Screeched In

So, confession time. I went on a kinky cruise to Newfoundland ("guaranteed to get ya puffin!") a while back. If you've never been to Newfoundland, a rocky Canadian island in the North Atlantic, maybe you haven't heard about this thing they do called "screeching in." It's kind of like a hazing, where they make tourists pay to do a bunch of silly things like kissing a cod fish and drinking a local moonshine called screech. After you've been screeched in, you're an honorary Newfoundlander. Apparently, some British naval officer once came on assignment to Newfoundland, back in the day when it was all fishing stages and fillets drying on flakes, and when he took a gulp of the local grog, he let out a huge scream. Everyone said, "That's some screech you got there!" and from then on, to become a Newfoundlander you had to drink the screech. Well, that's one story I heard tell of in Newfoundland. But I also learned another reason why they call it "screeching in" when I took a fateful tour of Witless Bay.

I normally consider myself to be a pretty smart cookie, what with having a PhD and all, but I think Witless Bay affected my brain. After we'd seen the whales feeding and the puffins nesting, something happened that had me really confused. We were heading back to the port, when all of a sudden an announcement came over the deck asking the following person to please report to the bridge. Then, they said my name. I had no idea how they got my name. I mean, this excursion was scheduled through the cruise line, but besides my lover and long-time Master, I didn't recognize anyone else there from the kink-ship. (That doesn't say much, though; I have terrible facial recognition skills. Like, a friend of mine who was majoring in psychology once told me I should get my brain scanned. I don't hold it against her or anything, but really, I can't do faces. If I could, maybe it would've given me a clue. Witless Bay strikes again.)

So, I had no idea what was happening. I thought you had to pay extra to do the screeching in ceremony on the boat, and I hadn't paid for it. I thought we'd just do it with the rest of the crowd at some bar in St. John's, like Christian's or O'Reilly's. I went up to the bridge and asked, "Have I won something?" in a sort of confused but hopeful chirpy tone that sounded even to me like the voice of a total ditz. And they said, "Yes, me dear, you're being screeched in today! Somebody put your name down. Are you good for it, girl?"

A vision of my Master's grinning face flashed through my mind.

"Ohhh, okay!" I ditzed again. "Yeah, sure, I mean, yes I'll do it."

Despite being from the East Coast, I had no idea what screeching in actually involves besides kissing a cod and drinking screech. But anyways, I accepted the challenge. We were on a ship full of vanilla tourists. What could they possibly do to me?

Well, I figured out pretty fast that this wasn't just any old vanilla tour boat, and they could do a hell of a lot to me. My first clue was the fact that as soon as I consented and signed a waiver, two burly "cabin boys" (these were not "boys," folks) pinnned me by the arms and pulled my pants off. Next went my windbreaker, my t-shirt, and my lacy bra, which they tossed back and forth like a hot potato before stowing it all in a box with a thick, solid lock. I thought the lock was overkill, because really, there was no way I was getting past those able seamen. All they left me were my black lace panties and my day collar, a flat chain necklace made of links like a watch band that I wear when I'm out with my Master.

I thanked God that we'd managed to get a tour on the one day that week when it wasn't either raining or frigidly windy. The cabin mates put me in a pair of huge black rubber boots and a floppy, bright yellow Sou'Wester hat, so I looked the part of a naughty Newfie. Then they ushered me out of the bridge and down the steps to the bow, where the ship's passengers were all gathered around the blue plastic benches in the middle of the open-air observation deck. My Master was right there with a huge cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his lips and my high-end Canon camera in his hands. This was all going on the record. I had visions of him pulling up the video at parties back home. I glared at him. He made a "Now, now, be nice" face. I tried to walk with dignity in my boots, and stubbed my toe on a bench. At least it didn't hurt through all that rubber.

Once I was in place at the front of the benches, one of the tour boat's animators strolled down the stairs from the bridge. He was a classic Newfoundlander: stocky and strong, with a mischievous look on his face and a short but bushy black beard that would've made any hipster's eyes pop out with jealousy. He turned to address the passengers.

