Encounter on the Ferry

Encounter On The Ferry.

My name is Ron. I'm a 32 year old personal trainer from Wellington, New Zealand.

I have quite a list of clients on both North and South Islands so I'm frequently a passenger on the inter-island ferry between Wellington and Picton. It's usually an uneventful trip and I use the time to catch up on my paperwork, but one trip, about six months ago, was anything but uneventful.

I was wearing my usual work uniform of T-shirt and tracksuit and, as soon as I boarded in Wellington, I made my way to my usual seat, opened my laptop and prepared to work. But I had barely begun when I noticed a woman coming towards me. She was of Indian or Sri Lankan descent and was, I guess, about five to ten years older than I. She had flawless, honey-brown skin, an angel's face and a shapely but trim figure. She was tastefully and impeccably dressed and moved like a model on a catwalk. In short, she was the most strikingly beautiful woman I had ever seen.

She walked up, sat opposite me and gazed out of the window. Realising I was staring, I forced myself to return to my work. But, shortly after, I was again distracted, this time by that eternal curse of mankind -- my balls began to itch. I tried ignoring it, but it just became more irritating. I tried squeezing my thighs together and squirming on the seat but to no avail. I hoped the woman hadn't noticed anything but, looking up, I found her staring straight at me.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Itchy balls?" Taken by surprise, I could only nod. "Well, don't mind me," she said. "Scratch them!" I looked around at the other passengers, and then looked back at her. "You're right," she said. "It's probably a little too public to do it here. I know. Let's find somewhere more private and I'll do it for you."

She stood up and headed off along the deck. Scrambling my things together, I hurried after her. A short distance along we came across a comfort room, where mothers could care for their infants in private. It was unoccupied so she opened the door and looked inquiringly at me. I hurried past her and into the room. It was smallish and contained a table, two chairs, a wash basin and a shelf full of tissues, paper towels, etc.

I heard a click behind me and, turning, found that the woman had followed me in and locked the door. "What's your name?" she asked. I told her. "Well, Ron," she said. "Let's fix this problem of yours." She walked up to me and slipped her hand down the front of my pants. I jumped when I felt her cold fingers brush past my cock on the way down to rest between my legs. "You'd better tell me where to scratch," she said. I gave her directions and her long nails quickly removed the irritation.

Instead of removing her hand however, she lifted it slightly and I heard her mutter, "Got you!", as her long, slender fingers closed around my balls. "This seems like a nice set of balls you've got here, Ron," she said. "I'd really like to see them. Take your pants off." I just looked at her, not sure I'd heard correctly. "I said' TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF," she repeated, giving my balls a firm squeeze. She really had my attention now and I hurried to obey. It was a little difficult, with her maintaining her grip on me, but I was eventually able to remove my shoes, pants and underwear. "Get your shirt out of the way," she ordered and I tucked the bottom of my shirt up into my sweater. I was now completely exposed from the waist down.

"Come over here," she said, dragging me by the balls over to one of the chairs. When she sat, her head was level with my waist. Using the thumb and index finger of her free hand, she lifted my cock by the head and examined it, "Not the biggest I've seen, but respectable," she said.

She then released my cock and took hold of my balls, one in each hand. "You know, Ron," she said, fondling my balls, "In a way, these are like strings on a puppet. Get your hands on these and you can make a man do anything you wish. Personally, I really enjoy making a man jump and dance by tweaking his balls. It's tremendous fun watching him hop around when I introduce him to some pain." As she said the last word, she squeezed my balls -- hard.

The consequent jolt of pain caught me by surprise. I grunted and rose up onto the balls of my feet. She released the pressure, and then began a series of short, sharp squeezes, using alternate hands. Within seconds I was bouncing from one foot to another in a kind of hopping dance. After about half a minute, she stopped squeezing and burst out laughing. "Darling, you're wonderful at this!" she crowed. "We're going to have a great time -- or, at least, I am. Let's see how good you are at dancing to music."

She began singing a song in a language I didn't recognise. At the same time, she began forcefully manipulating my balls in time to the music. Sometimes one, sometimes the other, sometimes both, she alternately pinched, squeezed, stretched, tugged and rolled my balls. I quickly found myself stretching up and bouncing around in reaction to the pattern of her movements. On occasion, she would squeeze hard enough to make me groan or yelp in pain. This seemed to fit in with the song and amused her enormously. She played me like a performer on a musical instrument -- just applying enough pressure to get the desired result, but not cause too much pain.

At the end of the song, she started another, then another. Each time she had me completely under her control, jumping and dancing around like the puppet she had mentioned earlier. Eventually, she sat back and sighed. "That was excellent, Ron," she said. "I think you deserve a reward." Taking both my balls in her left hand, she took my cock in her right and placed it in her mouth. She slowly took me in right up to the root of my cock, and then slid her lips back to the tip, all the while doing amazing things with her tongue. In no time at all I was rock hard and straining towards her mouth. She released me from her mouth and began stroking me gently with her hand. "My," she said, "You have grown into a big boy. What can we do with this, I wonder?..... I know. Let's see how far you can shoot."

She immediately got down to business. Her left hand continued fondling and rolling my balls, but her right hand began making long and strong strokes up and down the length of my cock. As she did this, she talked to me encouragingly. "Come on, Ron," she said. "Let's see what you can do. Squirt for me. Squirt like you've never squirted before."

She certainly knew her stuff. In what seemed like no time at all, I could feel the pressure building and I knew my orgasm wasn't far away. "Oh, God," I moaned "Here I come!"

Whether she could feel my balls contract or whether it was just good luck, her timing was impeccable. As I began to cum, she flipped the end of my cock up and squeezed my balls hard. The combination of pain and pleasure was exquisite. I bounced up onto my toes, thrust my hips forward and roared.

The first shot of semen burst from the tip of my cock, arced across the room and splattered against the wall, about a metre above the floor. Subsequent bursts shot in ever decreasing distances until there was a trail between the wall and my feet. The woman wrung the last drops from my rapidly shrinking member, and then fastidiously wiped her hands on a paper towel. "Well done, Ron," she said. "If squirting was an Olympic event, I reckon that would probably win a gold medal." She gathered her belongings together and said, "Thanks for that, Ron. It's been a lot of fun. Perhaps we can do it again sometime." And with that, she was gone.

I hastily locked the door behind her. (I didn't want any young mothers coming in at this point.) I then quickly cleaned myself, dressed and, using paper towels, I cleaned up the trail of semen. Satisfied that the room was pretty much the way it had been, I gathered up my things and hurried back to my seat in the passenger lounge. The woman was nowhere to been seen.

I looked around during the remainder of the journey and as we disembarked but I saw no sign of her. I also checked around during future voyages without luck. I eventually resigned myself to never seeing her again. That was until last Tuesday.

I boarded the ferry in Wellington, as usual, and walked to my favourite seat. There she was, waiting for me. "Hello, Ron," she said, "Got any itches?" I didn't say a word. I just took her by the hand and headed for the comfort room.