…say nothing, to buy a better chance at escape.

‘The truth are the wings with which freedom fly’s’ as the saying goes.

“Janice, and I’m here for the necklace.” Its close enough.

“What?” he asks, perplexed at your answer. Your bold choice had given your voice a bravado you definitely don’t feel and that he clearly doesn’t appreciate. Perhaps adding an intimidated tone to your voice would make it more convincing. You look at the daggers at his waist again: big broadsided things with a well-used quality to them, and you gulp. Feeling intimidated is not hard.

“You, er, a-asked what I was, er, doing here and w-who I was. My name is, er, Janice”, you look at Captain Washkin, “-and I’m here for your, er, necklace, er, miss.” Janice was an alias you used for a time during an old investigation, so some people did use it as your name for a while, plus it rolls off the tongue. Hopefully this case will end as well as that one did. You are also here for the necklace, albeit only as proof that you killed her. You are telling the truth. Almost. You don’t look them in the eyes when you say it though.

You remain kneeling, not wanting to be knocked to the ground again, but look up just enough to track their movements while maintaining a defeated air. They look at each other, only for a moment, before both turning back to you.

“Ok, Janice,” captain Washkin says with not a little scepticism, “Who do you work for?”

That was a dangerous question. Agents such as yourself have a reputation for tenacity that you have always been proud of, but it won’t really serve you well here. Personally, you wouldn’t just let someone go if they were determined to kill you, and you aren’t a pirate with a murderous reputation.

“I'm ... after the bounty,” you respond, another case of technically true that paints you more as an honourless opportunistic bounty hunter. Not great but surely better than the alternative.

Captain Roland cuts in, eager to feel like he’s contributing. “Hers or mine?”

Captain Washkin mutters “Oh please...” to herself, clearly knowing the difference in price between the two or simply remembering that you already said you were after the necklace.

There’s a moment of uncomfortable tension which you consider exploiting but quickly decide against it. She has her claws in him; any move to make him more angry would just work against you.

“Captain Washkins, Sir,” you answer, in what you hope is a placating tone.

Captain Roland leans back slightly and you feel his eyes looking you over.

“I hate bounty hunters” he grumbles.

“I don’t” Captain Washkin responds in a chipper tone. “Are you alone?”

You consider lying. You could tell her, perhaps, of a hundred armed men hiding in the woods of the island, or a highly skilled assassin lying in wait. You think of all the ways you could use such things to your advantage. None come to mind. Either they would believe you, in which case you’re a hostage until they find out you’re lying, or they wouldn’t believe you at all, giving the same result but quicker.

“...yes.” you eventually say, looking at the floor.

“Look at me and tell me your alone.” How can her voice sound so soft and sultry yet at the same time demand obedience like the crack of a whip?

You look her in the eyes and flatly tell her “Yes, I am alone.”

She looks at you hard, judging and weighing your response. You wish you hadn’t said it. The words hang in the air and echo in your mind. They’re true. There is no rescue from this. You are alone.

Evidently satisfied with what she sees, Captain Washkin asks “How did you get here?”

This time is Captain Roland’s turn to sigh in exasperation, waving a dismissive hand. “Does it matter!? It can wait until morning.”

She gives you a stare and taps the tip of her sword against the side of her boot before shrugging.

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

She walks off, putting her sword away and unbuckling her belt to remove the weapon from her hip, placing it in the corner of the room and replacing it in her hand with some rope that was lying on the floor. Why she would keep it in her bedroom you can only guess, but being tied up and locked away until morning is probably one of the better outcomes you could hope for. At least you will have a chance at escape if they’re not watching. She walks over to you and drops the rope -which on closer inspection turn out to be several separate lengths of rope- into a pile on the floor, before crouching down and picking one up, considering it in its separated state. Whatever her thinking, she abandons the rope, picking up a smaller one instead. In a move as idle and normal as dressing herself, she grabs your right wrist and starts to tie the rope around it. Only one wrist? Why?

“Wh-wait, what are you doing?” you ask nervously, looking into her placid face for any sign of malicious intent.

