Walk away.

You walk to the far door, skirting left around the large table as you try to look a mix of resigned and purposeful. The two men had stationed themselves apart, the uglier leaning over the table to look at some maps on the right side while the other leans against the wall on the path you travel. You had to pass one; better it be the less vile. He perks up as you approach and looks confused as you pass before falling into step behind you, a walking shadow that follows you to the exit. You try to ignore him, try to stay calm and confident and maintain the bearing of a defeated person ordered to leave. You reach the door, but as your hand falls on the latch, his falls on its flat face, bringing his weight and strength with him to block your way.

He says nothing, simply looking down at you as he casts his shadow, but the message is clear. It’s the message you respond to.

“The Captain told me I could leave.” You suppress a cough at the throaty burble your first words bring.

His expression doesn’t change. “The Captain tells us when you can leave.”

The other man had abandoned his snooping and was sidling around the table toward you, you could hear it.

“The Captains busy. If you want to ask her then go ahead.”

His eyes don’t even flick to the still shut door to her chamber. Opening it is not something he’s going to do and you both know it. Holding his gaze, you try to walk the line; defeated by Washkin but defiant against him. You’re not sure if you can pull it off, and he’s no doubt met more people stuck in your sick little situation than you have. The other man stops behind you, another towering shadow painted over you and the door to freedom.

The moment stretches, and to their advantage; every second that passes is a second closer to the Captain walking out and seeing you, washed up against the door and tangled against these two brutes.

“If you don’t-“

Too late, the far door opens and the Captain enters, her suddenly un-muffled words forging ahead of her.

“Well I’m glad we could get that sorted, and see you so accommodated- what’s this?” Your hand slips from the latch, but a quick glance at you tells her all she needs. “Don’t be like that, there’s still more work to do. Sit down. Come on now. ‘Copper work brings gold with time’”

Her smile is wide and open and kindly, in many ways like a painting of a fire, looking the part, but giving you little real warmth. In fact, it’s the smile a craftsman would give an errant tool on its return to his service, or that a pimp might give a straying whore. Either way, its annoyed satisfaction makes it clear that there is no other way except hers. You turn, meekly, and walk to the nearby chest at the end of the captains pointing finger. You pick your way around the man at your back, who smiles as he gives you little room to do so, before finally planting yourself on the chests flat surface.

The captain looks to two men as though nothing had just happened, her voice full of sickly sweetness before her guest. “Symon, be a dear and bring up Mr Bekinsail for me please.”

The better looking man nods his clean cut face before stepping out. Fainus, first and last man to have his cock between your lips; first and last man to loose his load upon your tongue; and certainly the last man who’s seed will slip down your gullet. He comes to a stop before you, and you opt to stare through him, at the table ahead of you. You only stop when you realise what part of his hips block your view, switching your sights to the floor.

“You know, if you want to come and be a ‘live in’ with me, just let me know.” The prospect of becoming this man’s mistress... No, not even that. ‘Live in’, from what you have heard, is more of an owned whore. At best, a **** with benefits. The idea makes you feel sicker than the taste of him that lingers. A thick fingers flat side lifts your chin to look at him. His thumb traces your mouth as his own forms words you’d rather not hear.

“I’m sure I could find further uses for those lips.” He smiles a spoiled piggy little smile, boyish hairs clinging to his upper lip and standing out against his greasy pallid face. The hand that touches you is the same that rested on your head. The same that pushed you down his...

“Now now, don’t you go tempting my latest acquisition.” The captain steers him away sweetly. “You’ll have to make do with the sucking she already gave you. Besides, she’s still in training.”

Her words, spoken before the hooknose man who, for all his hearing and speculations, was not a part of it, makes it feel horribly more real. The memory of a nightmare put on record before a witnessed. The words that followed had their own sting, when your mind registered them. Training? And it’s unfinished? The need to leave grows stronger, even as the opportunity is cut short.

Fainus leaves first stepping out with a wave from the captain, then the captain herself retreats to her den. Just you and the hooknose brute, Davod. No sooner than he sits next to is he on you. The first you know of it is the hard hand that claps over your mouth. He leans in heavily, bearing you down to the top of the flat chest and twisting you to your back. The move throws up your legs, one of which impacts the table loudly and painfully. It’s the only noise you make before his other hand pins your scrabbling fingers and you find yourself frozen with his closeness.

