered so much of the family fortune on such luxury.

Killian smiled with pleasure as he wrote the million-dollar check so that construction of the floating dream could begin. The revenge felt sweet, but not as sweet as the last time he kissed Letta’s lips. I should name my yacht Letta, he said to himself, remembering her comparison of the movement of a boat to the movements of sex she had helped him master.

Instead, he decided to name it Nero’s Nymph, partly because he had a lot in common with Nero as they both loved the female body, and partly to recognize Letta as his ever present nymph spirit. If he didn’t have a woman in the flesh to hold, he always had the vision of Letta in his mind as he reached his lonely climaxes.

She would understand the name.

It took him two months to decide on the details for his yacht and a year for it to be built to his specifications by an Italian shipwright. The day Nero’s Nymph sailed into the harbor at Santa Barbara was the one of the two