…grab the poison and apply it to your blade.

You stop, putting your leg down and reaching into the pocket. You fish out the vial, holding the dagger in your other hand, and take a second in the light to view the small glass container to make sure it’s still sealed from the eventful journey here. The same amount as when you last looked glitters back at you, the clear odourless liquid swirling innocently, and you quickly hop into the wardrobe. You can apply the poison to the blade inside.

Its good timing. The sound of distant voices jumps in volume as a door opens; not the one to this room, but to the room just outside it. In the time it takes to gently close the wardrobe doors and pop the stopper off the vial in your hand, the voices cross the room and enter with a bang, letting their words shed their muffle with the violent opening of the inner door.

“-fire in the woods now as well, and after this summer it’s basically a tinder pile. We’ll have to cut our meeting short.”

You tip the rest of the poison over the daggers blade, turning it and emptying the vial in the dark. You use the crumple of a dress -one far too long for a wardrobe of this size- to deaden the noise of the falling droplets as you listen to the conversation. A woman’s voice is the first who spoke clearly, but it’s a man that answers.

“This place should be safe though, right?”

He sounds suspicious, almost accusatory. The woman chooses not to notice, her voice focused on the main issue over the man’s doubts.

“Yes. At least I hope so. But the path won’t be. I don’t like the idea of being trapped and if what that man said is true- If we don’t get off the island soon, it could be too late.”

You hear her move about the room, and with the dagger fully poisoned, you try to catch sight of her through the scant cracks that bleed their light into your darkness. The space between the two doors is almost none existent -a crack that gives barely an impression of what’s beyond it- but fortunately, a better place to peek is nearby and visible by its more generous glow: a broken keyhole. The lock is long gone, but the hole cut into the wood is still present, and adding to that, when you lean down to look you see that there is another place to see through: a space between wardrobe door and wardrobe frame, where the hinge holds the door separate enough for a good crack of light to slip through. It shows the bed, and with two quick footsteps outside, it shows Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin.

A jolt runs through you as you lay eyes on her, so close that if the door was not present you could reach out and grab her by the arm. She opens and closes some of the little slot draws of the unit next to you. It could be any woman of course, but something tells you you’re right on the mark. Her long coat bares a white and red pattern, her hair is blond and falls to the shoulders before spilling down her back, and for the brief moment her eyes flicked past the crack, an impression of blue ringed irises sharp with concentration lingered in your memory.

One of the draws surrenders a sheet of paper and she walks back to the lone man.

“Here, that’s our target. Look it over and we can discuss it later.” You look through the old keyhole, catching the distrustful look on the man face as he glances over the page. He wears a garish coat of yellow and red colours, and combined with his attitude, he can only be the Captain Roland you heard of earlier. “Now go; there are a few things I will not be leaving behind. There should be time yet.”

“I thought you said this place was safe?”

“I thought I told you to go!” she snaps back at him. After a sigh and a moment pinching the bridge of her nose, she explains, “You can wait with the others if you want, but you need to take control of your crew.”

He looks as though some bitter retort slithers on his tongue, but whatever it is he barks out a “Bah!” and storms out, leaving her alone.

Just you and her now.

She strides over to the little table by the bed and you watch her take some papers from below it, moving them from the single draw to the flat top. She does this several times, making a small stack.

You, meanwhile, watch from the hinge side crack and consider the best time to strike. You have a poisoned blade and she is now alone, but you sense the window closing. From her words, she is not to stay long, nor be alone for long if these ‘others’ are waiting for her, and you don’t want to be trapped on this island either. The bed is a little far though, and she is on the other side of it. She also has a sword at her hip, _the _sword, held in a dark leather sheath with its handle worked in delicate gold. Her infamous rapier. You’ve heard it described, and know from survivors that’s it’s not for show. If she draws it, it’s over.

You feel the heft of the stiletto in your hand. It may be bolstered with poison, but it’s a thin advantage with you as its wielder. You only bought it in a shop recently and it’s not like you had much experience with them before or anything; you know which end goes where at least.