"Welcome, everyone, to the entertainment portion of our journey! I'm your host, Corky Sly Connor -that's Mr. Sly to you," he added to me. "We have here a young lady who's looking to be screeched in. Should we give it to 'er?"

"YEEESS!" they all yelled as one. There was an excited hubbub as people talked to each other and took pictures and generally behaved like tourists. Were pictures mentioned in that waiver I didn't bother to read? Maybe that's why I had the giant hat on, to protect my identity.

"Lard tunderin' Jaysus, you're a loud bunch! Quiet down, you lot!" shouted Corky Sly Connor. The crowd subsided, and he turned to me.

"Now, m'dear, we're going to make you into an honorary Newfoundlander. In order to become one of us, you have to learn to walk like a Newfie, talk like a Newfie, kiss like a Newfie" (here there were hoots and hollers) "and finally DRINK like a Newfie! Can you do that, d'y' t'ink?"

"Yes, Mr. Sly, I think so." I replied in tiny, mortified voice.

"Then let's screech 'er in!!" Mr. Sly crowed, to more woo's from the passengers.

"Now, the first part is learning to walk like a Newfie. Me and the byes, we're fishermen stock. So in order to walk like a Newfie, you need to get your sea legs."

At a wave, one of the sailors brought over a big red plastic pail of sea water. Mr. Sly reached down and scooped a white chunk out of it.

"Bergy bits!" he proclaimed. "Pieces of the majestic icebergs that float just off shore. Even in the summer, we always have a fresh supply of ice for our scotch and our screech-ins. These have been locked in the heart of a glacier for 5 million years. And now, they're going to teach our little lady a lesson."

He pushed the bucket in front of me.

"Take off your left boot." He ordered. I did it.

"Next I'm going to ask you to put your foot in the water."

Showing my willingness to play along, I lifted my left foot and lowered it to the bucket. Just as my bare left sole touched the water's surface, he shouted,

"WAIT!! I didn't say which foot, now did I? Ah ah ah! You has to put the RIGHT one in, boot and all!"

I blushed bright red, feeling totally witless because he got me with a classic mindfuck, playing on my eagerness to please. Sheepishly, I took out my already-wetted left foot and put my right foot into the bucket, almost to the brim. I sorta-kinda of tried to keep my foot dry by not actually letting the water go over the top of the boot, but he saw and insisted, "All the way in, girl! Go all the way in!"

I submerged my foot in the bucket. Icy water rushed into the boot and filled it right up.

"All the way!" Mr. Sly was still saying.

"I'm touching the bottom!" I cried out helplessly.

"Good girl! Now, pull 'er out and take a walk around. Say hello to the good folks aboard ship today."

I did as he said, staggering around with one bare foot and one foot in a boot full of salt water as the boat rolled gently in the waves. I dragged my boot around the deck, circling the seats in the centre. At first people just hung back and took pictures, but Mr. Sly told them to give me some encouragement, and after that they began to slap my ass and pinch my thighs and "catch" me by the breasts when I fell forward. Some of them even had me pose for pictures, pretending to spank me while I stood in my yellow rain-hat like some kind of kinky Holly Hobby doll. When I reached my Master, he made me bend over and show my butt to the camera while he gave me a resounding smack on each blushing pink cheek. The whole thing was super awkward, but also, with that perverse twist I know so well, unbelievably arousing.

When I got back to my spot, Mr. Sly boldly slid his fingers down the front of my panties.

"We've got 'er wet now, byes! But she's not a Newfie yet."

No, not yet. With his permission, I took off my bootful of bergy bits and prepared myself for the second step. Next up, I needed to learn to talk like a Newfie by taking the screecher's pledge. He told me that when he asked me the question "Is ye a screecher?" I would have to answer with...a big long string of words. He said them so fast in full Newfie accent that all I could make out were the words "cock" and "long" and "big." My mind raced.

'What dirty things is he going to make me say? I can't repeat that! I barely even heard it!'

