Honouring her Memory (Yes)

She looks so much like her sister; so much it makes your stomach turn. You saw the Captain wear the same expression on a wild night’s morn. Her dress disordered and rumpled too – or your dead friend would wear no clothes at all. You’d stand in the door and watch her kick out her latest conquest, or not bother to hide her toys while she dressed herself.

You walk over to her, stiff-kneed and dazed. Your dick is not yet hard, but she opens for you. The Captain would act oblivious but always took the time to show off her body while you pretended to look away. But you were professionals, and it never went beyond teasing. {if Connected: The One-Eyed Captain > 2} Not until she invited you to her cabin and teased you with her feet. The Younger Dustwell does not tease. {else} Even if sometimes one of you had to restrain the other. There is no restraint now. {endif}

Her black lips envelop your shaft and her sloppy kisses wake you to hardness. ”Fuckin’ nice.” She gives it another slurping lick and spreads her legs.

Maybe the Captain could forgive you. You are in mourning, and you both need a fuck. Maybe she’d approve.

You catch a glimpse of her sex, of her fingers pushing the soiled panties aside, and of her hand working to further dishevel a once mournful dress. Spit and precum drip down to her naked leg. She gags. A long and frothy rope descends from the corner of her mouth, and she then sucks you back in.

Her hungry hole is slick with need, a squelching void that closes to swallow up her knuckles. She moans, letting go of your cock. ”Fuck!” She screams. ”Fuck me already!”

You push her back, turn her around, grab both her arms, and enter her from behind. She raises her head to scream out her arousal, and you silence her with a rough kiss as you continue to plunge into her needy cunt.

Sweat glistens on her skin and drips from your brow. Her crumpled dress is torn, and you undo some buttons and clasps until her breasts swing free and until she writhes atop the black and lace cover. You have turned her around, and she has crossed her legs over your back. Her lips quiver. You taste sour Mash and suckle on her spring-stiff peaks. She moans again, and – overflowing – guides your thrusts into her. Faster and faster, until shudders relax her grip – until you pull out and spray her sex and belly with thick ropes of white.

She purrs as she teases her lower lips apart and spreads your load along the thin line of her dark fur. ”Thanks,” she mumbles. ”But I should go.” She rolls away and hurries to dress herself.

She does pause in the door, long enough to pull up her stockings. A ray of light falls across her dishevelled hair and reveals a bashful smirk. ”See you around,” she says and is gone.