If she is going to leave, she’ll need to walk by the door, which should give you less distance to travel and more surprise for your surprise attack.

She leafs through the stack of papers and withdraws three sheets, holding them together and moving them over a candles flame. They catch quickly and she walks to the empty fireplace beyond the table, tossing them in and letting them burn. Odd that she would take the time to burn something when trying to escape the flames outside, you’re dying to know what it is. Through the keyhole, you watch her as she watches the fire, and when satisfied the pages can never be read, she walks around the round table and toward the door.

You spring out, pouncing when she is closest to you, yet still not so close to the door that she could escape. The transition from the wardrobe to a sprint is no smooth thing, but you conduct yourself admirably. She’s alert to it though, or its possibility, turning to face you with surprise and resignation both. Being on a burning island with chaos everywhere had clearly left her expecting something like this, but with a poisoned blade in hand, all you need is a scratch and you press on eager to get it before she can draw her sword. In a few steps, you’re close enough to swipe, slashing only the air with the point of your dagger as she leans back hard. He hands come up by instinct, and like a wheat farmers scythe, you swing back your blade, aiming to cut across the raised arms, but they prove too hardy, and too aggressive; she moves a forearm forward to yours, blocking your wrist with her arm and whipping the blade through the nothing inches from her face. You manage to hold to it, and try to wave it back, hoping to score a thin line across her features, but again she shies away.

A turn of her wrist puts your arm in her hand and she tugs you forward, forcing you off balance and pulling the knife out ahead, stabbing the air she just turned away from. All you have time to think is ‘not good!’ Your arm is locked under hers as you’re held to her back, and she stands at your front, clawing the dagger from your hand, which you thrash about, hoping some stray stroke might impart its deadly load.

It doesn’t. Skin peels as she rakes your ringers apart, letting the blade drop to the floor with a deadly clatter. As she lets go, her hand snaps to the handle of her sword, and so does yours, pushing it down as she tries to pull it out. You try to tangle your fingers in the handle, keeping it sealed in the sheath, while your other hand throws a clenched fist into her lower back, punching the soft space between ribs and hips. She grunts, taking three of your blows with a veterans ease. You’re hardly a pugilist, and the small ball of your fist does little but convey your desperation at the plan gone awry. She throws back an elbow, striking at your head and connecting across your temple. Fortunately, you’re too close for the strike to bare its bony point; the back of her upper arm thumps its muscle into you and throws you back in a stagger, long enough for the long blade to leave its sheath and sing its entrance into the fray.

Definitely not good!

She stands by the table, which in turn blocks the distance to the window. The door she entered the room by is nearer, to your right, and before she has a chance to swing around and cut you down, you open it and duck through, sprinting into a room dominated by a low table strewn with maps and charts. Beyond is a set of double doors, leading to the rest of the building and better odds of survival than remaining here unarmed.

To think you got so close!

Frustration has no time to well inside you, continuing your sprint, throwing yourself forward and leaping onto the low table. The captain pursues. You feel her behind you, hear the groan of the doorframe as she grabs it to pull herself after you. In the split second that you leap onto the table, leading with your right foot, you feel a bite on your trailing left leg. It’s a small thing, like an insect bite, and you register it only briefly, along with the sound of a blades **** swing cutting air. Continuing the sprint, your running left leg is drawn forward, reaching the better part of three quarters the table’s length, and the moment your foot touches the flat wood surface, an explosion of pain shoots up your leg.

It’s blinding. Your leg buckles. The shock of pain puts a push of phantom strength through it, giving enough time to throw the other leg out ahead, but you feel the beginnings of a **** running stagger and inevitable fall. Your right leg lands, off the table right in front of the double doors, and you turn your shoulder to them instinctually, ramming them with your bodies’ full weight. They open, easily, swinging far out your reach and leaving you with nothing for your flailing arms to grab on to. All you catch is the sight of what’s in store for you; a brief flash of a large room, well lit, and a landing stretched out before a long and wide set of thinly carpeted stairs. The landing holds the double doors as their prized feature, and clearly the main stairs of the building were built with that in mind, ending right before them and leaving you with a terrifying drop and nothing but the stairs themselves to catch you.