“Nothing personal but I don’t want to die and we still have some business to get through.” She grabs the other end of the rope and pulls you up, dragging you across the room by your arm. She ties the end to the far right bedpost, limiting your movement but not really restraining you. Have you just gotten lucky? Does she really consider you to be so easily contained? With your other hand free, she may as well simply ask you to hold the rope, for all it will stop you.

“What do you think Roland?” she asks idly. You watch as she returns to the rope pile and scoops up another length. Maybe not so lucky then. Still, why here and not somewhere more secure?

“Of the plan?” he asks in mild confusion. Captain Washkin places your hand on the bedpost and starts to tie the rope around your wrist. You still have your legs and there’s a nightstand next to you, with plenty of give in the rope; perhaps its contents could be useful to escape.

“No, of her.” She responds, tightening the strange, neat knots with the skilled hands of a woman of the sea.

“Hum? Oh, er, she’s telling the truth.” He doesn’t sound sure. “I’ve heard enough liars in my time. I’m sure of it.” Still sounds unsure.

Captain Washkin kneels on the bed, still fiddling with the knots around your wrists and the post. “No, I mean ‘what do you think?’” You wonder if you’ve missed something. For some reason the fine hairs all over your body stand on end. You watch them on your arms as they stand to attention.

“What? Oh, hum, sure why not. Probably better than yours anyway.” You look at Roland and catch his eyes on your figure before you’re yanked sideways, pulled across the bed by Captain Washkin. She’s holding the rope tied around your left wrist and quickly secures it to the left bedpost, leaving you face down with your arms spread wide across the double bed.

“Wait. What are you going to do to me?” You pull at the well tied ropes at the posts, but they don’t budge. They only tighten.

Captain Washkin moves behind you, out of your now limited vision. What are they doing? Your heart starts hammering.

“No, er, wait, I can tell you how I got here. I know things. Let’s talk ab-NOOOO!” Hands pull down your moth-eaten shorts, exposing your bare behind to the world. You thrash your body, grunting with **** effort as you try to keep the shorts on as they are slowly pulled down your pale legs. When they reach your ankles, you feel your shoes pop off one after the other before the material slides over your bare feet and is removed completely. Feet freed, you kick out wildly, careful to keep your legs as together as possible to retain a modicum of decency. Four hands grab you, two for each ankle, applying rope to them in the same way it was applied to your wrists. Your grunts and strained whimpers take on a more **** tone as you feel your legs being forcefully pulled wide. You pull on the ropes around your wrists, you lock your knees together, you try to pull yourself into a ball; you hear them straining against you but nothing works, and slowly, like the creaking hinges of a stiff door, you find yourself being opened.

After a slow moment, the movement stops and ropes are tied, mooring your legs in their new spread position. You’re exposed, the space between your legs on display like some stuffed animal mounted on a wall. You press your hips into the bed but the feeling of air on your privates doesn’t go away. Your effort stops, your movement stops, even your breathing stops at the sudden sound of a knife being drawn.

After a moment of silence, Captain Washkin’s ample behind sinks into the mattress by you head and you feel the knife slide over your skin, slipping under your top and delicately gliding down your spine, easily cutting through the Red and Yellow material with uninterrupted ease. The knife disappears with a slight tug at the hem, and she peels back the top as though skinning an animal.

Your voice shakes with panic as her fingers run gently down your back, tracing the unbroken skin that was touched in the knife work. “No, please, anything but this, I beg you!”

She chuckles, her melodic tone sliding back and forth indistinguishably from the twinkling of sweet bells to the throaty rumble of sinful promises. “Anything?” she asks.

You sense movement behind you. He must be looking right at it! “Anything, just please, don’t **** me! Ahhhh!” You yell in surprise, feeling calloused hands grip both your rear cheeks, pulling and squeezing and to your absolute horror, spreading. You lift your head as far back as possible. “Please! Please Don’t. Let go! Let me go!”

Captain Waskskin leans down to look at you, putting her finger over the full lips of her mouth before moving it to yours, shushing you and your protests. Captain Roland lets go of you, his brief investigation of your flesh finished, and Captain Washkin stands, the dent of her behind quickly erased in the crumple of the soft feather mattress.