“So, Captain wants to turn a knife into a whore.” His breath is stained with ale, a likely permanent state with him. “...but it takes a real man to do that. When the Captain done and gets me to take you back to the ship, we’re gonna go on a little detour, you an me. An that whore mouth is gonna stay shut.” His eyes are wide and sparkling with a depraved energy, lustful as they look over you. “Gonna use you like a bitch I will. Gonna make you bleed. When I’m done with you, you’ll be shitting blood for weeks. An I ain’t gonna give you the chance to heal neither. Ooooh, when you’re beggin me...” He licks his lips. “When you’re beggin me to take you like a woman, an that light goes out of your eyes, then you’ll be a whore, princess. You’ll be my little-“ The door opens, and like a sprung trap, he leans away with a rueful smirk to look at those who enter now.

Breathing hard, you slowly right yourself.

The other pirate who left now leads the way, shooting ill hid suspicion at the man next to you as you begin to massage your hands back into feeling. The beast shrugs and smiles at the unsaid accusation, watching his comrade hold the door open for another man. You try to push aside your shaken state and look at him, but it’s hard; your eyes feel drawn to the man sitting at your side, as they would to a dangerous animal that could attack again at any time. Who says things like that? What kind of man, if not the lowest and foulest of them? Your wrestled gaze takes in the newcomer, an old man; this Mr Bekinsail. As he hobbles around the room, he gives an air of fusty liveliness; despite his hard grim face and downward slanted slash of a mouth, the slight crinkle of his eyes makes it seem like he’s looking forward to his meeting. Mindful of the last man, you spare a look long enough to judge his motives, and they seem...If not honourable then at least lustless. He looks as though he’s about to enter a battle of wits, and knows it. The look alone tells you he’s better armed than the last man by far.

“Mr Bekinsail. So good of you to come.” The captain stands beyond the threshold, blue gown closed and tied again. The rest of the pleasantries are cut off by the door and shadowed by Symon, the better looking pirate, standing before you both. He tilts his head slightly when you meet his eyes, a slanted smile on his lips. You get the message, and, feeling a rush of relief (and not a little gratitude), scoot yourself to the very end of the chest. He sits himself between you and the other man without word. You can’t see the other man, but smile as you hear arms folding under a grunt of displeasure.

You sit in silence, wondering if the Captains next appearance will bare another summons. How could it? He was quite old. Don’t men... lose their vigour for such things as they age? Hopefully. The murmur of conversation matches the deep breathing and heavy sighs of the well-muscled guards beside you. They keep the time like a well-built clock, chiming with shuffles and grunts as they tolerate the hard chest and it’s sparse but quite uncomfortable studs. Eventually, time runs out, and the sound of feet approach from the captains room. Multiple feet. Is that good? The door opens and that captain ushers out the old man, both looking as satisfied as the other. Your father always said that good business left both parties thinking they got the best deal. Perhaps the Captain respected this man too much to seduce him? It clearly wasn’t because she had standards. Perhaps he was wise enough not to mix business with pleasure. Either way, he crosses the room and leaves with the twitch of a smile on his sour looking features.

The Captain turns to the men and requests the next merchant be brought up; a man named Mojarieal. Fortunately, she looked at the hooknose man, now closest to the door, to be her messenger and he leaves with little grumbling.

She waits, leaning against the door frame and smiling slightly as you sit in awkward in silence. You try not to look at her. After all this woman has done to you, it would be hard to keep the murderous intent from your eyes. Your fingertips grip at the material of your trousers, the only sign of nerves you allow yourself under her scrutiny.

Eventually, a new sound breaks the silence. Grunts and creaks come through the double doors as a man makes a mountainous effort out of ascending the stairs beyond. The doors are opened by the brute, but the man who steps through first is nothing like the last. Where Bekinsail was shrivelled and old, this one is fat and carries the agelessness of one whose skin is stretched from beneath. Older than Fainus, you think; perhaps if he had hair it might even be grey. Instead, his bald head and bejewelled ears sit on a pile of melted neck, which leads almost seamlessly to a blubberous body. The only real colour in his face is the red smeared about his nose, which sniffs wetly with sickness, and the green light which twinkles off his dangling emerald earrings. His body meanwhile is draped an assaultingly bright red, displayed in the form of loose dress like gown, which is open wide at the neck with embroidered gold trim and hangs straight to the floor after shaping his bulging gut. Piggy little sandaled feet stick out the bottom and you wonder if such wear is common in hotter climates as the wide short sleeved arm holes hang low to reveal much of his naked side.

The captain smiles, naturally, as she sees him, and he returns with a genuine if ingratiatingly weak one in return. He simpers with a voice that breathes through his mouth as much as possible. “Haaa, it’s so good to see you Captain.”

He works his way around the table as she responds with a kind air. “You sound a little rough around the edges.”

The man looks personally wronged as he responds “Just a cold I’ve had all week. Least of my problems really...”He reaches her, and to your ill hidden disgust, he kisses her on each cheek; a move she accepts and returns despite his unnecessarily heavy handedness. You can almost imagine the stain his wet nose leaves on the side of her face, but while you would be wiping them as soon as possible, she smiles and accepts it like a professional.

Their conversation starts just as the door cuts it off and once again you are left in the company of the two men at either side of you. Soft laughter rings from the room beyond but nothing more. Time seems to slow, stretching out your uncomfortable rest with unpleasant thoughts. Unhelpful thoughts. You should be focusing on the best way to escape, but that seems blocked to you now. You don’t want what you’ve done already to be in vain, but the words of the man nearby ring like alarm bells in your mind. You can’t help but feel that there is worse to come. It’s a combination of nerves and indecisiveness that leaves drops of sweat running down your spine. You can’t leave here with him. The idea of giving that man the same... ‘service’ as the last twists your stomach in knots, reminding you of its recently swallowed contents. You suddenly want to cough, aware of the heavy feeling in your throat. Still...

You jump as the door opens. Only the captain leans out, smiling as she sees you.

“Still here?” You don’t react to the mocking tone. “Good. Well, come on in.” You heart sinks as you hear the words you knew were coming. Without a sound, you stand and go the only direction left to you, following her into the room you now dread. Hopefully, this time...

The door snaps shut behind you.

“So this is her? She’ll do, I suppose.” The fat mans disinterested tone grates at you, clearly hiding a mix of disappointment and curiosity. He stands to the right, between the large wooden table and the open window, near to the unlit fireplace, and the captain moves to stand between the two of you before turning to face you, twisted smile still at the corners of her blood red lips.

“Now I know you’re eager to leave and start your new life with us, but I have another favour to ask. Well, more of an order really.” How predictable. That you have to...to whore for this woman. Perhaps you’ll bite this time and damn the consequences. That is, if you can reach him at all through the blubber. Your mouth almost aches at the thought.

The captain walks up to you and gently fingers the material of your black top before continuing. “I’m going to need you to take off these pesky clothes and get up on the bed there. You’ll be on your hands and knees, with that little behind of yours on display for Mojarieal here. Then you and him are going to have a grand old time.”

You swallow, audibly, processing her words in your mind. She wants you to what?

“W-what?” Your mouth takes the initiative while your brain is still frozen.

The captain looks pityingly at you, eyes twinkling with mirth at the expression on your face. “Do I have to spell it out? He’s going to fuck you from behind and you’re going to take it.”

He’s going to... what? The message sluggishly filters through.

“Oh.” Again, the word stems from your mouth, taking charge, but this time as interference, buying time for your mind to work its magic. Unfortunately, there are little tricks you know that can get you out of this. The captain idly steps back, toward the man and the window as if to watch. She flashes him an ‘I told you so’ look, for whatever reason, but otherwise says nothing as she settles in to watch.

The Stiletto remains where it was last, on the floor and discarded in a pile of used clothes. As does the captains finely worked sword, resting by the far wall closer to her than to you, yet still further from her than the stiletto. The door behind you is shut, and has two men between you and the door beyond, so that can be safely discounted. The door to the far left is now open, the dim shapes of a copper bath just visible: a dead end. That leaves the window, now blocked by the Captain and her grotesque guest. She’s got you; there’s no way out.

You could fight; grab the fallen stiletto and rush her, rush the mound of fat for a hostage, run for the window itself, swinging wild enough to get them out your way. The problem of course is the Captain, an expert swordswoman; if she gets that blade then it’s likely over. You’d be fighting to flee and there is no guarantee that she doesn’t have other weapons closer to hand, or even on her person, though a second look at her thin robe makes that unlikely. She looks relaxed, but she’s looking at you and standing where she is for a reason; it would be foolish to think otherwise. A fight would be the riskiest thing you could do, but not the worst. That would be...

The man looks at you, disinterested but still very much looking. The idea of him...and you... **** by fighting may be preferable, but even as you think that, the part of your being dedicated to survival screams the negative. ‘Think of what you’ve already done’ it seems to say. You stand in the presence of a woman whose lower lips you’ve cleaned with your mouth. Who watched as you went on to suck and lick and... and throat a man not moments after, swallowing his seed as it burned its way down. You are no pure maiden. The voice of your own cold instinct seems to growl at you. What’s another step down that dark road if it means survival? If it means living to fight another day?

The man’s appearance is counter augment enough. Then there’s the matter of you cycle and his seed mixing in disastrous ways. His sickness. His...awfulness. It all measures up against ****, which seems only slightly worse.

You swallow, still struggling with the last mans climax. There’s not... You’re not going to... You close your eyes for a moment, before doing the only thing you can bring yourself to do…