Shiverin' her timbers

The campfire crackled outside her tent, low voices murmuring drunken ballads and arguments over dice. But inside, Joana - now Captain Belinda - had long since drawn the canvas flap closed, retreating from the smoke, sweat, and swagger of the pirate world.

She sat back on a pile of stolen pillows and loosely-woven blankets, letting the night wrap around her like silk and shadow. The oil lamp guttered beside her, casting warm flickers across her lean form. Her tunic was already off, tossed aside without ceremony. She studied her reflection in a polished silver plate - the closest thing to a mirror this world had offered.

A new face stared back. Sharp eyes, slightly upturned. A sculpted jaw, sun-kissed skin. Black hair still wind-tangled and damp from the beach. Her chest, once a magnificent weight, now barely hinted at a curve. Nipples small and dusky, set on the flat plane of her breastbone. She touched them-soft, sensitive-but the thrill wasn’t there.

She didn’t mourn them. But she did miss them a little.

“Efficient little body,” she whispered, voice husky with amusement. Her legs parted instinctively as she reclined further into the cushions, the sash at her waist falling open. The cotton pants she wore were loose, tied with a worn leather cord. A simple tug, and they slipped down her hips and off her ankles.

Beneath them: a soft linen underwrap. Damp, pressed to her skin.

She could feel it-that warmth, that pressure building inside her, deeper and more electric than any male arousal she remembered. It had been like this in her first transformation, that slow-burning heat that bloomed between her thighs, hunger coiled low and deep. But this body was different. Compact. Tighter. More reactive.

Joana slipped her hand beneath the cloth. And gasped.

“Oh…”

It was slick. Already so slick. And tight-ridiculously tight. Her fingers explored slowly, lazily, hips rocking against her own touch. Her clit was smaller than she remembered from her previous form, but incredibly sensitive-barely more than a swollen bead, but it sent jolts up her spine with the lightest stroke.

Her other hand slipped down, teasing the smooth skin of her thigh, her hipbone, her navel. “God, you’re a little furnace,” she breathed, fingers moving faster now, sliding easily through her folds, teasing deeper, deeper still. She wasn’t just turned on. She was enraptured.

It wasn’t about being busty or beautiful anymore. This form was made for stealth, for agility, for gripping with thighs and riding the wind or something-and for this: raw, tightly coiled pleasure.

She arched her back, toes curling into the blankets. Small moans escaped her lips-high-pitched, unfiltered. They surprised her. They sounded… young. But honest. She pressed down harder, using her palm now, grinding into it.

“Fuck…” she whispered, half-laughing. “I guess you don’t need tits when your hips do this.”

Her body was smaller, but the orgasm that tore through her was massive. Not wave-like, but sharp-like fire cracking along a dry branch. It struck, quick and deep, her muscles locking as her thighs trembled, her breath caught halfway between a gasp and a cry. She bit her lip, hard, to keep from making too much noise.

And when it passed, she collapsed back, panting and flushed, the scent of sex warm on her fingers.