Hard breaths saw through your nose, the unreal understanding of your situation crashing against you in waves. They were- they ARE going to... Tears form heavy in your eyes. Not tonight, not with the moon and your cycle... A child is all but assured if he... Horrible words form in your mind, speaking of horrible futures. You promised yourself...never again. You tug on the ropes, barely believing they’re there. Words of protest well in your throat, only to die on the walls of silence your captor imposed. Some part of you says that if you do as you’re told it won’t happen. Your heart is pounding. You pull on the ropes again; it’s the only hope you have.

You listen to the sound of fabric on skin behind you. The sound of heavy breathing and girlish giggles. The sound of lips on lips. Whatever they’re doing- you want no part of. Perhaps they’ll...finish without you? A woman’s sultry whisper dances on the musky air,

“Let’s see what we have here.” Your eyes go wide as dinner plates and your whole body bucks as three slender fingers enters your womanhood.

“AHHHH! No no no, please gods no...” You shut your eyes tight, squeezing the tears out of them. Her digits feel so big. What is she doing! After a moments rest, she removes them. You gasp, still feeling them by their absence.

“Hum, she’s as dry as a bone I’m afraid.” She sounds genuinely apologetic. Gods, what is she talking about?! “Let me help you too love birds out.”

You try to look behind you, to twist your head. The ropes are too tight. You can barely see a blur of them in the corner of your eye. You here Roland gasp hard and cry out softly.

“Aha!”

After a moments silence, there is a slurping wet pop and a deep breath of air from Captain Washkin.

“One for you,” she says, like a mother giving out sweet treats.

You feel the mattress by your feet sink, and whimper as you feel the return of her fingers, this time sliding up the back of your thighs. You start to shiver with fear, sweat beading on your skin. What now? Her fingers reach your folds and you prepare for the worst. They just...spread you, pulling your lower lips apart and giving her a view of a place no one has ever laid eyes on before, and from her breath brushing your delicate skin, the view is a decidedly close one.

She spits in you, causing you to jump as her warm saliva hits your inner wall. What the-

Before you can react, you feel her tongue on your button, sending shudders and shakes through you as it slowly slides up towards your rear, digging and probing at every crevice of the journey. She pulls her tongue away just before your valley finishes and your rear cheeks begin.

“And one for you.”

You don’t blink. You don’t move. What just happened? Your mouth is wide with silent sounds, **** for the words that would make sense of what just was. A woman just- You felt it, but you must be wrong. No one would ever...

“Good to go.” She says in a satisfied tone as she retreats from the bed. You take a deep, shuddering breath. It hitches half way with a single sob.

“W-why? Why do this?” It’s hard to speak with your chin resting on the mattress. You tremble as you feel the space between your spread legs dip again, deeper than before, the mattress yealding to a greater weight than hers. Smaller dips form at your side, first your right, then your left, rocking you slightly as palms travel upwards one after the other.

A throaty laugh rumbles directly above you like distant thunder, answering your thoughtless question. “Because I can.” His hand disappears from your right side and his left sinks deeper with the weight.

“Please...Don’t...” You can barely get the words out, your voice reduced to a terrified whisper, pathetic even to your own ears. His hand brushes your soft flat rear as he grabs himself, positioning his tip against your manually moistened womanhood, and with no further ceremony, he enters you.

You feel his rod push you apart as it slides up your inner walls, and you scream, or try too. You open your mouth but nothing comes out, shocked to silence by a truly unexpected factor. He’s so big! You feel yourself stretching around him, straining inside and out! His hips brush your rear, yet every second brings more of him into you. You grip the ropes leading to your wrists and pull against them, creaking everything that binds you with the pressure of it.

Accuracy assured, his hand returns to the bed at your side, and the pressure of his weight sees to the rest. Captain Washkin leans in across the bed to look at you, her face filling your vision, yet you don’t see her. You don’t see anything save the image in your mind’s eye; one provided by the awful rending invasion between your legs. He stops, buried far in to your slit, breathing behind your head, into your hair and upon your neck.

