Rigged

The blades of the helicopter thumped through the mist, muffled to staccato thuds by the headset she wore - "another couple of minutes" the pilot reassured her. She smiled despite the patronising tone. He left off the 'sweetheart' (perhaps he'd been on a one day course) but it was still implied.

The rig loomed at the last second out of the sullen spray, massive and improbable amid so much sky and sea. There was a disconnect between this huge and remote machine, and the interior spaces she felt familiar with from the footage she had been watching. She was looking forward to seeing it from inside to reconnect, and to meeting the men she'd been observing.

She had sufficient information already from the footage to write up, and she did run the risk by going to the rig of affecting the power dynamic she was researching, but it would be beneficial to conduct the interviews in situ, both individually and in groups, and she felt it would also inform her research to feel something of the rig's isolation. And she wanted to meet in person the men whose lives she had analysed in detail for months - as they ate, worked, joked, slept, washed, masturbated, played games, fought, worked out and griped about the boredom, and the lack of female attention. So there was an excitement that she felt when the helicopter touched down, and it wasn't purely academic.

The blades slowed, and a fresh spray of sideways rain hit her in the face as the door opened. She thanked the pilot, and politely took the hand that a figure on the deck was offering to her as she stepped down. His hand was leathery but warm in the freezing rain, and she recognised that it was K, the crane operator, beaming a welcoming grin as he roared something about the weather over the sound of the blades starting up again. She had spent so long thinking of the crew by the letters she had assigned to them for anonymity when she came to publish, that for her those were their names. Of course, she knew them also by what they called each other - on the occasions when they bothered with names rather than obscenities - but since she had seen all of this interaction on video it was a little as though it was a drama, whose characters had names like 'Chris' and 'Sergei' but were played by the actors H,I,J,K etc (her principal cast were H through to O, as they were the most consistently resident crew members, with others coming and going).

By the time they got inside she was soaked, and she peeled wet strands of hair out of her mouth as K began her tour, and introduced her to the rest of the crew along the way. She already knew which of the men were sullen, which were vivacious, and knew who would greet her in different ways depending on if he had peers nearby (here she was, already influencing the dynamic). Each man seemed genuinely thrilled to meet her, and there was already a possessiveness to the way that K was introducing her. Sexual tension hummed in the background of each interaction like the throbbing of the heavy machinery below them, and for all her outward professionalism, her knickers were sodden at the power she felt she was wielding over the sex-starved crew. Her top had been chosen to be un-titilating, but the rain had caused it to cling to her, and the stinging wind had flushed her cheeks which gave her a slightly just-fucked look. Along with her wet hair and glistening skin, she was clearly making an impression, and she felt all eyes on her as they moved through the rig.

For her part, she had already seen most of these men naked, and heard their filthy jokes and bravado, including about her impending visit. Her cameras were everywhere. She had watched them sweat and strain in the gym, and watched them scrub hard at the black grease on their arms. She had seen L wanking, almost daily, and seen the majesty of O's sleeping giant (his penis was the largest she had ever seen, but she had not seen it erect). She shook L's hand knowing this, and stood in the shadow of O's huge frame as they exchanged pleasantries about her flight out. And she tried not to look at his bulge, while he failed not to look at her curves.

It had been similar during her project at the prison, and she castigated herself for having ended up in a field of research (social power dynamics in all-male environments) that put her in these situations. At the prison, she had been in such a pent-up state after a fortnight that she had gone and picked up a stranger in a bar. She fell on his cock like an animal, and gushed on his balls within moments of him entering her.

