Continue…

You’re instantly engulfed in a thick blanket of sounds, smells, and sights. The sounds range from loud conversation to louder drunk arguments, every type mixed with the din of ill tuned melodies from fiddles, pipes, clapping hands, tables, and drums, often bolstered with slurred sung lyrics, words conflicting in different versions or suppurated to nonsense. The smell is a thick and musky one, primarily made up of sweat, though ale and some other earthy smell you don’t wish to make a study of play a major part. The building itself looks like most town inns; a large central room glowing with a mix of candle and oil lantern. The night is too hot for a fire, and the room even worse with the mass of bodies present, but it’s as well lit as it can be. Looking up, many balconies and walkways line the higher floors, leading to rooms for the inns patrons, yet leaving a cavernous space that stretches to the roof high above. A crowded set of stairs in the distance, packed with the end of an upward moving group, confirms that there is more activity going on up there.

The ground floor of the main room is quite crowded, though somehow less than you expected. The sounds heard when you first entered the village suggested this room would be packed to the gills, but that was before you gained your new disguise. As it stands, there are many people sitting at the various tables of the room, clumped together with noticeable spaces between them. From how some tables are packed and others near empty, you’d guess there was a recent exodus, leaving the room feeling two thirds as populated as it should be. The hum above and beyond tells you they aren’t far. You watch a small group in the middle, constantly growing and shrinking at it stands around an open top ale barrel, dunking and drinking with merry abandon. You can also see a larger crowd near the back of the room though not what they are around; perhaps a bigger ale barrel?

The whole thing has the air of a party fresh from its height and beginning its long and slow decent to its end, though from the heavy drinking going on, its occupants should be distracted for the rest of the night, and likely, most of the following day as well.

You see a bar along the right side of the room, patrons slumped forward over mugs, and begin to move towards it, intent on questioning the drunkards there, but after no more than one step in that direction you see something that makes you re-angle your walk, choosing a centre table instead. You keep a slightly disbelieving eye on the bar. The sight is of an exhausted looking man, facing the room, his trousers down and his member fully exposed; it’s quite large, such as your meagre experience tells you, but you note that it is deflating quite rapidly and is far from its resting form. As he steps away, you can see why. The rear of a woman looks out at you from the bar, pale legs touching the floor and her upper body bent over the counter top, hiding her torso from view. You see that bright red marks radiate out from both of her glistening holes and surmise that she has had a lot more partners than the one man now tucking himself into his own trousers. A thick white drop slide out of her ginger lined womanhood and you wonder what ill fate could make a woman prostitute herself so. You bang your shin on a table and quickly refocus on your journey.

Nearing an almost empty table, you bend down and pick up a discarded tankard, hoping that holding it may increase your authenticity as you look for a likely source of information. You make your way around a group of very drunk people who could barely handle a word, let alone a helpful sentence, and then a group too close nit to join, benches full and one red and white dressed woman even sitting on the knee of a stupefied looking man. Choosing your target shouldn’t be hard with all these people, and yet…

You find a suitable spot; an empty table where you can lie low and pick your mark, saving you from standing conspicuously alone. Some in the room do similar, abandoned by their friends for being too drunk to carry, so you doubt you’ll draw eyes. As you sit on one of the wooden stools, set between two benches and not at all matching the other furniture, you immediately fight the urge to stand back up. The perch you chose feels wet, with some kind of sticky puddle, probably ****. It quickly seeps through your trousers as you try to concentrate on looking like you belong.

Not a second later, two others sit down across from you. The table isn’t the biggest, but if they wanted, they could have chosen a spot not directly opposite, leaving you little choice but to look at each other. One seems to be taller than you and in a jovial mood, while the other is much much larger in both height and width and swinging more to the clueless side of the drunk spectrum. Both of them are dressed in Red and yellow, which worries you, but both also have half drained tankards of ale in their hands, laughing between themselves at some half remembered joke. Could they be just what you’re looking for? You decide to create a conversation with them using your most convincing man voice.

“So, what you fella’s up too?”

