Row, Row, Row Your Boat

Author: T. T. Fletcher

Email: PolymathReader@gmail.com

Title: Row, Row, Row Your Boat

mc mm

Synopsis:

Every day, I row the rich fellow across to his sailboat. Why is he singing that silly song?

More of my Stories.

[There are about 600 words of introduction. If you like, you can skip down to the first trance.]

Martin went into town every day. I was his “taxi”.

He lived on his sailboat, which had been swinging at anchor for the past month on the far side of the lagoon. I live and worked in a tourist town, and it can get quite noisy in town. A lot of people anchored their boats far from the noise.

Rowing takes fifteen to twenty-five minutes each way, depending on the tide and wind. He would text me in the morning, with his rough schedule. I would pick him up and take him to shore. Then he would text me in the afternoon or evening, I would take him back. Occasionally, especially if he was busy working, he wouldn’t go ashore. He’d text me a shopping list, and I would bring him supplies: groceries, beer, hardware for the boat, whatever. I would make only one trip that day.

Easy.

He paid me $50 for working an hour or so. While I was waiting for him to be finished on shore, also after I was done for the day, I would hang out on the beach and surf. Four nights a week—I was a bar-back at a tourist bar, washing dishes and fetching ice—$40 a night, plus tips.

Even in a tourist town, you can live on a couple hundred a week—if you are willing to live a couple blocks back from the beach and have three roommates.

I didn’t work too hard, I made a living, I surfed.

* * *

Martin’s sailboat was nice.

The boat was a 45 foot [14 meter] cruising sailboat. Definitely not a “yacht”, it was still pretty nice inside. A lot of married couples live aboard 34 foot [10.4 meter] sailboats. A 45 is twice as large inside as a 34. A 45 is only 30% longer than a 34, but it is also 30% wider and 30% taller.

Marin’s boat had a proper bedroom forward, a kitchen/dining area and a separate salon mid-deck, and a two very small guest bedrooms aft. The helm was a wheel in a seating area topside/aft, with enough room for 6 people to sit. The boat had solar panels, a water maker, and a composting toilet. With a supply of food and a good wind, this boat could take you around the world.

He told me that he bought it 2nd hand from someone that had owned it for ten years, without ever putting it in the water. Martin had gotten it “dirt cheap”—because the guy selling it was an old friend of his, who was going through a “shitty divorce”.

Martin ran a consulting firm from the salon of his sailboat. All he needed was: a phone, a computer, and an internet connection. With all the new satellite equipment, he could work from anyplace on the planet.

* * *

I know why he hired me.

When he first arrived, he went back and forth to town using his own tiny, gasoline powered dingy. But, when he saw me sitting on the quay, he struck up a conversation. I could see that he was interested. I took off my shirt, and used it to wipe the sweat from my brow.. He stared at me. He tried to be cool about it, but I could tell that he liked what he saw. I’m not the sexiest guy on the beach, but I turn heads. My muscles aren’t the biggest, but I make do. Spending hours surfing in the sun had baked my skin creamy brown, and bleached my long hair blonde.

I wouldn’t let Martin touch me, but I would be willing to let him look. In the bar, all of us worked bare chested. It was no big thing.

When I mentioned my uncle’s rowboat, Martin hired me on the spot.

* * *

[The first trance starts here.]

On the rides back and forth, we would chat. I learned about his consulting business; he learned about my life on the island.

He would always sing “that song”. A song that I used to sing as a kid:

Sometimes he would hum it, or whistle softly.

He would ask the strangest philosophical questions, “What is the nature of life. Is life really a dream? Could we exist off the island? Off the atoll?” He would go on, “I have a dream job, working from a sailboat swinging at anchor in a lovely lagoon. You have a life filled with easy work and surfing all day. Could there be a better life? Was this all a dream? Does the world exist? Does the universe end at the horizon?”

Philosophy wasn’t really something that I thought about much. I said, “Life could be a dream.”

Martin laughed, “We are both living in a dream world. Nothing is real.”

He started singing, I joined him in the singing. We sang through a couple times.

Martin told me, “Think of the world ending just over the horizon. And, that everything else was imaginary. Blot out all other thoughts.”

We sang and sang. After a bit, he sang the last line, over-and-over:

I sang that last line with him, over-and-over.

He told, “Keep going. Keep singing. Only think of the song—only the dream. Let everything else slip away.”

He kept talking; I kept singing.

I blinked. I woke.

At some point, I had stopped rowing. The wind had blown us down the lagoon quite a bit.

I apologized, “I stopped rowing. Sorry.”

Martin laughed, “This has been great. But, I need to get back to my sailboat, and you need to get to your night job.”

The sun was right on the horizon. If I didn’t hustle, I was going to be late to the bar. I pulled hard on the oars. Martin sat in the back of the boat, openly watched my chest and arms in the red/orange glow of the sunset, as I pulled towards his boat. His eyes wandered over my legs and at my face. For the first time, since Martin and I met on the quay, Martin was openly looking at me with obvious lust. I kept pulling.

It was full dark, when I tied up in town. I arrived at the bar barely on time.

* * *

After that, we would sing on every trip.

The full song at first, then just the last line:

I would sing; Martin would talk; then I would wake up.

