Pressed into Service

It all started innocently enough when my messmate Dan caught me having a wank one morning in my hammock; long watch, warm night, memories of a few pleasant evenings ashore. You know the kind of thing, what's a girl to do?

Anyway he caught me with my hands full, so to speak, but this time he surprised me by asking if I needed any help. Now I'd always found him pretty pleasing on the eye, so I pointed the old fella at him and he took over like an expert. 

We were all fairly relaxed about that kind of thing onboard. When you're cooped up on a ship for months on end you get used to the sound of your mates having a tug, sometimes alone, but not always, and not always just a tug. And the smell below decks, a mixture of machinery, sweat, food, men and sex; if they could only bottle it!

So there I am, starkers, with Dan working my dong like a master, clearly enjoying himself as much as I was, keeping me hanging on much longer than I normally managed. 

He sure did have the right touch, and having copped my eyes on his impressive uncut dick over our months at sea I knew exactly how it was that he was able to work mine so well; he even taught me a few tricks I've since used on others. A grand performance, and he got the full standing ovation for his troubles.

Mind you when I finally shot my load I put on a pretty good show myself. I normally manage a fairly good stream of the stuff but this time it went everywhere, hitting me in the face before covering my chest and stomach and surrounding bulkheads. Just goes to show what an extra pair of hands can do!

Dan was bloody impressed and laughed as he kept on pumping it out of me, letting it pool on my hairy belly and dribble into my thick pubes. When the flow finally stopped I was totally done in and just lay back, dimly aware that he kept my spent cock in his grip long after that final drop had been extracted. 

"Bloody nice" was how he described it as he ever so carefully wiped off every single trace, using my Navy-issue shorts that I’d discarded at the foot of my hammock. I noticed at the time how determined he was to wipe up every strand, from my chin to the drops nestling in my thick ginger bush, but didn't think much of it until he got around to making his proposition.

Apparently those sprog-soaked undies of mine were worth a few bob on the open market. Dan had a lucrative little business going, supplying pervs and poofs with a bit of take-home naval action; and being a bit of a perv and a poof myself I cottoned onto the lark pretty quick. I also began to cotton onto what had been happening to my shorts recently, which had been going missing at an alarming rate.

The deal was straightforward enough. Dan would supply me with new undies in exchange for the ones I managed to foul up for him on a weekly basis; spunk, piss, sweat and any other manly excretions I could manage. All I had to do was wear the same pair for a good few days (and nights) and he'd take care of the rest. 

Nothing was to be wasted, from piss dribbles after I'd been to the head to the juice I tended to leak when I daydreamed, which was quite often.  He even had "special" clients lining up for undies with skid marks, but I've always been scrupulous about keeping myself clean back there (after all, you never knew when one of the lads might pop in!), so I begged off on that particular line. He'd sell the merchandise and I'd get a cut, just for doing what a guy does in the normal course of the day, or night.  Simple.

Dan wouldn't tell me who else he had on his roster, but I knew any number of guys who could have kept him supplied from here to eternity, so I was pretty certain that I would just be a single cog in a vast and productive machine. I had no doubt that he kept up a steady flow of merchandise for the punters back home and, as I was to discover, onboard as well.

Now I love being a sailor on the old HMAS Dorothy, but even I have to admit that the days and nights can drag when you're on a routine cruise, so it didn't take me long to sign up for this extra duty, despite the sailor's traditional reluctance to volunteer.  

We were all there to serve, after all.