The falling run turns to a falling fall, stumbling to a dive towards the first step of many, and each leading down and down and down.

The top step of the landing is the one you hit first, with your belly. You continue to fly forward, your arms outstretched to try and cushion your fall, but you’re moving too fast. There’s a snap. Intense shooting pain explodes in your arm. You roll, missing several more steps as you curl up by instinct. It’s like being beaten by a mob, all sides hammered as you’re tossed around. The world spinning and you spinning and the blows catching you everywhere. It spins and spins, even after the blows have stopped, even as you feel a hard unmoving floor at your back. You cough, weakly, wincing as it draws you in about your many bruises.

Through a watering eye, you look up as Captain Washkin descends, coat billowing out as she rushes down the stairs. You try to get up, to stand and run, but all you manage is a weak backwards shuffling, your left leg and right arm still beacons of pulsing pain. You don’t think you’ve ever experienced anything worse, yet the look in your targets eye promises that such a record won’t last.

She slows as she nears, her sword pointed at your chest, and for a moment you cry out through gritted teeth, fully expecting it to plunge through your heart. It doesn’t, but only just.

“Who are you? Are there more of you?”

She looks about the room as though expecting more black clad figures to drop from the ceiling or bleed through the walls, and you find yourself still shuffling back by instinct. When she looks back down at you, she places a boot on your dragging leg, pinning you. You grit your teeth.

“Answer me!”

“Allow me Captain Wendigo.”

The voice comes from nearby, and you realise with shock that you are far from alone. You’d fallen into a small crowd, though many had backed away at the spectacle of your arrival and looked on at a distance. The captain and her sword holds your attention too much to get a good look, but maybe ten or so people are present. They begin to shuffle forward, reassured by the woman pinning you and drawn by curiosity to your unexpected presence. One of them, the man who spoke, steps forward confidently before kneeling at your side. He has a thin cruel face and tattooed arms, which the green sleeves of his jacket had been rolled up to show off. Painted snakes wrap up and down their lengths, tails disappearing up his biceps, fanged mouths at his hands. His hands reach out. The fangs bite.

“AHHHH! AHH! NNNN!”

His fingers press into the fractured bone of your arm, digging with delicate precise movements that draws forth waves of agony and plays the screams in your throat like a sick instrument.

“Are you alone?”

He sounds calm. At peace. You nod quickly, sweat beginning to gush from your forehead, reaching across with your free arm. The captain’s sword moves to your neck to block it.

“Did you start the fire?” Her voice shakes with rage, made calm at great effort. The fingers move to press hard again, and again you nod, quickly confessing before the pain comes. “We will discuss this al at great length. For now,” she turns to someone else standing far above your head, “Take her to the cells. She can wait until the fires die down.”

The man by your side, snakes still gripping your arm and shoulder, tugs down your mask in a single stroke, laying the black material about your neck.

“Captain Wendigo, may I make a suggestion?” His tattoos are well chose, his voice slithering with a malicious cool rumble.

Captain Washkin lowers her sword and nods at him, gesturing casually but kindly. This man is not of her crew, clearly. A guest perhaps? “Speak your mind Mr Drogger, but please be quick.”

He smiles, the expression looking naturally hollow on him; he’d clearly seen others smile in the past and had worked out when to do so on his own.

“Her arm is badly broken in two places. Left untreated, she will get infected and die soon. Were you to sell her to me, I am well versed in treating broken bones and can do so on my ship. When the fires die down, I can assure you that she will answer any questions that you have.”

Captain Washkin narrows her eyes at him, too rushed right now to hide her suspicions behind pleasantries.

“That’s…very generous of you Mr Drogger. May I ask why you are so interested in…her.”

“She is a rare find and piques my interests.” What he means by that, you don’t know. He doesn’t look at you, simply staring at Captain Washkin. Her face twitches, just a little, at mention of his interest. “She’ll survive in my company, and we’ll return here when the fires have died. We can negotiate the price on the way.”

Reminded of the thin time left by the spreading fires, the Captain nods. She opens her mouth to address the others, her words stopped by the snake as he hisses his closing gambit.

“Excellent! There is one thing that isn’t negotiable though.” The captain turns to him as he turns to you, the first real smile spreading on his face. Once more, you unthinkingly try and crawl away.

“Her other arm will need to be broken.”

---

---

When did it start? It’s so hard to remember, and to draw such arbitrary lines. Even the ‘it’ you think of is not a thing, measurable and defined; you cannot hold it or show it or understand it, but ‘it’ exists, inside your mind, and for the first time in ages you think in words and the memories of older times. When did it start?

---

The waves are gentle, yet still they rock the boat. The splints at your arms are tight and you cry, in pain and despair, as he moves himself back and forth inside your womanhood. He doesn’t even seem to enjoy it, his naked body pressing into yours lethargically and grinding his hips and his cock between your legs like a craftsman working his tools. From the moment he entered, he showed no signs of being thrilled by your tightness, your relative youth, your loss and his gain. Instead, he only started smiling and hardening to adamantine pleasure when you began to cry, and when that had ceased as you turned to numb acceptance, he’d simply griped the blossoming bruises showing on your arms until you screamed to his completion.

---

No, not there. That was expected. It wasn’t really the start. Maybe it was? Where does the mountain start: its first stone or its first incline? Still, it doesn’t feel right. Too faint for what ‘it’ is.

---

You howl around the wooden bit, tasting the sweat and saliva of all who were **** to bight it before. Your splinted arms are agony in the rope, pulled tight and shaken each time.

“Keep looking at me.”

You do, letting your tied eyes look into his, afraid to blink even as your sweat falls into them. He sits before you, legs crossed. Obviously he’d been first, your first, but now his crew lined up, another of his tools. Gods! It hurts! Your rear! It burns with each and every raw stroke. He holds the lead tight, the collar forcing you to keep looking at him. He will take you to Wendigo soon, and you will answer her questions. You will do anything if they just...

---

Stop. Closer, but it was after that mattered, when you were so very thirsty from sweating so much.

---

The ship bumps up against the dock, sending a wave of pain through you. All night. You’re head aches, your throat dry, lips cracked. You’re so-

“Thirsty?” Light comes from down the corridor, you and he ready to step out into the very late morning and disembark. Smoke still fills the air. He holds out a cup that contains a slosh of water. Precious water. You’re so-

He downs it in one, not in cruelty, but simply to empty it. You watch as he lowers it, spilling himself from his trousers with one hand and aiming the cock that had seeded you twice, front and back, the night before, at the cup. A yellow liquid levees its end, the smell of caustic piss filling the cabin corridor. He shakes out the last drop, tapping the soft flesh against the rim.

He offers it to you. “Here. Drink it.”

---

Yes, that was the first time you obeyed. You remember the taste of it, the heat of it, mixing with the times since. You had been a novice then; he had made you thirst and then offered you a mug, like a human uses. Last time you had drunk from the tap. Where does the mountain start?

But all that was a rarity. Your master had had no such specific urges. His guests perhaps, on occasion, but it had been only your eroding self that had delighted him. Perhaps that had been what put him off you? When there was nothing left to go.

---

“Speak.”

“Woof. I’m an Agent of the right-honourable principalities and a bitch. Woof Woof. Please ff-“ The man cums inside you, his balls rising and falling on your pussy as the familiar wet heat blooms in your backside. You rush to finish. “Please fuck me!”

The man hunched over you, a guard, drops the long braid of your hair onto your back, letting your head drop. You master had enjoyed your long hair. Enjoyed it so much that he had shaved the sides of your head so the strip down the middle was more prominent. The man unplugs himself from you, stepping away.

Your master doesn’t look happy.

“Please fuck me! Woof woof! Please!” Those were your own words, not his, and they were as sincere as anything you have ever said. You look at him. Crawl to him. Please please please, let him fuck you. Please.

“Baxter!”

Nooo!

The dog looks up.

“Mount!”

---

After that he’d…he’d…left you. No, he’d see you from time to time, but the long days entertaining him were done. Other, younger fair had taken his fancy and your place. Fresher fair. You had become something else to him, and his tasks were no longer games, but chores; work for his **** and nothing more.

---

The man looks confused.

“She’ll tend to any physical needs and show you just how good a girl can be.” His words thrill you, filling your heart with mad joy. He called you a good girl!!! You’ll do it. You would. You will. You know it. You want it!

“Errr.” Masters guest looks at you sceptically. Maybe you should open your mouth? Moan? Anything to sell it. “Ok?” You and your master smile.

“Wonderful! Just send her out should she prove tiresome. We can talk about the rest in the morning.”

As your master leaves, you look at the man expectantly. He sits down, in a chair instead of the floor, obviously, and hesitantly tilts his head. You get the message and crawl over. Kneeling before him, you wait for his word.

“Ok, errrr,” he laughs nervously, “I guess, you could suck-“

He says other words after that, but you’re too quick, his cock is already in your mouth. You need it. You need to make him cum. To drink him. To make him happy. To make your master happy! You need it! Your cheeks hollow with it! You throat bulges with it! You need it! You want it! Please!!!

---

Even now, the need still burns within you, to make him happy, to do what he wants, and you barely hold yourself back from sucking him off. To apologise. To beg forgiveness. Tears run down your face. That had been the start of the last chapter, when he no longer played with you. Gods! Nothing was as good as him! Nothing was worse than him! Not the ****! Not the girl slaves! Not the boy slaves! Not the guests or the guards or the dogs or the prisoners! Nothing hurt like he did! Nothing made the hurt good like he did!

You’d been in orgies. Had men and women between your legs. Boys and girls. Licked things that should never be licked and said things that should never be said. And then he’d dropped you and everything was hollow.

Then he’d called you back.

It was just once. Just this once. An experienced hand to help in his new hobby. The children still look on, watching you straddle him. The blood coats your hands, which you use to coat your body, covering the permanently inked milestones he’d given you in your early days: Your first orgy is reddened at your belly, a week in the stocks smeared just under your pierced breasts, your first woman -so trivial of an act yet so enthusiastically given- had earned the words ‘Licker’ which you paint now with idle hands about your neck. The rose thorns at your cheek, reaching up to the bright red flower of your shaved temple. He’d given you that for his own practice, but you had treasured it. Tears flow again, bubbling snot over the thick ring put into the middle of your nose.

You don’t even know why you did it, your actions like some corpse gas bubbling up from something long since dead inside you. Was it because of the children? Unlikely. You’ve done worse. You’ve done the same. Dick is dick. Pussy is pussy. Whether hairless for shaving, like yours, or for age, like theirs, it all tastes the same. Was it because he left you? You grind your hips against his flaccid dead member. Maybe. It makes no sense, yet it makes perfect sense. No one felt the same inside you, whether in your body or in your head. You’re good. He said so. He told you so. A good bitch. His words have weight. Always have. Always will. Even now.

You cry.

You laugh.

Is this where it starts? No, this is where it ends; not at the other side, but the summit. He would never leave you, nor you him. You’ll lie atop him forever, dying with him. You smear the blood about your breasts, gripping them hard. It sounds perfect. It’s all you want. You look down at him, his ever gaunt face carrying a slightly shocked expression above his ruined neck. Absolutely perfect.

You shuffle down, taking him limply into your mouth and sucking. What of the children? Fuck them. Let them watch. In fact, should you fuck them? It’s what he would have wanted. You can’t get him hard. You’re a failure. Even tonging his balls into your mouth does nothing. You cry and cry, the heavy iron ring of your nose pressing his belly, until the youngest girl catches you eye. She flinches. She’d do. He’d watch and she would do. They both would, eventually.

She reminds you of a girl with two broken arms, and seeing what she lacks is knowing finally what you’ve gained. What ‘it’ is.

She shies back, seeing it in your eyes.

She’ll know it before you’re done.