You take a raw, shuddering gasp in, and before you can release anything louder, a feminine hand of narrow fingers, three of them carrying a clammy, sweaty smell, gently lock over your mouth. He pulls back, scraping everything his stretching presence passed on the way in, only to slams forward again, hilting himself in one smooth well lubricated motion. You scream for real, muffled by the hand firmly shushing your lips.

He slides in and out of you, always stopping just before he leaves you, always digging deeper with each thrust. Your fingers go wide, unable to even grip the rope. Your eye, once wide with shock, now clench shut at the horror, his breath sounding sore and ragged in your ear, turning to croaking laughter as he enjoys the feeling of your soft insides.

“Heh, heh, heee. Ah! Yes! I love it! Ahhh! That’s tigh- Ugh! That’s TIGHT! Let me know if there’s blood!” You stop screaming, not because you want to, but because you lack the air to support it. Sensing this, the hand slips from your mouth and the grinning face of Captain Washkin with it, disappearing as he humps you in earnest, slick manhood sliding inside you with grotesque regularity. You feel slender fingers on the back of your thigh, pulling flesh outward to give a better view of Rolands pistoning ****. Feel eyes checking to see if your rapidly fading tightness was due to lost virginity or just inexperience, she strokes your thigh for a moment as she learns the truth. The latter was obvious, but the former was a ship that had sailed a long time ago...under similar stormy seas.

You were far younger back then and bled freely, yet not even that hurt as much as this. He’s far too big! His every thrust is like a blow to the head, dazing and disorientating you, and with shaking breaths filling your lungs with hot, wet, musky air, your mouth starts to talk in hoarse whispers, running without input from your disoriented mind.

“No no no, it hurts, please...” The words are bleak and breathless, barely audible over the sounds of his hips slapping against you.

Captain Washkin leans across the wide bed once more, over your arm to whisper with purposeful loudness in to your ear, “Mmmmm, he’s pretty big right?” Her husky tone rushes against the side of your head with the same closeness his hot, wet breath breaks on the back of your neck. While directed at you, her words are clearly meant for him, but you try to respond anyway, to say something, anything, but your mouth and mind seem disconnected, their signals mixed by the messages being hammered up into you. The rhythmic sounds fill your head, drowning out your thoughts before seeking escape out of your gasping lips.

“Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Ahh. Uh. Uh. Ugh. Pu. Pu. Ugh. Please, p- Ahh. Pu. Please ssstop. Uh. Ahh.”

He doesn’t. He just keeps on pushing into you. You feel his every bump, his every ridge and vain pressing against your walls. You feel his hairs tangle and rub against your own, his sack hitting your sensitive nub every time he goes too deep. Feel your self pulled out and pushed in like the tides. Everything mixes into a disgusting series of sensations warring with each other for your attention, moments standing out and washed away by something else. The warmth that patters on the back of your neck, dripping sweat or drool, or flying spittle. Your small buttocks rippling with the spanking of his hard hips. His hairy outer thighs pressing upon your inner, tense with strain rubbing a friction fire.

Pained noises accompany each of his movements, coming unbidden from the back of your throat. Fingers return you your face, this time gently stroking your cheek.

“Think of this as a fine for trying to kill me, ok?” You look across at her, the jolting movement Roland sends up your spine making it difficult. You see that she is naked, breasts hanging under her like the udders of a cow. Why is she naked? You’re the one he’s in... You look forward, trying to ignore everything, trying to fight the noises your making, trying to think of anything but the violation of your most intimate area. You close your eyes again, ignoring your breathless mouth and its pleading moans as ardently as they do.

“...uh, ah, ah, ah, oh, oh gods... please, ah, help me, uh, have mercy...” You don’t know what you’re saying, or if you’re even the one saying it. The gods don’t help if you ask, only if you act. But what act can you do now save beg for mercy?

Bestial roars fly’s from Rolands throat, showering your head and neck.

“I’m the only, Aha! god you need to worry about whore. Ugh! And there’s only one prayer I want out of you!” He pounds you, hard and fast between your legs with the full length of his all too big male member. You cry out again at the sudden, forceful change of his ****, his speed easily doubling, his hips making loud cracking slaps against your pert upturned cheeks.