If Martin wasn’t in the rowboat, the trip still took fifteen to twenty-five minutes each way. If Martin was in the boat with me, the trip took an hour.

I just adjusted my day’s schedule to allow for more time in the boat.

One evening, when I wasn’t scheduled to work at the bar, Martin invited me to have dinner with him on his sailboat. He had invited me several times before, and each time I had refused. This time, for no reason that I can understand, I agreed.

Dinner was fun. Martin was interesting to talk to. He told a bunch of stories about his life. I told a bunch of stories about my life. I was interested in what he did for a living. He seemed interested in how I was living my life. He asked a thousand questions.

After dinner, we were having a beer up on deck when I noticed something odd. I was bare chested, as usual. But, my shoes were missing. I was dressed only in my board shorts.

Martin was telling a story.

I interrupted, “Where are my shoes?”

Martin blinked in surprise, “Still in your rowboat, I think.”

That was confusing. I rowed with shoes on. Board shorts and shoes.

… except … lately, I hadn’t been wearing shoes. We would set out, I would take off my shoes. I took them off, because … Why? Why was I removing my shoes? The song? “Life is but a dream”. I don’t need shoes in a dream. I don’t wear shoes while surfing. I didn’t need shoes to row. Did I?

I was confused. Why was the song so important?

I thanked Martin for dinner, and left.

There, sitting in the bottom of my boat, were my shoes.

In the darkness, I mumbled all the way back to town:

* * *

Two days later, we were returning to his sailboat, singing. I removed my shoes. Half way back to Martin’s sailboat, right in the middle of the lagoon, I stopped rowing … I was thinking about the dream, of course. None of this mattered. We were in the middle of the lagoon. No one could see us. “Life is but a dream.” I removed my board shorts. I sat in the boat naked; rowing Martin to his sailboat.

Naked with Martin was the sexist thing I had ever done. It was amazing. I was free. I was dreaming. This was great. Martin was watching me. Slowly, I felt myself get hard. Martin smiled. I was full hard. Martin was happy.

After dinner and after a couple of beers in the growing darkness, Martin switched on the boat’s underwater lights. Light filtered up through the water and flickered off the tiny waves. We went swimming. I was still naked. Martin stripped down as well. In the cool evening air, we splashed and played in the defused, dancing lights.

I was a lot stronger than Marin; I spent a lot of time in the water. But Martin was no slouch. He swam well. After half an hour of play, we went aboard.

We sang for a bit; then it seemed silly to row ashore to turn right-around in the morning. So, when Martin offered, I decided to spend the night in one of the guest cabins.

In the night, I had a strange dream. The dream was in a series of flashes—half-remembered moments. I was in the guest cabin, Martin was sucking my dick. Martin was sitting on the dinning room table, I was sucking Martin’s dick. I was sprawled across the roof the boat, he had a finger in my ass. A fun dream.

I kept singing.

* * *

The next four nights, I had to work at the bar, so I couldn’t have dinner with Martin.

I changed-up my bar routine. Normally, in the last hour or so of my bar shift, I would pick a cute tourist out of the crowd for a little nocturnal fun. That week, I went home right after my shift to have some private, personal time. While I was stroking myself, I could only think of three things: the song, getting off, and Martin fucking me. The dream was vivid. Something that I desperately wanted. All three things were related.

I still rowed barefoot. And, when we were out of sight of anyone, I would strip down naked. By now, anytime I was alone with martin I was naked, my cock full hard. I loved being naked in the rowboat, proudly showing Martin my dick.

In the middle of the lagoon, far from prying eyes, I imagined Martin reaching over and stroking my cock. My stroking his cock. Him blowing me. Me blowing him. A wonderful dream.

* * *

Finally, I could spend the night on Martin’s boat again.

Martin laying naked on the roof of the boat, his dick out, my mouth bobbing on him—he ran his fingers through my hair.

I was sprawled face-down across the dinning room table, Martin was behind me. His dick was condomed and lubed. His fingers and my ass were lubed. One finger. Two fingers.

His dick slipped in. It was perfect. Everything I had hoped for, and more.

He fucked me. He pounded away.

I had thought that it was going to be painful. There was nothing but joy. Bliss.

On and on. The best sex I had ever had. He owned my ass. He owned my body. He owned me. Anything that he wanted. Now and forever.

With trembling and a shout, he filled me; I sprayed across the dinning room table.

* * *

Two weeks later, I moved onto Marin’s boat. In theory, I moved into one of the guest cabins, but I used that cabin just to store my clothes and stuff.

I still rowed ashore everyday, as I continued to surf everyday and he often had things to do on shore. But, Martin no longer went ashore every day, as he didn’t need a boat ride to see my naked chest and arms.

I wanted to keep my job at the bar. Martin agreed. He said, “It will give you some focus off of this boat, and other adults to talk to—which will be healthy.” He laughed, “Plus, it will give you a break from the relentless fucking.”

The seasons changed, the weather grew less mild.

We stayed at that lagoon until the end of the tourist season. When the weather turned bad, Martin showed me how to handle the sailboat. We traveled for two months—first moving to where the weather was pleasant, then changed islands every day, until we found a nice place to drop anchor—a place with great surf, nice restaurants, and good people. I found a part-time job shoreside. We fucked like bunnies.

The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive