Coworker Passion on Stormy Ferry

I shoved through the door the second the heavy metal latch gave way. The ferry was pitching hard against the swell, rain coming down heavy enough to blur the tiny porthole over the sink. The gale outside meant we were stuck out here on the crossing for at least another two hours, maybe more. No getting off, no walking it off.

Beck dropped his duffel on the linoleum like we were just clocking in. “You could have stayed up in the main passenger lounge,” he said.

“Seat’s soaking wet from a leak,” I told him. Three years of grinding through twelve-hour shifts at the yard, and this was the first time we had been shoved in a box with nowhere to go. Deep under our boots, the massive diesel engine of the ferry cycled on a heavy, rolling beat. Four seconds of rumble, a pause, then again.

I leaned my shoulder against the steel bulkhead, bones aching. Fourteen hours in the cold had stripped the last of my patience. The cold off the steel soaked straight through my jacket.

On the second cycle, the dead-tired weight in my skull knocked the filter loose. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the Henderson job,” I said. Just the blunt fact of it, no build-up. The words sat there in the damp air while the deck vibrated under us.

He stepped across the narrow gap between the bunks and stopped an inch from my boots. He looked just as wrecked as I felt, grease at his collar and lines dug deep around his mouth.

“That okay with you?” he asked, quiet.

“Yes,” I told him.

It was a simple exchange, but the plain honesty of it carried a bare, exhausted warmth that felt heavier than the engine thrumming beneath us. The word was barely out of my mouth before I grabbed the front of his canvas jacket. We hit the wall together, shoulder blades banging the painted steel. I shoved his coat down his arms on the next four-second rumble, but the thick fabric jammed at his elbows. He yanked at my belt, cursing when the cheap metal buckle snagged. My shirt rode up, trapping my arms in the cold air, and his knee banged hard into my thigh as the ferry rolled on a wave.

“Your boot is crushing my foot, idiot,” I muttered, jaw tight as we tried to muscle through the heavy layers.

“Then back up an inch,” he answered, letting go of the jammed buckle. We stopped fighting the tangled clothes and dropped our hands, chest heaving against chest.

We started over, slower this time, letting the space dictate the work. He took his jacket all the way off, tossing it onto the narrow bottom bunk. I pulled my shirt over my head, shivering once as the draft hit the sweat on my ribs. We moved to the rhythm of the floorboards, unbuttoning stiff denim and kicking away heavy work boots. The worn sarcasm from the breakroom bled into the quiet.

“You’re taking your goddamn time,” I told him, stepping out of my jeans.

“I’m not the one wearing three layers of flannel,” he shot back, calloused fingers working the last button of his shirt. He shrugged it off, then got his own belt open and shoved his pants and shorts down off his hips, kicking them aside with the rest. His hands finally met the bare skin of my waist, the calluses rough and warm, pressing me flat back against the steel wall.

I got my hand around his cock and lined him up while he braced one forearm by my head. The first push took effort, the angle awkward with the wall at my back and the deck shifting under us. My thighs burned from holding the stance after fourteen hours on my feet. He drove in another inch and my knees buckled under the weight of both of us.

“Fuck, my legs,” I said.

“Mine too.” The ferry rolled and threw us off the wall, the two of us stumbling sideways across the narrow gap, still locked together. We went down onto the bottom bunk in a heap. The mattress took the fall but the frame creaked. He stayed inside me the whole way, as we settled on our sides, then shifted so I ended up half on top with one leg hooked over his.

“Watch the elbow again,” I told him, settling my weight.

“Then quit shifting like that.” He got a hand on my hip and started moving, short thrusts that ground my cock against the muscle of his stomach with every roll. Sweat slicked where our skin met. I pushed back into each thrust and the pressure built steady where we rubbed together, no hand on me, just the drag and the weight and the way his voice stayed low in my ear.

“You always this quick after a shift?”

“Shut up. Keep going.” I kept my jaw clamped but my thighs started to shake from holding the position. The friction stayed constant, his cock hitting deep while my own pressed and slid against him on every downstroke. He kept talking, calling out the way my hips stuttered, the way I pressed harder without meaning to. It built until it tipped without any extra touch, just the steady grind and the sound of him saying my name like another shift report. I came across his stomach in thick pulses, the release hitting harder because nothing had been on me directly. My forehead dropped to his collarbone and stayed there while it kept rolling through me.

He slowed but didn’t stop, working through it until I went slack against him. My leg felt like dead weight over his hip. I tried to say something about the crossing still having an hour left but the words stalled halfway, eyes dropping shut between blinks.

Beck stayed quiet. His thumb traced a small circle on my hip, the same way he checked a manifest.

I reached up and killed the overhead light. The cabin went dim, just the porthole glow.

“Leave it,” he said, and kept his hand where it was.