Mr. Sly seemed to read my thoughts (probably as they flew by transparently on my face). He laughed at me, then said he'd take pity and break it down for me. I had to repeat each part of the phase after him.

"When I says, Is ye a screecher, you say: Indeed I is-"

"Ok...indeed I is-"

"Me ole cock-"

"Me old cock-

"and long may-"

"and long may-"

"your big jib draw."

"your big jib draw."

"Put it together. Indeed I is, me ole cock."

"Indeed I is me old cock."

"And long may your big jib draw."

"And long may your big jib draw."

"The whole thing, now. 'Deed I is, me ole cock, and long may your big jib draw."

"Indeed I is, me old cock, and long may your big jib draw."

'Hey that's easy,' I thought.

"IS YE A SCREECHER?!" he screamed.

Every single word he had just taught me went out of my mind. My thoughts were as blank as the tundra planes, with nary a caribou in sight.

"Indeed I is..." he prompted me under his breath.

"'DeedIismeolecock, an'longmayyerbigjibdraw!" I blurted out.

"HA HA HAAA!" Mr. Sly burst out in a triumphant laugh, and everyone else cheered. "That's the best try we've had all week!" I flushed and smiled with pride, but Mr. Sly continued, "Now d'y'know what it means, girl, what you just said?"

I blushed bright. I didn't know for sure, but I had some idea that I'd just wished him an enormous boner.

"That I'm a screecher, and..." I stammered, trying to explain it delicately. "Your cock...your big jib...may it, uh, grow long..."

Everyone roared. Mr. Sly shook his head, tutting, and told me I have a dirty mind. Then he explained the real meaning of it. Apparently the cock in "me old cock" is an old slang term for "Cockney," from the days of the British colonies, so it means something like "My old Cockney friend." The "big jib" isn't another penis metaphor, but a nautical term for a sail catching the wind. I'd basically just wished my good friend "wind in your sails," or luck and prosperity.

"Oh," I said, chagrined. "So it was about sailing all along."

"Well," said Mr. Sly, "I think you should give your ole cock a draw anyways, since you wants it so much."

Unzipping his fly, he leapt like an acrobat onto the bench-seat, with both feet landing planted beside me and his crotch right in my face. He was already as hard as the Rock itself, and his jib was indeed big. I drew on it eagerly and fast. But I was left open-mouthed and gasping when he pulled back suddenly and flipped off the seat.

"Some shockin' good!" He exclaimed, also just a bit out of breath. "But this" -waggle waggle- "isn't the codpiece you're supposed to be kissing. Now it's time to kiss the real cod!"

With that, he slipped me the cold fish: a huge, heavy, silvery denizen of the deeps, which didn't smell a bit because it was frozen as stiff as...well, there were a lot of stiff things on my mind at that moment. I pecked it shyly, barely touching it. Mr. Sly yelled,

"Come on, put some love into it!"

So I gave it a good long wet kiss. Halfway through I wondered if my tongue might stick to it like a flagpole in winter (stuck to those fish lips, ugh!!), but when I pulled back there was no stickiness at all. For all that kissing the cod is so famous and so obviously symbolic, it seemed kind of anti-climactic that they just took it away after everyone had their photos. But then, Mr. Sly raised his hands for quiet.

"Now, truth be told, we're not right proper a fishing boat. This-" he gestured grandly around him "-is a Puffin Tour Boat. So our little pet here has an extra task. She also has to kiss...a puffin!"

For a second, I thought he meant a real live bird and nearly leapt to my feet in protest. But then one of the cabin boys held up the puffin for all to see, and it was just a kid's plush toy, the kind you can get at any souvenir store on the island. Not half as bad as kissing a real fish, right? It was even pretty cute. I smiled despite myself. Protip: if you're ever being screeched in by a sadistic Newfie, don't smile.

As Mr. Sly took the toy in one hand, he looked at it thoughtfully and said, "A puffin, eh? But this bird is a little queer. She likes it in the arse! Do you like it in the arse, little miss sunshine?"

"Y-yes..." I stammered, my smile frozen in place.

