...wait for a better opportunity. There’s too much risk.

You decide to wait. If watching is bad, wouldn’t interrupting be worse? Besides, they aren’t going anywhere just yet. In fact, they’re actively growing more fatigued the more they...do.

You hear the sound of skin slapping skin and your face reddens further. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed, especially when they clearly don’t; they’re both vagabonds, and she used to be a whore for goodness sake! What did you expect, tea and biscuits!? You look into the darkness of the room, waiting for the time to pass, and hear the sound of muffled movement, of skin on skin, of sighs and cloth falling and the sound of empty boots hitting the floor. The flickering light that comes through the hole teases you with the answers to questions your curiosity can’t help but ask.

You wonder if that will be you one day, sighing and moaning in a lovers embrace. You hope so, don’t you? Love and marriage has seemed so unobtainable in your life; something you have wanted yet fought against getting. The prospect always seemed like a soft chain on your heart; one that would lighten your step yet would undoubtedly slow you down. Perhaps one day. You think that retirement wouldn’t be complete without a child and a good man to raze it with. But what man would want you? Could you even retire? You try to shake such low thoughts from your head. It’s not like marriage, love, or any of that is slowing down these two. You can’t help but cross your legs at the thought of such intimacy. Even with the ideal man, you have little interest in that. Not since...

You hear footsteps approaching from behind you.

Spinning on the spot, you turn to look at the source of the sound. You didn’t hear the door. Was someone in here all along, hiding unseen behind some box? You watch the darkness, but you see nothing, yet the footsteps continue, coming straight towards you! You feel your stiletto in your hand. When did you draw it? Doesn’t matter. You keep it low but ready, as the slow and steady footsteps reach the middle of the room, right where the most light is thanks to the moonlight coming through the alcove window, yet still you see no one. Relief crashes over you like a wave when you realise that the footsteps are not coming from the room, there coming from above it; the steady march of a rooftop guard as he makes his lazy rounds, watching for an intruder that had long since passed him by. The footsteps are quite clear, the sound of hard boots on old wood, which is a substance you didn’t think would be exposed on the mansions roof. Perhaps the building is in a worse state than you thought. Regardless, you can’t help but smile as they pass directly over your head and onto the other side of the wall.

You pocket the stiletto back into its holster, pleased with the speed of your draw. The footsteps continue yet the sound of sighs and groaning wood stop, making you look through the hole again with eyes almost closed against what you might see. You see her, sitting upright on the bed, a feminine back of creamy skin with gold hair falling down it like a waterfall. You see his legs protruding from under her, swaddled in the disturbed bed sheets.

She quietly answers the expression that must be on his face, “It’s just the guard.” She starts to gyrate her hips again, grinding them against him as though she were on horseback. The small interruption seems to warrant a strained but smiling response from Captain Roland,

“Ahh, hah, why so quiet then whore? Don’t what your crew to know? Ah? Don’t want them to know you spread your legs at my say so?” A strange shift seemed to occur within her when he called her a whore, almost unperceivable and over in a heartbeat. She laughs, a light twinkling sound that gets lower and more sultry with each movement of her hips, ending in a humming chuckle and a near mocking remark.

“Mmmmm, maybe you’re just not as big as I thought.” She emphasises the statement by moving her hips up, sliding much of his manhood out of her before, before sliding back down its length to sit back down on his hips. You failed to close your eyes in time, trapping the image in your mind. Her words lies; there’s no way he could be considered ‘not as big’. Not as big as what!? Nothing human for sure.

‘Why did you look?’ you ask yourself. You move away from the hole in the wall. It’s bad enough that you have to listen, no sense in watching their sinfulness as well. His response comes through the wall, sounding more angry than playful.

“Oh? Maybe you’re just not using it right.”

“Roland” she says, half taunting and half like a mother warning her child not to do anything foolish. He replies, angrier than before,

“Well? You want me to make you scream? Bitch?” You really wish you didn’t have to listen to this.

“Ro- Whoa!” Reasoning that you have to look if only to see if they kill each other, you go back to the hole with eyes open. Her pale back has been replaced by his slightly more tanned rear as their roles are reversed. He thrusts down into her as she lies on her back, her leg on either side of his. His boots and trousers are gone, though his shirt remains to give him some modesty, albeit not enough to hide his actions.

She moans under his inelegant humping, and after a moment, she even slightly wraps her legs around him. It doesn’t hold him in place. He pulls back to bury his face into her cheats and you hear her gasp before a strange sucking pop fills the room.

“Roland you- Ahhhh!” Her cry, pained and high pitched, and mixed with evident shock, comes just before he lifts his head away to look up at her.

“Gonna learn you your place whore,” he says in a husky voice before diving down for her other breast and dragging another pained cry from her.

“Roland please-“ Again she is cut off when he kneels up and grabs her shoulder, forcefully flipping her onto her front and burying her face in the bed sheets. You watch in shock as he forces much of his hand up between her legs, thumb buried deep while his fingers press under her stomach, and you wince with sympathy as he grabs a bed post with one hand and starts to yank upwards with the other, lifting her hips up by the rough grip on her hairless vagina. A loud chorus of cries of outrage and pain come from her, and she quickly pulls her knees up under her to support his insistent and bizarre lifting. The quick process leaves her posterior razed and exposed to both him and you.

Whatever tryst she had planned, she definitely isn’t in charge of it now. At some point before your very eyes this had become a ****. No woman would agree to this. Roland grabs her robust rear with both hands, still soft despite her knees being pulled up under her, and starts squeezing and rubbing, deriving whatever sick please he can from the feel of the woman’s behind. She jumps when he slaps her posterior like a disobedient child.

“If we’re gonna work together then you better know; only one of us has a dick.” He positions himself behind her, intentions clear to see between his legs, though surely pointing at the wrong target.

“Damn it RolAHHH!” You cover your mouth as you see him **** his fleshy weapon not into her willing vagina, but into her undefended rear. She yells in pain as he immediately starts his humping anew.

“Urg, so, if anyone is gonna get fucked...” he continues before grabbing a hand full of her long gold hair and pulling her head back, “... its gonna be you.”

He starts his thrusting back and forth and her cries continue as he assaults her. All clearly audible through the wall and likely thought the manor as well. ‘Poor woman’, you think. Yes, she’s a pirate and yes, her actions had led to the **** of others, but right now she’s just another victim of a world that can be all too cruel at times. You close your eyes to the scene, fighting the urge to rush in there and stop it. You know it’s a stupid thing to think, to save someone from **** just so you can kill them. Not to mention that everyone is likely listening to this racket. A sudden stop would definitely raze suspicions. Her undulating ‘Ahhh!’ noises almost completely cover his grunts and whispered taunts, themselves too quiet to make out. You gently rest your forehead against the wall and steady your breathing. This is all getting to you a bit much. You hate ****. You hate rapists. The more you hear, the more you are called to action. You remember the old promise you made so long ago; to never let another woman suffer though this, to have her body taken away from her. It was a promise full of anger, devoid of the big picture. Overtime it had settled into an understanding that you can’t save everyone all the time. That the best strategic move is the best play and sometimes that means people get left behind. How many rapes will you prevent by killing her and breaking her crew? You hear a loud slap amid the unbroken chaos. Your old self calls you a coward.

The noise is suddenly ended by twin thumps on the floor board. You open your tired eyes and see Roland standing before the end of the bed, Captain Washkin’s ankles in his hands as he drags her towards him, until her hips hang over the edge of the bed and her kneed hang close to its base. Your brief glimpse of her rear makes you feel sick. You have seen some disturbing things when upholding the law; your no stranger to unseemly sights like blood and excrement, but never both mixed as one. While there isn’t all that much of either, it still paints an unpleasant picture. Some colours should not mix. He begins again without hesitation, delving her damaged rear. Her cry’s come out muffled by the bed sheets.

“Come on...” He says in breathy frustration before grabbing a length of her beautiful hair and pulling it, lifting her head up and back towards him. “Don’t you want your whole crew to know what a WHORE YOU ARE!” He shouts the last part up at the ceiling and the manor in general before grabbing a bed post with his other hand and vastly increasing both the speed and depth of his thrusting. Her cry’s turn to screams under the ****. They bounce and echo and reverberate in horrible ways, clawing through the wall and into your heart. While you cannot see Roland’s face you can imagine the hatred that must be on it to do this. His stamina only permits a few dozen seconds of this, a minute at most, before he gives up, buried, breathing heavily with exhaustion. He lets go of her hair and the bedpost, catching her by the chest before she falls. He takes a moment, pinching, squeezing and pulling with his hands, none of it gentle, before letting her fall forward.

Still inside her, he pants “Hah, hah, ha ha! Ah ha ha haaa! Overwhelming ****. It’s what I do best right?” Perhaps sensing that he isn’t finished, Captain Washkin chooses not to answer or say anything at all. “Knew it. Hah! All talk until you got a dick in the shitter. Typical woman.” He grabs her hips and pulls her off the bed into a limp stand, doubled over at the waist. One of his hands snakes forward and down between her legs to grab her crotch. “This is all you got goin for ya. I’m a fighter see, and you’re a leg spreader.” You can’t quite see what he does with his hand, but whatever it is he does it vigorously. After half a minute she starts to moan, with pain and something else. His hand starts to make a wet noise that competes with her moaning and before long, her legs give out from under her, dropping her to the floor hard to lay on her front. Wasting no time, he drops to lie on her body, spreading her cheeks and continuing to torment her.