K showed her to her sleeping quarters, and the adjoining shower block, and she thanked him and said she would change and rejoin them in the rec room, which was just the other side of the showers. She dumped her bag and headed for the showers. The cubicles were curtained, but the door to the main room wouldn't shut properly as the frame was out of alignment somehow. The men obviously didn't care about this detail, and she knew it didn't really matter, but it made her feel a little exposed anyway - she could hear their voices from the next room. Her wet clothes were reluctant to part from her skin, and then hit the floor with a slap when they did. Her nipples were rigid, mainly from the cold, and she saw a gleaming slick in her knickers where they lay twisted and curled after she rolled them down her legs. The hot water was very welcome, and she let it cascade over her and warm her back up. At first her hand dawdled indecisively between her legs, before her circles grew a little more focused. She felt as though she was naked among them all, playing with her seeping pussy in the middle of the room, and she pictured them pumping their cocks in a circle, waiting to take turns in her. She could hear their chat over the running water, and she knew the door was only propped closed, and that the curtain hardly covered her. Yet here she was, coming so hard on her busy fingers that her knees buckled slightly and her body quaked. She bit her lip hard and curled her toes while the waves subsided, and she registered that everything she did here would also feature on her own footage.

She had only packed unprovocative clothes, something which she regretted as she was dressing. Still, she chose a relatively figure-hugging grey woollen top and her black trousers had a little stretch in them: the way her ass looked in them made her smile. She tucked away the wet little knickers that she had ruined with her excitement, and put on a new pair. She had allowed herself the little luxury of bringing her expensive lacy lingerie, to counter the boring clothes she'd brought, in a bargain with her sexual self. She pulled them on and they felt cooling against her still swollen lips.

The way the men looked at her when she emerged, dry and changed, it seemed to her as though they could tell she had just stood masturbating and imagining them pounding her. But she knew that was just her mind playing tricks on her - they didn't know, that was just the way that sexually frustrated men looked at an attractive woman.

The interviews were informal and meandering, since she already knew the facts of their backgrounds, so it was more about establishing a context. She had some idea of their individual personalities anyway, from the footage, and it gave her feeling of power, knowing these men better than they knew her. But it also lent her dealings with them an over-familiarity, she sometimes felt, that had a dangerous undercurrent. It was absolutely not her intention to flirt with these men, several of whom were in relationships, and certainly she did not find all of them attractive, although their physical strength was evident. But their captivity and frustration, and increasingly hers, combined with the voyeuristic nature of her project, made every banal conversation tingle with arousal. Their mouths dwelt on the everyday, but their eyes and minds explored the exquisite in depth. And the terminology of drilling lent itself well to crude and constant innuendo. The juxtaposition of her flicking hair and sea-green eyes with the grunting and the grease set everyone on fire inside.

So most nights she came in her hands, as the heavy equipment drummed around her in the dark and masked the quiet wet lapping of her fingers between her legs. She bit her lip, and soaked her sheets, and licked her hot mess from trembling fingers before drifting into a restless sleep. In the morning, she'd pull on the same cum-soaked knickers to face the day, knowing that the secret would twinkle in her eyes all day.

Until one morning they vanished. She had left them while she showered, and when she came back they were gone, and in their place was a clean pair of her own. She firmly believed this was the work of M, who was both a horny bastard and a known practical joker. She figured it depended on which of those traits won out as to whether he would keep them to himself, or whether the lacy slip of cunt-soaked fabric would be passed between the crew like a relic. They would laugh and joke, but privately wank furiously with a fevered longing, inhaling the scents of her many nights of arousal. She was reeling with a combination of complete outrage and disbelief at the intrusion of it, and a heart-stopping excitement at the thought of her flavours travelling the rig in this way and causing thick eruptions of cum at every stop.

This thought was somewhat thwarted, however, as the pair reappeared on her pillow by mid morning - M sported a swollen lip and there was an icy atmosphere between him and K. She wondered if K's gallantry had prevented him from enjoying them before returning them to her. Hopefully not, she thought, as she changed back into them. She pulled the waistband so that it was just slightly visible above the line of her trousers, and later that day she made sure that both M and K caught a glimpse. She didn't know if she was rewarding them, or teasing them, or just teasing herself, but that night she came within minutes of touching her throbbing clit, and in her head they were both taking her as hard as they could, while she roused O's sleeping giant with her mouth.