He grunts each time he scrapes your depths, his voice vying with the small clapping and the slick wet sound starting to fill the room, and soon another sound joins the inharmonious symphony; low, grunting, guttural, and distinctly feminine. It happens with each of his quick thrusts, filling the room whenever he reaches your deepest point. Some last sane part of your mind wonders where it comes from. That same part of your mind reels when you realise they’re coming from you.

“Oh Roland! I think she likes it!” You don’t. You wish you were screaming. Yet all that come out of your mouth are deep, rasping grunts, pitched lower than your voice has ever gone before. You can’t stop them. His dick slams in and the noise comes out, as if using you like a puppet.

He starts to slow, mercifully returning to his original humping motion. His previous speed, that you hated and screamed for, turned to welcome friend. His body leans on you heavily as he catches his breath, pressing his heaving sweaty chest upon your back. His hips rest on yours, no longer pounding, but simply rocking back and forth to keep the violation of your stretched cunt in motion, rubbing you along his length. The heaving of his breaths slow, becoming as controlled as his hips and balance as Captain Washkin leans over you, offering her lips to his and noisily swapping saliva in a series of wet kisses.

When they finish their fun, however many slow stroking humps later, she whispers at him, so close to your head that it’s impossible not to hear. “She definitely liked that Roland.”

He deepens his thrusts into you, staying close and slow but pushing your whole body up each time and straining the ropes around the ankle bedposts.

“Mmmmm, course she does. She’s,” he drops his arm, sliding his hand under your right shoulder and gripping it, “a whore!” He pushes forward while pulling you down, punching you deeply in a painful spot far at the extent of his reach and dragging a grunt from you. “How do you like my bounty, whoo-, whore?” He does it again. “Big enough?”

He slows a thrust down, stopping at its apex and taking a moment for you to really feel him inside you from base to tip. It goes as deep as before and forces a small noise out of the back of your throat; quieter this time as you almost keep it back. He reaches up with his other hand and grabs your hair by the bun, turning your head to the side so your left ear is pressed against the sheets. You continue looking forward; now seeing Captain Washkin’s dangling breasts instead of the beds headboard. He resumes his slow, deliberate pace inside you, the slick noise resuming between your legs, and leans in close, his nose touching your temple and his chin resting on the end of your jaw, placing his mouth directly on your ear. You hear his panting breath like a storm-serge, the wet parting of his lips like the movements of some vast slug, whispered words like the screaming of a madman.

“Bet you wish... you came for my bounty... sooner.”

He kisses your ear, hot wet tongue sliding inside and probing its ridges. You don’t move, face scrunching as his spit drips hot water noises in place of his breathing. It’s disgusting, even more so than his other invasion if only for its newness. Certainly it’s not deep, and it does not stretch you wide with its presence. If it did both, your brains would be scrambled by now.

The tongue recedes and he nibbles on your lobe for a moment before continuing his harsh whispers.

“Bet you’ve wanted this for a good while... Some bloke to pop your puss. Make you a woman.” Tears build at the bridge of your nose before spilling over its edge to the linen below. He chuckles at your silence, licking up your face before planting his hands beside you, lifting his weight again.

You know what’s coming.

He pounds you, hard and fast like before, building a friction of heat inside. You close your eyes, clench your fists, bury you face in the bed and scrunch up your features. You do everything possible to shut him out. His frenzied hips shift back into their old position, sending him to the deep place. The noise returns, building in your throat before exploding from you, unwanted, unbidden; Deep cry’s moaned into the sheets. He’s doing this. These are Roland’s cry’s, **** inside you with his grotesque instrument and pushed up like stuffing, spilling out your mouth with his hammering. He seems thrilled,

“Ahhh! Fuck! I haven’t-. Ugh! I haven’t heard- Ah! A whore moan-“ he pauses his talk, letting you fill the air for a moment as he swallows, “-moan like this- Herh! Moan in years!”

