...Fight.

You dive for the knife, waiting nothing for hesitation or planning or thought. Action is what’s needed now, and you’ll be damned if it’s going to take place between your legs.

As you clobber the floor, the blades grip sits tightly in your grasp before you know it and you roll and scrabble to your feet faster than either of them can react. The Captains face falls, darkening with sudden malice at your firm rejection. You take a moment, a half second, to plan your run. From left to right you have the bed closest to you, then the wall beyond with the captains sword resting against it, the space between it and the table is mostly empty, until the captain, standing and glaring at you beside its round surface. Nearly behind the table is the fat man, and behind him the window. The right most wall, which the table currently presses against, holds the dark fireplace and a handful of sooted instruments.

You loose, like a bolt from a crossbow, ignoring the space between the captain and her sword and running for the table to sprint across it surface to the window beyond. The Captain moves as well, but not to her sword. Instead she moves to intercept you, unarmed, beyond the table. Perhaps you have a chance to finish this job after all! The pounding of your heart gives you a savage smile against your will. The sack of lard finally yells in fear.

The distance is crossed as though only imagined and you leap to the tables surface in a single step. The captain shoves the man down, barely moving him yet tipping his unbalanced form enough that he sees his own way to the floor. You cross the table in a single step. Captain, window, Captain, window, Captain, window. Your eyes flick between. Which do you go for? No time. You let instinct take over. The captain is defenceless, crouching down near the fireplace, fallen in her effort to get past her guest. You leap low, dagger outstretched. The Captain screams as she turns.

Davod never liked Symon. He was the kind of man who picked dirt out of his nails. Who does that? Honestly? A pretty boy who though he was better than everyone else, that’s who. There were always rumours of who he shared his bunk with as well, as though that fucking matters. Women liked his charms and face and it truly made Davod want to round up some of the guys who also liked his charms and face and help them get a good sized slice of it. Davod was in no way into men, but sometimes you need to see an arsehole brought down a peg or two. Davod resolved that if he got between him and that girl one more-

A scream rang out; a feral, angry roar. Davod had heard it many times in battle and after it. It was the sound a woman makes when she gives it everything she’s got. When she swings to kill, or reaches the point where nails and teeth can be used to devastating effect. The sound was followed by another, like a body crashing against the floor. The two men were off their shared chest before they heard it, running for the Captains room as fast as they could, fists clenched and ready for action. Symon was nearer. It was his shoulder that threw the door open.

Symon stopped and Davod had to push him out of the way to get past. It was a moved that proved instantly hypocritical as he stopped as well as soon as he entered and saw what had happened. The Captain stood, breathing deep in her shear blue robe (something Davod took particular attention of), holding a wrought iron fire poker in one hand. Near her feet, beyond the table, lay the unmoving body of the girl in black, crumpled in a heap and crimson faced with blood.

The Captain looked murderous, throwing the poker down as she stared and bared her teeth at the girl. The last time Davod had seen her like this, she’d ordered a man keelhauled; a process that was grim and time consuming and took a lot of hate to see through. He watched as her eyes flicked momentarily to the fat fuck on the floor, quivering but looking a lot braver that Davod would have expected of the dickless looking sack of shit.

She turned to them, still looking at the girl. “Get her out of here. Check she’s dead.” The Captains voice sounded horse and threaded with iron. The two men did not argue.

As she swallowed and took control of her breath, Davod wondered if she were collecting herself, or just putting back her slipped mask of civility. From the speed of it, he’d say her true self was led back into its cage. Glimpses like that were one of the main reasons he still followed her; they were the reminders that she’s a hell of a lot scarier than he is.

“If she’s dead, throw her in the woods. If not, throw her in a cell.” One sigh later and the smile returned. It almost looked genuine. If Davod had not seen her act slip just now, he would have bought that smile hook line and sinker. The girl better hope she was dead.

They rushed forward to each grab the girl’s arms, pulling her outstretched as they dragged her from behind the table. Her head lolled back, streaked red and leaving dripping stains as they moved her. The Captain started pouring false assurances on the fat man in the red dress as she helped him onto his feet, the girl now ignored and forgotten. The man looked visibly upset, but he soon calmed under the captains’ words. “I’ll have to make it up to you” are the ones that stand out to Davod.

She leaned in close and whispered things into his ear. Fear turned to lust as her words slipped into his mind, painting it lurid colours and riding his own greedy imagination. The fat sack of crap smeared a shit eating grin across his face as the captain continued to press herself up against him, telling him of all the things she’s going to do to make up for the interruption. He wouldn’t last through a tenth of it. Davod hated the captains ‘guests’; most of the crew did. The idea that this ugly, weak, baby of a man was going to get his brains fucked out by a woman a beautiful as the captain would leave anyone bitter, especially when they had only their own hand for company.

“Symon, stay outside please. I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone.”

The weight suddenly doubled as Symon let go with a “Yes Captain!” Davod took up the dropped arm and continued dragging while Symon rushed to hold open the door. There was no smugness in the action. Both men had set aside their dislike for the other under the Captains fury. Now was not a time to be seen bickering.

Marching over the table of the outer room, the girls limp feet twisted the scattered documents out of place as she was dragged across. The two men headed to the far double doors, one to hold them open and the other to drag the girl through, and suddenly realising he had no clue where to go, Davod turned to the other man. In return, the man let the doors close, anonymity rekindled with distance from the captain.

Davod growled and looked around. Of the men waiting at the foot of the stairs, only two men remain. Both look up at him as he struggled with his next move. More dandy men, looking for a fucking; one was a rich looking Nobel prick and the other a snake who at least had the decency to look dangerous. With the landing corridor splitting left and right, he chose left, eager to get away from the men’s curious gazes and check if the girl was alive. He cursed quietly as her feet dragged on the carpet, acting as anchors to his progress. She wasn’t heavy by any stretch of the imagination, but bodies were always cumbersome to move when their owner had stepped out of them. Thoroughly annoyed, he kicked open a nearby door, one away from the landing and the captain. Light was inside, and so was a man.

“What the fu-“

The man, Garran, was mostly unknown to Davod, save for his name. He wore a servant’s uniform, or what Davod thought was a servant’s uniform, and a bandanna that paid token service to his captains colours. His startled question was cut short as Davod’s laziness quickly responded to the idea of looking for another room by addressing the man directly.

“Just fuck off.”

The room was small, white plastered and lit with lantern light. It had a load of crap in it as well; wooden planks, broken furniture; and mysterious boxes and crates covered with enough dustsheets to sail a small frigate. There was a hole on the wall for one of those fancy cargo lifts the nobles have for food, but no other features, not even a window. The man, senior to Davod in years and no doubt experience, moved to talk again.

“Wait who’s-“

He was not senior in rank, Davod was sure. Davod was also in no mood to argue.

“I said fuck off! Captains orders! Do your fucking job!”

The old man hurried from the room under Davods constant stream of curses, his seniors experience telling him not to challenge the man a head and a half taller than him, dragging what looked like a dead body.

Door closed, Davod moved the girl into the largest space on the floor, near to the middle of the room, setting her down with a soft thump. He then fetched the lantern from the wall and returned, lowering himself to straddle her body and bring the light to her face. It was streaked with blood from a nasty impact; one that sunk her left eyebrow unnaturally. A shame, he thought. She was otherwise untouched but her face seemed so much less... alive, than when he’d seen her last. Then, it had been streaked with fear, and she’d tried to escape. The part of him that not even he liked had looked forward to their time together, hoping she’d keep that spirit for his turn. He lent back and gave her a good slap across the face. It stung his callused palm and turned her head, ringing is crack throughout the room, but she didn’t move.

“You alive?”

It seemed a stupid question to him, and felt more so with no reply. Still, captains orders; he had to be sure. He turned her head back to him before slapping it again. Nothing.

His hand was a little bloody from the impact, so he idly wiped it on her while thinking. She was small -much smaller than him anyway- and lacked the curves a real woman should have. She was not so much boyish, by any means. When her eyebrows still matched up, and the only wetness on her face was sweat and eyes dewy with tears, she had even been quite pretty. She still was, in many ways. Her features were delicate, like an expensive doll made of porcelain or pottery or whatever it was; Davod had little experience of such things, but it did make her injuries seem more like the craftsman’s hands had slipped rather than the mess of broken bone it was. His hand kept idly stroking her black top, long since cleaned of her blood, yet rubbing heavily. Her curves were slight, but they were definitely there. They shifted under her covers and he felt himself shift under his own.

Thinking for a moment, he stood up off her and made up his mind. Briefly looking at the flat surface of a sheet covered crate in the middle of the room, he lent down and picked the girl up under the arms. He held her as though she was standing once more, before helping her fall forwards, over the flat surface of the boxes top.

“Only one way to know if a woman’s paying attention.” Davod muttered to himself as he began to unlace his britches. They fell without resistance and he kicked his way out of them. After that, he pulled the unmoving girls black trousers over her rump.

Pale flesh almost shone in the light of the lantern. Black material crumpled itself around her ankles and her shining cheeks gave way to delicate legs. Fully risen, he couldn’t help but lower himself to kneel before her and spread her, palming her cheeks and upper thighs apart. Below her rear lay the mounds of her pussy, black haired and folded inward like a secret. He palmed again and the twin mounds parted, revealing pink flesh. She looked untouched. He had thought her time with the gaudy man child -the prick with the **** burns- may have been spent on her back as well as sucking his cock. Instead, it looked like her mouth was just that good, and her cunt was fresh as a summer breeze. He stood up and was severely tempted. Her hips were aligned just perfectly; all he had to do was push forward, lean forward, but it was his job to check she was alive first. With that in mind, he shifted his dick upward to press against her puckered hole, held her hips and rammed forward.

He almost hurt himself, so forceful was his approach, and so tight was his quarry. From nothing to having a dick balls deep in the shitter was something that, he reasoned, could wake the dead. He turned her head to the side, grabbing the black bun of hair like a handle, before pulling back and ramming in again. Nothing. No gasp of pain or shock or so much as a fluttering eye. He pulled back and rammed again, holding her shoulder to go as deep as he could. Nothing. That was not something that could be faked; nobody was that good. Surely even the captain would have grunted. Best be thorough. Back and forth and check. Nothing. One more time? Back and forth and check. Nothing. He stopped checking. The applause of hips on hips cheered room, ringing out the unexpected delight of his performance. ‘She doesn’t even clench’, Davod thought, uncaring to what that might mean. He was well beyond such concerns anyway, caught up in a flow, venting his frustrations. She felt so soft and silky inside, and her bony hips hid scintillating cushions that rippled with a delightful firmness. He gripped them, squeezing and pulling them wide before drilling further in perfect strokes of pleasure.

Looking down at his rod as it turned her hole inside and out, there was little shit. More blood than shit. In this she was far better than the last bottom he had, who’s ugly face and biting nature had marked her the runt of their last spoils. First meant little if it wasn’t worth having, and they had eventually thrown that fish back into the sea, so to speak. This, he’d wager, was another first, and one definitely worth having; no one was this tight second time around, and he was hitting it with enough **** to make her seem an old hand!

His head fell back as his hips kept pushing forward, lost in the feeling of joy and trying to ignore the foul odour creeping outward. A little shit was different than non, but he’d smelt worse in the past, both through his nose and by his own person. To think someone so...accepting, so pliable, would get him so hard! For him, the struggle was the best bit, or if he had a whore, letting her do all the work was also good. But this delicate tightness, already battered into submission, was a rare pleasure that he enjoyed very much. On reflection, he reasoned that this was how sex between a man and a woman should be: her taking all she has coming without complaint. He could join the ranks of marred men if he found a woman like that...who was still alive at least.

He wondered what the captain was doing with the bald ball of crotch rot right now. Was that sack of guts inside her arse as well? He could almost raise a tankard to the bastard. The idea of his dick between his captains round rump sent him close to the edge, so he looked back at the girl to keep going. He wasn’t inside his voluptuous captain, who’s hole and rump would be far softer both. Instead he was inside the unmoving assassin; the slip of a girl who thought she could get past him and his crew. Who thought she could kill his captain, but instead became a whore for her; serviced her and her guest, and now him.

He remembered the captains cries of pleasure, and the thought put him right back on the edge. It was coming. With hasty hands, he gripped her bun and turned her head more, watching her blank expression jump and jolt with each collision. He imagined that fine figured face, full and unbroken, between the captains legs, those pale lips on her pussy, that tongue going deep. Maybe he’d fuck her mouth next! It was too much! He gave a long, growling grunt as he empted his balls deep between her cheeks. He lifted his legs, letting his weight press himself into her, twitching with ramming jolts as he let fly his seed. It was a moment he spent drinking in the sight of her beautiful blooded face, spilling more into her with each imagined lick and suck that accompanied the sounds of pleasure he had heard. He’d never been one to fancy the idea of women using each other like that, but his mind blazed with the thought and in that moment he would have paid anything to see it live.

That moment passed, blessedly slowly for Davod, ending only when he felt he had no more to give. A new reality emerged, tired, banishing thoughts of the assassins mouth with creeping softness. Pulling out, he noted with satisfaction that the blazing red sunset he had left of her leaked nothing, save a small trickle of blood. Nothing white. He always liked the idea that what he left, stayed, and stayed deep. He bent down and lifted her fallen, trampled trousers, careful to wipe himself on their inside before bringing them up to cover her again. Breathing heavily, he caught his scattered breath and thought of what the captain said. The girl damn sure wasn’t moving, and the only live thing about her was lost in her shitter.

Woods was it?

He lay down next to the body in the clearing, catching his breath from the hard work of carrying it there, not to mention the hassle of stripping it of course. The dark clothes could be used for rags at the very least, and who knows, if one of the women on board has the same sized feet he could probably get a good sucking for the shoes. Besides, undressing her was at least a little entertaining, though not as much fun as he could have had teaching the bitch her place. Still, if her place was rotting in the woods then who was he to argue?

He’d gotten quite the shock when he pulled off her trousers. Two shocks in fact.

The first had been when she’d rolled onto her belly and almost appeared alive in the motion. A short inspection found she had been on a stone and rolled naturally with the jostle of the stripping, though his heart still pounded. The dead should stay dead after all. Davod had laughed at his own nervousness and slapped her rump for good measure.

The second surprise had occurred when he spread her cheeks in the moonlight, for old times’ sake. To think the dead could bruise so much, yet between the mansion and the cold earth of the wood, her hole was a mess of blue/black blotches, streaked with the occasional red or brown. He’d really done a number on her. No more than he would have if she were alive, but still. He did not even know the dead could bruise.

There’d be no burial for her or course, no funeral; not even to be tossed out to see with a few words from the captain and a blessing from the gods. Still, the least he could do was bury it in her a bit...again. Got to clean himself off thoroughly after all, and he remembered the sight of a fresh place in need of a good send off.

Flipping her, and dragging her legs wide, he climbed aboard and aimed himself before entering. He’d entered dry women before of course, more dry than wet if he were honest. It was one of the reasons he preferred virgins as only the first few seconds lacked their wet warmth. This one was no virgin, but she was tight and his own spit and seed would see him through. He didn’t make a habit of fucking corpses (a man could get a bad reputation for doing so), but as he picked up speed and griped hard at the flattened mounds of her chest anyway, and even mumbled a few words into her lifeless face.

“Ah. Princess…” He considered for a moment what to say; ‘I’m gonna miss this pussy’ and ‘if we only had more time together’ war on his tongue, along with some other half formed insults. After a few seconds of silent thrusting, he chose not to say anything at all. It was good. Whatever pussy he was in next, he’s probably be thinking of this one. Taking a moment to satisfy his usual desire, he began to suck one of her breasts into his mouth. He didn’t get much, but when he bit down hard, she didn’t scream. She didn’t move. Only her brow, unseen in his passion, twitched once, then nevermore.

Unbeknownst to him, and even to her, the man’s partner of the night slipped her mortal coil at last, the few thin strands of life finally ebbing away like a forgotten candle, snuffing itself out. The broken nightmares and faded imaginings, disappeared like the smoke, and her shallow beat stopped dead. The movements of her lifeless body grew more violent, until even those stilled and their source left whistling a jaunty seaman’s tune. When he had taken his fill and left, nature stepped in, and a ravishment of a different sort commenced, the whistling carried on by the wind.