A storm woke her later that night - the rig stood steady as a rock but she could feel the power of the sea raging against it and she had never felt so vulnerable or far away. She felt tears streaking her cheeks in the darkness, as she lay in silence trying to force her mind away from thoughts of wrenching metal and the deep inky black of the water that stretched as far as she could see in all directions. Daybreak and calm came at around the same time, and all the men looked as tired as she felt when she joined them for breakfast. As they ate, she glanced from one man to another. Each had his own reasons for living this disjointed life and his own way of dealing with it. There was camaraderie among the crew, but it was one born of necessity in order to get the job done. And she realised more acutely this morning that it was also born of a shared vulnerability - if something went wrong out here, they had only each other. 'Worse things happen at sea' was the expression that suddenly occurred to her.

She was daydreaming again, taking a break between interviews and staring at waves. She toyed with scenarios in her head: M pressing her cunt-stained knickers to his face while he came in her mouth, her kneeling on cold steel and spilling his load from her lips. O bending her over the railings where she now stood, then coaxing her cum onto his heavy balls by probing her slowly with his thick shaft, before churning it to a froth on her cunt lips like the foaming crests of the waves in front of her. Her coming uncontrollably for all to see, as K buggered her masterfully on the table in the rec room. The wind whipped a cold spray of salt across her face and she realised that her knickers were drenched once more. She turned and headed inside. It was time to talk to L, whose chiselled jaw, steel-blue eyes and rough hands would not help restore her composure.

That evening she walked into the rec room and felt the men change their conversation - she knew it was intended out of politeness or some shared notion of propriety but it irked her because it was false. This time she challenged them on it, as she poured herself a drink and sat with them. "Don't stop talking filth for my sake, I've already heard it all," she said.

"Oh yeah, so you can tell Halliburton all our knob jokes," said M - there was a running joke that her research was a cover for industrial espionage.

*****

Four hours later she was a sloppy mess, looking around the room for her clothes - someone passed her her knickers, still dripping wet, and she pulled them on and felt the cool wet fabric against her sensitive and thoroughly-fucked holes. Her body was slick with sweat and spattered with cum, and her hair was plastered to her, tangled in places with nestling pearls of jism . She pulled her top on over it all, and her breasts swung free under it - she couldn't be bothered with her bra and her nipples were angry, red and tender. She sat on the edge of the table for a moment, exhausted, her body still humming from more orgasms than she could count. They had seemed to run into one. She felt herself leaking copiously through the knickers she had just put on and onto the table. It was already covered with plenty of her cum and theirs, so the mess softly seeping out of her cunt and ass didn't concern her. There was a small pool in the centre of the table where she has surprised herself by gushing suddenly as O's giant had reached balls deep in her ass. She ran a fingertip through the liquid absent-mindedly, and savoured the adult flavours in her mouth. The taste of a dozen different cocks and swinging balls, and the juices from her depths that they brought to her mouth.

Her ass-cheeks were burning from the spanking she had received - earlier in the evening the topic of her cameras came up, and it was discovered that she had seen the men masturbate. It was determined that she would be thoroughly spanked, and would then masturbate to orgasm in front of them. By the time she got to touching herself she was dripping, and seeing the wild eyes fixated on her busy fingers, each man touching his throbbing cock as he watched, she had had a body-shaking orgasm that made her cry out, while she lay across the central table with her legs spread wide for her audience. From that point it had become quite frenzied. For a week desire had swelled like a wave starting far out to sea, feeding on its own power and advancing on the inevitable breaking point. This was the crash, the surging white water, the deafening roar and the spitting salt-foam. For the men it had built for months, and for her (as she drooled and bucked and came with total abandon, and felt herself stretched and taken with tender savagery) it felt like the surge had been drawing together for years, and this was the end of everything. She gave herself up to them completely, denying them nothing, taking their loads gratefully, and came on them all until she collapsed exhausted (and still they fucked her limp slippery body and spent themselves inside her).

******

He greeted her with kindness, a long hug, and a steak cooked to perfection. As they ate, their eyes played together, and they chatted about the helicopter and the storms (he'd been checking the forecasts for the North Sea, and worrying). "Did you enjoy the company?" he asked her with a smile.

"Mmm-hmm, for hours. There should be some footage on the rig-cam to show you" she beamed, taking his hand.