The moans take on a purely pain filled tone again as her rectal violations continue. He grabs her shoulder for leverage as he thrusts between her cheeks, her bare toes curling and gripping on their own, and the tone of his panting changes as he turns his attentions from her suffering to his own pleasure. She lies still on the floor, save for her toes and her own weak looking arm as it reaches for a leg of the nearby bed, just for something to hold on to. Her every other movement is a result of his actions upon her as he pushes and pulls with each thrust of his hips and tug of his arm. His speed increases, like before, but less hard and bitter and more for him, becoming very erratic and full of twitches and jerks as his moans grow. He yells a cry of his own, one of pleasure and immense satisfaction, arching his back. He must be releasing inside her. He pulls back hard before quickly lowering himself and thrusting forward desperately, switching to again return himself into her womanhood. The fiend wants to seed her! You watch as his jerking abates and he comes to rest lying on top of her.

They stay like that for a while. Your eyes feel soiled. You watched the whole thing. Unable to stop it. Somehow, you felt you owed it to her to bear witness, to feel sympathy, even if she didn’t know it. The ragged panting of Captain Roland fills the room.

“Hah, hah, hah, and we’re-“ he takes a moment to swallow, “definitely gonna do that again...” he swallows once more, “...when the job is done.”

You can see her head pressed to one side against the floor, her face turned from you. You feel a bile push at the back of your throat as he leans over to give her face a long lick from chin to temple before forcing deep a kiss into her mouth with as much thoroughness as the odd angle provides.

Though he whispers it into her ear, the sound of his words manage to reach though the hole you look out of and send a shiver down your spine.

“You can count on it...Whore.”

He pulls himself out of her and cleans himself off using a piece of her discarded clothing before he starts to dress. Captain Washkin doesn’t move. As he puts his garish looking jacket on, Captain Roland shouts out. “I hope you enjoyed yourself too ya pervert! Ha ha.” Your eyes widen with shock before he looks up at the ceiling and smiles. Of course, the guard on the roof and his phantom footsteps. You hadn’t heard him continue with his rounds either.

Jacket on and knives at his belt, Captain Roland walks out the door without looking back, slamming it shut behind him.

Your eyes return to the prone, naked form of Captain Washkin as you hear the footsteps of Captain Roland recede through the manor and down the stairs. She slowly gets up onto her hands and knees with a wince, before crawling over to the bed and using the bed post to right herself. She faces the room and by extension, your peephole, though the small gap is no doubt lost in the candlelight’s gloom, let alone the tired look in her eyes. You see her full figure and wince at the nights effects. Her full bust was the kind of red that will turn to dark bruises with time, same with her knees, shaved crotch, and the red handprints on either side of her hips. You also can’t help but catch your first sight of the necklace dangling between her breasts, its unmistakeable blue stone catching and reflecting what little light there is; the thing you came her for, hanging around the neck of what you will have to go through to get it. Such thoughts stray far from your mind against the sight you’ve just witnessed.

The timid and nervous voice of a man floats through the window from the roof, “You alright Cap’n?” Despite its nerves, you hear genuine concern in his words.

She sighs before responding, “Yes, thank you Narnen.” Her voice seems perfectly calm, though a little horse. “I need you to go and tell the merchants and our other guest that I won’t be seeing them tonight.” You catch yourself admiring the authority still very much in her voice. “And tell Misty to get up here.”

An immediate “Mam!” responds, followed by the rush of his footsteps.

She stretches her arms behind her back, pushing out her bosom and wringing out a chorus of cracking noises that fill the room, before walking over to one of the piles of dirty clothes. She rustles through it and picks up some kind of handkerchief before returning to lean against the bed and wipe between her legs. You feel a little bit in awe of this woman. You can’t help it. Even her face is placid as she casually wipes away an attack that would have left you in tears or clawing at the walls. You take a breath and control yourself. She is an ex-whore, or current whore considering how she does business; it’s no surprise she would act this way. You look at her leaning against the bed, as naked as the day she was born save for the necklace, weakened by her ordeal. The time to strike is surely now. Isn’t it?

Her words fight her screams for space to echo in your ears.

‘Tell the merchants and our other guest that I won’t be seeing them tonight’.

It seems that you don’t have to worry about any further meetings, but who is Misty? Will, presumably she, get up here soon? Soon enough to interrupt a spot of ****? Even if she does, will she be a threat? It’s safer to assume so. You have passed up many opportunities to get here; there can’t be many more in store for you. It feels like her every move has been a false opening, yet here you are, watching her naked and alone.

You pull back and shake your head; time to plan this out properly. If you go back to the landing, through both doors and into the bedroom, say something to distract her, then stab her and climb out the window, then it’s all over. She could scream for help or fight you off or this Misty could interrupt, but the odds are in your favour if you act now. The only other option is to wait. She said she is not seeing more visitors. This means there is a slim chance she will return to her ship and out of your reach. Slim, because she looks exhausted, there is a bed right there, and you doubt she would want to be seen limping all the way down to her ship. Killing her in her sleep will be even easier and when Misty has come and gone there will be no interruptions. Still, the long wait and small chance of her escape or of some other distracting incident coming to take her away, keeps you hesitant.

She’s right there…