Seagoing scissors
By Kandor



She was long in the legs, short on words. Talk about your perfect woman.

I met her on a short ferry ride from Dorchester on the mainland to Lindy’s
Island, a summer enclave where I like to do day bike trips. This journey on a
foggy day was virtually empty, save for the crew, myself and the long-legged,
short-worded blonde.

She was 18 or so, I figured, tall, with slender yet muscular legs dipping
elegantly down from baggy cranberry-colored short-shorts, a pink tank top
above, short white socks and sneaks below. She was sitting in back, around the
corner of a bulkhead directly over the engines, almost out of view. I almost
didn’t see her as I walked toward the stairs to the upper, open deck. She had
her head back, eyes half-lidded, I thought, in semi-sleep. But I know the
appearance of near orgasm when I see it in women; many have been those who
have sarcastically thanked me for getting them halfway to the promised land
only to leave them a flick, lick or dick away from total pleasure.

I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back as she said "Fucking vibrations of
these engines feels sooooooooo hot in my cunt...."

My jaw dropped. She was sitting, legs spread, in such a way as to press her
pussy into the seat, which I assumed was vibrating nearly as much as the floor
beneath it.

"But I need more...now!" she hissed, suddenly reaching up with a hand to grab
my shirt and pull me to my knees before her. "You’ll do."

Her lithe legs snapped shut around my head like a meaty mousetrap, socked
calves snap-locking behind me as she powered my face into the moist, musky
folds of her crotch. Pulling her shorts aside with one hand and palming the
back of my head with the other to force feed my face to her quim, she looked
down and growled, "Lick."

My eyes must have suggested I was balking. Her teen thighs tightened, my hands
grabbing the amazingly muscular little limbs and feeling silky steel, her
quads ribbons of slim muscle, the hamstrings cutting into the sides of my
neck. She glared down at me, angrily.

"You make me cum, I let you out of my scissors," she said, blue eyes flashing.

I ate, or tried to, but so tight was my teen tormentress’s scissor hold that I
could do little more than offer her use of my face, which seemed to suit her
as she ground the wispy hairs of her pussy into my face, bumping, humping and
thumping my nose and lips to her excited love nub. She put her head back and
moaned, relocking her ankles for a renewed burst of scissor power that
threatened to implode my trapped skull.

Frantically, I tapped her rugged, tanned thighs in submission; it only drove
her to scissor me harder and practically erase my face in an up-and-down
motion that dragged the wet mulch of her sopping snatch over me like a hairy
belt sander. She didn’t say a word as she came, nor had to. I could tell by
the vibration, not of the engine but her thighs, as she squeezed so hard in
orgasmic release her thighs quivered like ripples of water of the bay on which
we were sailing. IT was an awful, head-splitting pain, the girl’s inner thigh
muscles tensing to the hardness of the thick steel cables on the suspension
bridge which we now passed under, a glimpse of which I caught out of the
corner of my teary eyes. Pinpricks of light swam before me and a flood of teen
cunny wash gushed into my mouth and all over my face.

As she wound down, her legs relaxed in an almost gentle undulation, her thighs
softly massaging the head they had only just compressed.

"Thanks," she hissed dreamily. "G’nite."

The mousetrap gams slammed shut again, this time those steel cable adductors
gripping my neck, the quads bridging up under my jaw. This time, as the girl
squeezed, my head didn’t feel like it would implode, but explode. Her thighs
were pushing the blood up to my head, bursting capillaries in my face, I’d
later discover, a connect-the-dots pattern I’d have to explain away as
happening in a coughing jag. The pressure of the gruesome headscissors clogged
my sinuses and made my eyeballs feel like overfilled water balloons, bulging
horribly.

Then I was out, cold, like someone flicked off the light switch. She’d
scissored me asleep, letting go to drop me in a seat and leave me until I came
to as the boat put into port.

I staggered off, my bike in hand, head throbbing, neck stiff, my face
permeated with the girl’s teen-cunt smell. I rested for 15 minutes, trying to
regain myself and noticed the ferry starting its return trip to the mainland.

'There, in a corner window by the bulkhead, I saw the girl, blonde hair in a
ponytail, head back, eyes half shut as the giant engines gunned the ferry out
from the dock, burping a plume of foam out the back. She waved to me. I
cringed. And then I noticed a single male passenger hurrying to make the
ferry, jumping aboard just before it set out.

I considered running to warn him but the pain in my neck and head barely let
me move.