Ferry Head

Everyone in this story is 18+

The ferry dock smells like diesel and damp wood, the kind of stink that clings to your clothes and reminds you you’re stuck in the in-between of nowhere and home. It’s past midnight, and I’m slouched against a rusted railing, my platform boots scuffing the gritty concrete. My phone’s dead—thanks, Grindr flake—for leaving me high and dry after I dolled up in my tightest black crop top and ripped fishnets, my pink hair swept into a messy bun. I’m Quinn, the femboy who’s too cute for this bullshit, and I’m just trying to get back to my apartment without losing my vibe.

A rowdy pack of frat bros swaggers onto the dock, all muscle tees and backward caps, their laughter sharp like broken glass. There’s five of them, reeking of cheap beer and straight bravado, and their eyes lock onto me like I’m a neon sign in a dark alley. My stomach twists, but I keep my face blank, tugging my jacket tighter. One of them, a beefy guy with a buzzcut, leans forward and whistles, low and mocking. “Yo, princess, you lost?” His buddies cackle, tossing out slurs disguised as jokes, their voices bouncing off the water. I roll my eyes, flipping them off with a glittery middle finger, but my heart’s thudding. I’m used to this crap, but it doesn’t mean I like it.

The ferry’s horn blares, slicing through their noise, and the boat lumbers into view, its lights smearing across the choppy bay. I shuffle toward the ramp, hoping to blend into the shadows, but the frat pack’s still loud behind me. To my relief, only one of them boards—a tall, broad-shouldered guy with short brown hair and a faded Greek-letter hoodie. The rest of his crew slaps his back, yelling something about “not getting lost,” and then they’re gone, their laughter fading into the night. I exhale, my shoulders loosening, and find a seat near the back of the ferry’s open deck, the plastic bench cold against my thighs.

The guy sits across the aisle, sprawled out like he owns the place, his long legs stretched into the walkway. The ferry’s engine rumbles, vibrating through my bones, and the salty wind tugs at my hair as we pull away from the dock. It’s just us and a couple of tired commuters up front, their heads buried in phones. I sneak a glance at him, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hoodie clings to his chest. He’s cute, in that careless frat-boy way, but I’m not here for it. Not after tonight’s bust.

Then he looks up, catching my eye, and I freeze. His gaze is softer than I expect, almost curious. He shifts, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, mind if I sit closer? Kinda lonely over here.” His voice is deep, easy, like he’s asking for a lighter.

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “You sure you’re not gonna catcall me too?”

He winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that. My friends are assholes. I’m Riley, by the way. Sorry for their shit.” He sounds genuine, and it throws me off. I tilt my head, sizing him up.

“Quinn,” I say, softening a fraction. “And don’t sweat it. I’m used to douches thinking they’re clever.”

Riley laughs, a warm, rumbling sound that cuts through the ferry’s drone. He slides into the seat next to me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woody and sharp, mixing with the sea air. “Fair. But, like, you’re kinda owning this whole look. They’re just jealous they can’t pull off fishnets.”

I snort, caught off guard, and flick my eyes over him. “You’re smooth for a frat boy. What’s your deal?”

He grins, leaning closer, his knee brushing mine. “Oh, you know, just a dude looking for adventure. So, uh…” He pauses, his grin turning mischievous. “Wanna give me some head to pass the time?”

I burst out laughing, and he does too, his eyes crinkling. It’s absurd, the kind of line that should crash and burn, but there’s a playful spark in his voice that makes it land. I lean in, dropping my voice to a teasing purr. “You wish, Riley. You couldn’t handle me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, but he’s still grinning, undeterred. “Oh, I’m full of surprises, Quinn.” There’s a challenge in his tone, and the air between us shifts, heavy with something unspoken. My pulse kicks up, and before I can overthink it, I rest my hand on his thigh, just above his knee. His muscle tenses under my fingers, firm and warm through his jeans, and I feel him shift closer, his breath hitching.

“Surprises, huh?” I whisper, my nails grazing the denim, slow and teasing. I slide my hand higher, feeling the heat coming from him, and his eyes darken, locked on mine. My fingers brush the growing bulge in his jeans, and he lets out a sharp exhale, his lips parting. He’s hard already, straining against the fabric, and the power of it—the way I’m unraveling him—sends a thrill through me.

“Fuck, Quinn,” he says, his voice rough, almost a growl. “You don’t mess around.”

I take his hand and lead him down the small cabin inside, thank god its empty, not that I would have cared at this point. The cabin’s quiet save for the distant snores and the steady thrum of the engine vibrating up through the floor. No one’s back here but us, the partition shielding us from prying eyes.

My pulse races as I flick open his button, the zipper’s teeth parting with a sharp rasp that seems deafening in the hush. I ease his jeans down just enough, boxers following, and there it is—his heavy organ springing free, thick and veined, curving slightly upward with a flushed pink head already glistening. He’s got a neat trim, not shaved bare but a soft patch of dark curls at the base, framing it like a shadow. Below, his balls hang heavy, loose skin dusted with that same faint hair, shifting as he spreads his legs wider under the table.