The heat builds; the scant and faded wetness Captain Washkin gave you not enough to keep it contained. He burns like fire! The unseen weight before you picks herself up, like a cat stretching from a pleasant show, and you look up at her absence. Her nipples swing near your nose, and the noise of kissing above you adds its own wet rhythm back into the room. What you would give for those lips! For that spit! What she gave you before had been dragged out, or pushed far inside, and all the sloppy sounds of sodden contact do not flow cool enough to ease the burning between your shorthairs. Her distraction doesn’t stop him or even slow him as he pounds you like a man possessed, beating the same rhythm from your throat.

The same damn rythem.

The kiss above ends and she appears before you, her arm sliding across the bed and under your arm, then your head, lifting it up. Your eyes are open, looking desperately at her, your face twisted in an open mouthed rictus as the deep grunts make their escape in ceaseless whorish moans.

She smiles, her red painted lips slightly smeared, and looks at Roland above you. You can almost see him, reflected in her eyes, the crazed source of your unending ****, devastating in body and mind. His sweat showers down on you, from the tip of your head to the small of your back, a constant patter of heat, ignorable, his thickness is the ever present, pressing penetration of your senses. She winks and looks away from him, catching your eyes as she leans in. If there’s any beauty in the world, it’s contained within her soft face, looking merciful and benevolent as it closes.

She kisses you, her lips sealing over yours, helping you contain the horrible noises as her tongue enters with ease, playing across your own and wetting you gasp dried mouth. The thumb of the hand holding up your head strokes your cheek, like an honest lover, while her soft lips dance against yours. Her half closed eyes flick up and look at Roland as she tilts your head, passionately kissing you like you’ve never been kissed before.

His responds is simple and immediate.

“Oh fuck. OH FUCK! AHHHHH!”

You feel him release as he slams up into you, coating your ready womb with his seed. It rushes up in spurts, jets, floods, spraying against the deepest part of you, and he grips your shoulder for leverage, yanking you back and parting your lips from the other captain. His hips buck and jerk, and the beauty before you just grins as he defiles you with spray after spray after spray. Your eyes are wide, with razed brows pulled together in misery. Your lips trembling and the noises ceased as new life comes to rests inside your hole, finding the fertile ground of your womb in which it can grow.

They kiss as he rests in you, him now empty, and you now full. The heat inside you remains, feeling enough to burn him and his out like an infection. You feel his chest hairs scraping against your back as he catches his breath, and rough hands slide up your torso before resting under your chest, trying to pinch and squeeze but find little purchase between your stretched state and natural smallness. Still they kiss, enjoying and bonding over the worst moment in your life.

He pulls out, eventually, when he is soft once more, and you feel air once more on your spread puss, howling in your mind like a sea cave. Everything he left, he left too deep to drip out. You hear the sound of fabric on skin but can’t even begin to interpret it. All your senses feel frayed.

Small snippets of conversation knock on the broken door of your mind.

“...really clamped down on me when you started eating her face...” He sounds thrilled. “…Nope, got no room on board for a cunt that can’t pull its weight, no matter what noises it makes. You can have her. Besides, I’ve fucked children with bigger tits....and you know how I like tits.”

A wet sucking noise follows along with “Roland! Mmmmm. You know, if you’re still raring...she has other holes.”

Your rear clenches at this, though you’re too fatigued to even consider why. “Maybe some other time.” The noises, both verbal and that of material, continue as your mind re-organises and returns to a point that such things have meaning. You’ve just been ****. You bury your face in the sweaty sheets and they drink up your tears. The heat between your legs starts to fade, while the feeling of wetness remains. The air is still so hot and humid, and doubly so through the sheets under your face, like some heady drink that keeps reason at bay.

The mattress depresses with the now familiar weight of another person. You look to your right again and find yourself looking at the wide hipped bottom of Captain Washkin sitting beside you, just beside your stretched arm. She’s still naked. It seems only Roland got dressed, leaving the room at some point and abandoning you to this woman.

You feel a brief sickness inside you, knowing that he just walked away after what he did. It’s black and writhing and turns your stomach, but you push it to one side; it can wait for later, and in all honesty, you’re just glad he’s gone.

Her behind turns as a wide thigh is lifted up, lying a leg next to you, cool against your stretched side and placing her posterior by your underarm.