"Do you take it in the arse a lot?"

"S-sometimes..." I began. My Master coughed meaningfully. "Yes, I guess it's a lot." I amended.

"Well, the byes'll get our lucky puffin lubed up for you and you can give 'er a good deep kiss!"

He handed off the puffin to one of the crew, who made a show of dipping its tail into the bucket of salt water where I'd stuck my boot earlier and talking about the personal habits of puffins. While he was doing that, Mr. Sly bent me over the back of a seat bench and discreetly worked my panties down around my ankles. He rubbed something cold and wet between my butt-cheeks.

"Seaweed slime and whale spit," he whispered in my ear with a cackle. "Just what the doctor ordered!"

The cabin boy's misdirection ended when he presented the puffin before my face with a flourish. Mr. Sly grabbed both my arms and pulled them behind my back. I squirmed, but his grip was solid, and his erection even more so. As the able seaman smushed the salty puffin against my lips, Mr. Sly slid his big jib right into my porthole.

"Mmmff!" I gasped as we heaved and tossed on the briny sea. My legs shook with the intensity of it, the almost overwhelming sensation. My muffled protests became muffled moans.

"Oh, she likes it in the arse after all!" Mr. Sly yelled. "Puffins are right queer birds."

Once again, he pulled out of me before the wave could crest for either of us. I leaned my forearms against the bench, legs still shamelessly spread, and put my head down with closed eyes, breathing deep. Trying to get myself back under control.

"Looks like she needs to have a little lie-down." He said to the crowd. He must've pantomimed something crude, because the laughs were louder than the joke warranted. To me, he said, "Let's have a drink and get you screeched in good and proper."

He took my arm and guided me to sit down on the bench where I'd just been so roughly used. I opened my eyes and saw him looking back right into mine. My hazy vision cleared. He was checking in without a word. I was ready, and he could see it. At his gesture, the two cabin boys came out, one with a bottle of Newfie Screech and one with a shot glass on a tray.

"Now, me girl," said Mr. Sly, "You can have this one of two ways. You can take this shot glass here and have a nice sip of screech...or you can take it right down yer gullet, fresh from the bottle. What'll it be?"

I looked from the glass to the bottle. It was no contest.

"I'll take it down the gullet!" I said. I was no longer just enduring this oceanic hazing. I wanted it. I wanted the total experience of it, all the way.

Everyone cheered and I could tell they were supporting me, no longer laughing at me but cheering me on. The mate with the bottle handed it to Mr. Sly, while the shotglass vanished without a trace. The two able seamen then came over and held my arms down, one on each side. I could feel the heat coming off of them, contrasting with the cool, fresh salt breeze off the water. I tilted my head back and opened my mouth in a posture of pure receiving. Mr. Sly poured a generous shot -a shot and a half, maybe two shots- of spiced rum down my throat. It burned, but I held it in my mouth, savouring the flavour, then swallowed it back.

"IS YE A SCREECHER?!"

"'DeedIismeoldcock, andlongmayyerbigjibdraw!!"

"Best kind! Now we're gonna make ye screech!"

With that, he pulled out an enormous object with the words "Dildo, NFLD" painted down the side in quaint country-cutesy handwriting. I gasped as the seamen pushed me over onto the bench, and it was a good thing I took that deep breath, because Mr. Sly's cock was back in my mouth before I could draw on anything else. Newfoundland's weirdest souvenir, the dildo from Dildo, found its way deep inside me. As my eyes rolled back, I could just barely see that it was my Master who was holding it...while he continued to film me in close up! Mr. Sly rode my mouth like a dolphin humping the waves, and Master pumped Dildo, NFLD in time. Mr. Sly kept gasping about being a screecher, and I kept trying to say the words around his big jib, until finally I could take no more and just screamed out my ecstasy, tasting salt cum and feeling huge as oceans.

When I was done and everything was silent but the sloshing sea, Mr. Sly said to the crowd,

"And that, byes, is why we call her a screecher -and an honorary citizen of the proud island of Newfoundland!"