I wrap my fingers around the shaft, feeling the satin glide of skin over steel-hard muscle, warm and alive in my grip. A bead of precum pearls at the slit, clear and sticky, and I swipe my thumb over it, spreading the slickness down the length. He tastes like salt when I lean in to lick the tip—briny and clean, with a faint tang of sweat from the night’s heat. More leaks out as I stroke him base to tip, slow drags that make his hips twitch, the precum flowing generous now, coating my palm in a slippery sheen.

“Shit, Quinn,” he breathes, one hand bracing the table, the other drifting to my shoulder. His scent hits me full force—earthy musk rising from his groin, mingling with the cabin’s stale air and the faint brine seeping in from outside.

“Quiet now,” I whisper, lips grazing the underside, feeling the vein throb against my mouth. I swirl my tongue around the head, enjoying the way it flares, then slide down, taking inch after inch until my nose brushes that trimmed bush, the coarse hairs tickling. His balls press against my chin, soft and weighty, drawing up tight as I hollow my cheeks and suck, the wet suction pulling more of that delicious pre from him. It coats my tongue, viscous and sweet-salty, dripping down my throat as I bob, faster now, the table creaking faintly with each movement.

The boat lists to one side, and I steady myself with a hand on his thigh, nails digging into the denim as the vibration from the engine buzzes straight through his core into my mouth. He’s leaking steadily, a constant drip that I lap up greedily, the flavor intensifying—more musk, more salt—as he swells thicker on my tongue.

His fingers flex on my shoulder, then slide into my hair, gripping just enough to guide without forcing. “Quinn, fuck—I’m close,” he rasps, voice barely above the engine’s drone.

I double down, lips sealed tight, tongue flicking relentless along the ridge, and feel it build—the subtle hitch in his rhythm, the way his sack contracts, pulling those heavy orbs up snug. Then it erupts: his cockhead balloons against the roof of my mouth, stretching the sensitive skin, and the first jet blasts out like a geyser, thick ropes surging down my throat in forceful pulses, flooding me with heat and that sharp, alkaline bite. I swallow around him, milking every spasm until he’s spent, the last dribbles oozing onto my lips as I ease off, strings of saliva and remnants connecting us for a beat.

I sit back, licking my lips, tasting him still—raw and lingering. Riley’s chest heaves, eyes glassy as he fumbles to tuck himself away, zipper catching on the damp fabric.

“Damn,” he mutters, then that grin breaks through, crooked and dazed. Before I can catch my breath, he’s shifting, ducking under the table with a quick glance around the empty cabin.

“Fair’s fair,” he says, voice muffled but determined, his hands yanking at my fishnets, bunching them down to my knees in one rough pull. I have to admi, that surprised me.

I’m all exposed now, my own femboy dick bobbing free—slimmer than his, pale and smooth-shaven, the skin hypersensitive in the cool cabin air. Precum’s already smeared across the tip from the thrill of it all, and Riley doesn’t hesitate, his breath ghosting over me first, hot and uneven. His tongue darts out, flat and broad, lapping from base to crown in one long, exploratory swipe that sends sparks skittering up my spine. He tastes me carefully at first—salty-sweet, I imagine—then dives in, lips parting to engulf the head, his mouth a furnace of wet suction.

He’s all enthusiasm, no finesse, teeth grazing just enough to edge the pleasure into something feral. His stubble rasps against my inner thighs, a delicious scrape that has me spreading wider, boots scraping the gritty floor. One hand cups my balls, rolling them gently, the pads of his fingers rough from whatever frat-boy calluses he’s earned, while the other strokes what his mouth can’t reach, twisting at the base with a slick twist thanks to my own leaking.

The partition rattles faintly as the ferry cuts a wave, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, muffling the whine building in my chest. Down there, Riley’s humming—vibrations thrumming through me like the engine below—and it’s messy, saliva dripping down my shaft, pooling where his fist works. He’s getting bolder, taking me deeper until his nose presses to my smooth skin, gagging a little but powering through, eyes watering when he glances up.

Pressure build low in my gut, sharp and insistent, every lap and suck winding it tighter. His free hand digs into my hip, anchoring me as I start to buck, chasing the edge. Then it snaps—my vision whites out, muscles seizing as ecstasy rips through, my cock jerking wildly in his grip. The release surges in heavy, erratic spurts, painting the back of his throat with viscous heat, each contraction squeezing out more until he’s coughing softly, pulling off with a gasp, the last beads streaking his chin and lips.

He emerges from under the table, wiping his mouth with the heel of his hand, face flushed and triumphant. “First time pulling that off,” he admits, voice gravelly, that sheepish edge cutting through the smugness. “But damn if I don’t wanna try again sometime.”

I’m boneless, laughing through the aftershocks as I hitch my fishnets back up, the fabric snagging on damp skin. The horn blares overhead, announcing the dock’s approach. “You’re full of it,” I manage, but there’s affection in the jab, a flicker of real curiosity about what comes next. He offers his hand as we stumble up the stairs, the night air slapping cool against our overheated faces. The bay sparkles like scattered diamonds, and suddenly, the ride home feels way too short.