Ok... bad start. You’ve heard birds chirp with more baritone.

“Wha’ss Capin Roland doing takin on little kiddies as breakers then ey?” the drunker and larger of the two manages to rumble out slowly.

You start to give your prepared response, slotting away the slurred name of ‘Capin Roland’ for future reference. The effort stops when the more sober gentleman gives a better one.

“Now now. All kinds of reasons to have a kiddie breaker, ‘n they all mean ee’s nuts. So lay off, you big lug!”

“Din mean nothing” the bigger one mumbles in way of reconciliation. His eyes are very unfocused and you being to wonder if his behaviour stems completely from **** consumption or more basic mental shortcomings. You don’t have to be smart to be a pirate. If anything, the opposite probably helps.

The shorter man, who had a bad case of pock scars on his face, quickly tries to smooth out the conversation.

“Sides, that’s what they used to call me, eh? Kiddie breaker! Eh? All up and down the mainland coast, eh? Watch out! It’s the Kiddie Breaker! HA, hahahaha!” You laugh along with the disgusting admission, watching as he and his friend guffaw stupidly. You remember that there was an infamous child **** bandit by that name, but this jolly cretin is about one hundred and fifty years too young to be the original title holder. “Ahhhhh you’re all right lad! You’re all right! Ha ha!”

They move closer to you and another comes to join as well, drawn in by the sound of laughter. The man sits next to you and you see that he sports a thick mutton chop beard that joins over his top lip, but not his bottom one, leaving a bare chin only dusted with bristles. He is only slightly taller than you, which makes him quite short for a man, and he leans his thick arms on the table as though making up for it. Like many other groups in the room, your table had naturally become segregated into your ship colours, marking yours a red and yellow zone only.

The new arrival adds his gravelly voice to the proceeding with a coarse and unfriendly sounding, “wat chu pricks talkin bout?”

The self-proclaimed ‘Kiddie Breaker’ answers, with his jolly gusto not missing a step “Getting yer dick wet! Ay? Ha Ha!” He raises his tankard in salute and says “To getting your dick wet!”

Your empty tankard slams into the salute and you pretend to drink, ignoring the leather over your mouth and hoping they do as well. As you consider adding your fake belch to their mix of real ones, your new neighbour asks you a very deadly question.

“Not seen you afore, you new?”

You swallow, throat suddenly in need of a real drink.

Deciding it’s better to limit your vocabulary after your lacklustre conversation starter (the word ‘fella’s’ should never cross your lips again), you choose instead to go for a throaty “Yup.”

“Don’t blame ya for wearin yer kit now. First in an first down, your lot. Specially the skinny ones. Bes get use while yer able.” The gravelly voiced man’s attempts at joy killing make you glad this disguise will never see its intended use. “Take my word lad. Breakers board, break shit, an survive. You want to do the third thing you cut as many lines as yer can an jump. Leave the ‘elm to the big bastards, wats had more than one meal a day!” He eyes you knowingly. “That’s advice for free. Member I told it you.”

“Ay, Ay, too true, too true!” the happy paedophile chips in, “best to get your armour worn and your dick wet I say! Which of the girls did you go for? Eh? Personally, I just come from that scrum.” He points to the crowd in the back of the room. Definitely not a bigger ale barrel then.

Your be-muttoned neighbour answers first saying “I was first in big-tits shitter, for the freaks took over” he bangs a hand on the table your sitting at before he throws a gesture towards the stairs up, where evidently ‘big tits’ party continues. No prizes for guessing how she earned such a moniker. You notice that the table has many sticky stains of its own and not all of them look alcoholic. You try not to think of what you are sitting in, feeling it soak through your shorts all the same.

You manage an “Err” before the short and surly advice giver jumps in once again.

“Din’t ya see, ee’s fresh from the dock’s, just walked in, ain’t so much as got a squeeze yet, poor sod. An all the fresh pussy’s gone”, he drinks and adds, “an I ‘ate used goods” to himself, unnecessarily and unprompted. He slams down his now drained beverage and proclaims with slightly crossed eyes “We got to get you some PUSS!”

This conversation is not going the way you envisioned. You try to turn it onto a more beneficial subject.

“So Captain Wendig-“

“I don’t want to talk about that Bitch!” he cuts across airily.

He looks about and you find yourself following his gaze. The whore over the counter was currently in use again by another patron, who seemed in no sign of stopping anytime soon. You hope she is getting well paid for this, though you can’t think of any amount of money that would be worth it. His gaze then goes to the ‘scrum’ at the back of the room and he seems to consider it for a while. You wonder the best way to exit the table without offending and joining another, more informative, discussion elsewhere, when you notice the pensive pockmarked face of the scrums previous occupant returns to its smiling state.

“If you’re new then you won’t of done it with Blacky yet, ay? Hum? Prolly free an all.”

You don’t know who or what a ‘Blacky’ is, but the other man seems to meet this with derision. His hairy cheeks expand as he blows out a sigh.

“Better off fuckin a dog.”

Well that rules out ‘Blacky’ being a dog, but this is one mystery you don’t intend to solve. You rest your hands on table.

“Well, I-“

“Yeh but its island rules right? Hum?” At least you weren’t interrupted by Shorty McBeardface again, but you definitely sense your control of this conversation fading into dust. The two continue their conversation about you without you. “All guys got to fuck Blacky. Is the rules. Him included” the smiling man concludes.

“That game got old on day one” the bearded man retorts. You never thought you would root for such a vile drunk to be the word of reason. “Let ‘im fuck one of the gingers. Boy deserves some proper pink lips.” Ok, maybe reason was a strong word.

“It’s not a game, member? Hum? Captains orders. Probably got them from Wendigo. You not done it then you got to do it.”

So that would be the aforementioned Captain Roland? The one who’s been given instructions from Captain Washkin? Come to think of it, there is a Roland among her subordinate captains, though not one she raised herself. A short man of little significance that pillaged the seas long before she rose to dominance, never rising beyond the reputation of a brutish thug. Were he not last sighted far to the north and outside of the likely captains to find here, you’d have memorised more. Also, wasn’t his colours purple and something?

“Hum, yeah, fuck. Sorry kid, but you got yer marchin orders, same as us.”

Not the words you wanted to hear right now. Whatever warped rules are in place seem to have **** the hand of the mutton chop man, and, by proxy, **** all sense and reason out of this conversation and the world.

You choose to reach for the initiative one more time by pushing off the table, standing up and saying “Well fella’s, time for me to-“

The hairy face of the world’s most infuriating pirate stands up next to you and cuts you off yet again. “Yer right lad, no sense sittin round gassin. Man of action, like me. Best get it over with.”

You consider running out the front door. Surely that wouldn’t draw attention? Before you can act, a large meaty hand clamps down on your padded shoulder and starts to steer you towards a different door on the left side of the room. For some reason, the other two stand up and look set to join you.

‘Why?!’ you ask yourself despairingly, generally, without a specific target for absurd disbelief. Real panic begins to set in, knowing that you are neither equipped in body or inclination to perform the service somehow expected of you. You look about, **** for some means to escape the situation, but the only new thing you see is a previously unnoticed lock of red hair on the floor, ripped from someone’s head in some violent manoeuvre. You look at your guides thinning black hair as he moves in front of you, leading the way, and try to think of a better plan than just pulling it and running. Any plan at all really.

Nearing the ‘door’ you see that it is less a door and more of a hole in the wall, broken directly into another building adjacent to the inn. All three of your guides have to duck when going through it while your helmeted head only just scratches the upper section.

You find yourself in a fairly narrow corridor and frantically realise that there is no running here. Your guide leads from the front while the other two follow behind, effectively trapping you as you travel through this new addition to the old tavern. The building was of the same age and of the same wooden design, clearly built alongside the inn, and its narrow halls probably served a very different purpose in the past. You recognise the sounds and smells of a no doubt different kind of business being performed here now. Screams of pleasure and pain vibrate through the wooden walls and the smell is much the same here as the inn, just without the ale. It’s the acrid odour of strong sweat mixed with the indefinable earthy smell that permeated the inns common room; the smell of sex. It’s stronger here, and carries with it the tinge of sickly sweet perfume.

As you’re escorted down the corridor, mind desperately trying to conjure some means of escape, you look in through some of the open doors as you walk past and confirm your suspicions. The first room contains a man on his back, laying naked on a moth eaten bed, with a similarly naked woman bouncing on top of him. She had angled herself to the door so all passers-by could see her large jiggling breasts and makeup caked face, and hear the loud and undoubtedly fake noises that she makes. You wonder if people pay her extra for that. The next door contains a very round, olive skinned woman, who seems to have a lot of weight in the hips, sprawled out on her bed alone, a man nearby dressing. She blows you a kiss before you continue on. Another door remains closed, but emanates both the sound of a high pitched quivering sob and the rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh.

As your group comes to a small room which acts as a crossroads for four different corridors, you are intercepted by a rake of a woman. She’s tall and willowy, but is old enough to have more wrinkles than any but the cheapest whore could negotiate around, spread over the stretched skin of her bony face. She looked like some kind of skinny insect and wears one of the most insincere smiles you have ever seen on a person.

“And what can I do for you fine gentlemen tonight?” she enquires with simpering sweetness.

Your black bearded guide, who you realise is definitely taller than you and no doubt considerably stronger as well, replies with a concise “Takin’ the new guy to fuck Blacky.”

The woman looks wounded; a great injustice done.

“Oh but there’s barely anything left! Oh, no no no. A young man deserves a young girl! One of my girls! Got three new ones that are just the right size for you young man.”

This seems to perk up your cheery follower, who asks “oh? Any free?”

A strained, semi-apologetic look crosses her face for a second before she looks behind you and the fake smile returns.

“Why yes! In fact, the second youngest has just become available! Now she’s a little discounted as she has a hair lip but that just means she’s fresher than the others!” She points towards the room you just past, which a man now sheepishly walks out of. Much to your surprise, the room contains a girl, no more than 12, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the nearby wall. She does indeed have a split lip up to her nose, but messy red hair covered most of her face. You wonder if she is the owner of the lock you saw on the floor earlier. Surely no one would wish any harm on such a pitiable creature, much less inflict it, but a large bruise on her exposed shoulder and tear streaked face suggested otherwise.

You swallow the bile of hatred rising up your throat and dig your fingers into the palm of your hand, keeping them barely away from a certain stiletto itching to meet this insect woman’s vital organs.

“Finally! Let’s talk price eh?” the smiling man replies. He turns to you and adopts what you think is meant to be a sympathetic expression. “For me you understand. See, I been waitin a awhile for this.”

You dig your fingers in a bit more as you nod, helmet covering your gritted teeth, surrounded by men, one of which is almost twice as big as you. Your guide continues on and the laughing man’s lumbering drunk shadow follows the both of you instead of staying behind. As you walk away you catch some of the negotiations between the two, with the madam insisting that’s he’s unlikely to be looking at her face anyway while he insists that it should be cheaper as the mouth is ‘the best bit’.

You continue, head spinning, passing another door without even a look. How dare they- Your guide stops mid step and backs up, bumping into you distractedly while looking inside the room he past. He steps in and you automatically follow him, seeing something you honestly never thought you would.

A woman, also with red hair, who could be the older sister of the girl you left, sits up in a bed with her arms tied to the bed posts. She looks in **** distress as another woman with short black hair lies between her legs, her head right on the bound woman’s crotch. You see the red heads face sweating profusely and breathing very heavily through gritted teeth, and the room is filled with an energized crowd, mostly silent, waiting for something with bated breath. As you are pushed into the room by the large man behind you, you see, or more intuit from the nose and the motion, that the dark haired woman is… licking, and sucking, on the ginger haired flower of the tied up woman, like some warped lovers kiss. You notice that two men are holding down the quivering legs of the restrained woman, while the kisser lazily kicks the air with hers in a playful manor. She briefly, teasingly, parts her legs, revealing her own vagina to be completely hairless, like that of a child’s. It seems she is the more… professional of this performance, as well as the more willing. You see with sympathy that the tied up woman has many bruises down her body, like blotches of spilled paint soaked into cloth. They mainly focus on her breasts and hips, her thighs and wrists, with a smattering about her throat, obvious signs or brutal mistreatment. She gives a sharp intake of breath, full of pain, denial, confusion, and more, and the whole room gasps with her, enthralled in the wicked show. The reason for the breath continues her work unabated, hands below her victim’s backside like an upheld platter.

You had heard of some women taking other women as lovers, the same as you had heard about men taking other men as lovers. You understood that it was a thing that happened, but you somehow can’t understand seeing it in practice. Why would a woman ever do that to another woman? The whole thing seems as bizarre as it is lurid. You see many in the crowd are touching themselves in private places; some do it through their clothes and some under them. There’s even a man and a woman touching each other, eyes ahead with hands slipped down and working under trouser waistlines. Why? As fire red hair shakes side to side in sweat matted locks, you find yourself unable to look away as well. Why?

The tied up woman bursts into tears, sobbing right before she lets her head fall back and lets a loud moan escapes her open mouth. She squirms, such that the men at her legs struggle, and soon jolts and spasms run down her body, one after the other, twisting her face in joyous agony, making her writhe as the black haired woman continues her ministrations. Pale, bruised breasts jiggle and dance for a solid hypnotising minute as mental faculties burn away, torched under the constant darting onslaught from below. He expressions dance between bliss, disgust, horror, confusion, even cross eyed mindlessness for a time, all as she moans and begs and cry’s and for the briefest of brief moments, smiles. The reaction from the crowd was that of either cheers, or similar jolts and moans. After a moment, when things begin to settle down, the black haired woman stands up from the bed and faces the crowd, arms in the air, smiling a triumphant grin through a soaking wet mouth; part a performer taking a bow and part a whore, glad to see her books were going to be filled for the next few days. All naked as the day she was born.

“Fuuuuck.” The hairy faced man sighs as soft as his gravelly voice can manage, making you jump. Your mind is a sea of confused thoughts, asking questions again and again that you have no answer for, and you briefly catch yourself wanting to see it again, just to help you understand. Shaking your head, you look to the door and find it still blocked by the slack jawed drunk. You’re trapped until led on. Looking at the rest of the room, you see a dresser that had an array of strange instruments on it. They’re each a strange shape and for most you have no clue as to their purpose, but one of them is shaped and coloured like an erect male genitalia, with leather straps on it. Again, confusion assaults your brain, but you can guess its what, if not its why, and you put such questions out of your mind. It’s not the solution you wanted to this madness, but the only one that you’ve got. It could be the only thing that makes dealing with this ‘Blacky’ possible.

You look to the room and see that a man has untied the hands of the woman before climbing on top of her, continuing her **** with more... traditional sexual intercourse. The exhausted woman hardly seems to notice the man’s thrusting, continuing to breathe deep and stare at the ceiling, her mind still scattered to the wind. Others look on, and the black haired woman helps in the distraction, going around the room and giving out deep, sloppy kisses to random people; a technique that will no doubt pay her back later as people look to finish what she starts.

You shake your head and try to gather up your senses before the others do. You could take the artificial male member and hide it under your armour, but it could become a liability if you manage to avoid using it. You would also have to make sure none of the people saw you taking it or there could be big trouble. You’ve only been able to shake one of your three new friends so far, and that was by grotesque chance more than anything else. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you need to do something you’re not equipped to do, but would you do it even if you could? You father had an expression involving hammers and nails that you’d rather not think of. You think instead of the look on the hair lipped girls face, staring at the wall.

Living with something you’ve done may be worse than dying to avoid it.

After a moment rocking nervously on your feet and seeing no eyes turned your way,