“Well that was fortunate.” Her hand strokes across your back in a sweeping caress. “Roland usually wants more than one round. You must have really taken it out of him, or he fucked someone else,” her stroking hand travels down towards your behind, sliding between your cheeks, “you know, before he...” she leans forward, her fingers gently slipping down your crack to your abused womanhood, making you jump as they push in by a fingertip and spread you slightly, “...came.”

She leans over, looking at you for a moment, as though wanting to see the flow of seed ooze from your lips. At least you can feel her fingers, cold and delicate; you had wondered if such a thing was even possible considering the fire that ran through those nerves. Contented by the sight, she releases you and leans back, looking down at your one upward facing eye, your head turned to the side like some beached fish.

“So...you’re a licker.”

You frown with confusion, despite yourself. A licker, as you understand it, is slang for the type of women who like other women in the way they should like men. After what just happened, you can’t imagine liking anyone or anything, ever again.

“Ha! And you didn’t even know! Well, I’ve licked enough women to know who likes it and who doesn’t.” She raises her leg up, moving it over you and brushing the sole of her foot down the back of your wet thigh. This woman has the gall to think...Damn it! You try to respond, but why won’t the tears stop!

“I...don’t...I’m not-”

“Oh don’t act like it didn’t get you all hot and wet and wide,” her stroking foot sides to the top of your leg, her heel pushing at your right cheek, “more than Rolands big old dick anyways. Then again, those noises you made! They even got me wet!” she chuckles throatily, stroking your upper thigh with her sole, “Roland didn’t stand a chance.”

Your face reddens with the memory, your body not just taken and use, but also turned against you in ways you didn’t think possible. The shame of it!

Her foot slides off you as she leans down and speaks softly. “I dipped my fingers and went places thanks to you. Your noises got me half way home so to speak.” She strokes your hair and the side of your face. Her thumb touches your cheek bone, just as it did in Roland’s final frantic moments. The memory of her tongue twisting on yours as he loosed his first shot comes to the forefront of your mind, unbidden.

“I’ll tell you what. You finish me off, make me cream, and I’ll take you onto my staff...bounty hunter.” She still strokes your face, her delicate knuckles turning to pawing hungry fingers. “You won’t get a big old bounty, but you’ll live; survive a while, maybe even find a chance to escape, or even kill me if I really let my guard down.” She looks at you, eyes knowing exactly what you’re thinking. Her voice is a whisper in the night, “Plus I’ll show you exactly who you really are.”

Her hand makes you jump as it scurries down your spine like a spider. Her voice takes on a playful tone that sends shivers down your skin.

“Or don’t and I’ll get my whole crew to make you wish you did.” Before you have a chance to think, she plants her arms and lifts herself up and over your own, setting her bottom down between them, just above your head. She swings her legs up after her, resting her heavy thighs on your shoulders and across your back. Her hands lift your head, turning it to face her and resting your chin on the mattress, leaving her towering up above you, leaning back against the beds headrest and carrying a wicked grin. Her gold hair is darkened by sweat and some of it clings to her cheeks. Her full breasts hang against her ribs, pink nipples wide and razed and lively with her deep breaths. Her narrow waist flares into wide hips and at their centre, her pleasure, your first assigned mission.

It’s completely hairless, shaved and plucked in ways you never thought possible before tonight. Her folds are full and red and wide, like the painted lips on her face above, and its smell is strong, mostly of sweat and musky wetness. You’ve seem women naked, but this is the first time you’ve looked so…intimately, at a fellow woman.

“So...” Her eyes twinkle, and it had nothing to do with the flickering candle light. “...What’s it going to be?“

You can’t survive another ****, you just can’t. The prospect of her whole crew makes you want to throw up. You don’t want to do this though. Despite what she said, you’re not a licker; you’ve never looked at a woman that way and the kiss she **** on you was... well it was her doing. Besides, this woman helped a man **** you! Fill you with his seed. You don’t want to give this woman anything! You try to calm yourself. Thoughts like that don’t have happy endings, if such things can ever be possible again. You take a deep breath, inadvertently breathing in her odour. You unconsciously pull on the ropes, your arms and legs feeling so weak. You breath out, breath stirring the air in the narrow space between her thighs.