...beg the captain to stop this. You’ll do anything!

“Please! Not him!” You try and close your legs, rubbing your slick thighs against the man and crying out for the captain’s mercy. You catch her eyes instead and see within them no mercy to give, but something else; some hunger you can’t help but find some kinship with. “Let it be you! Please!” Her eyebrows rise, and your knees and legs follow in the silence, trying to bar the man entrance to your burning crotch. You only half know what you’re saying, what you’re asking for, but instinct tells you to push on. Evidently, it’s the same for the man.

“Shut up you stupid bitch!” His hands move from his member to your raised knees, drawing them wide and slamming them down, leaving your legs open like some obscene book. Your ankles are still bound by the dropped cloth of your black trousers, but they hang over the tables edge; too low to block him.

“Please!” To try for one last beg, looking to the captain and her wild fingers to finish what they started. It wouldn’t be **** if it was her, right!? “I want You! Please!”

The man’s hands grip you, aiming to claim his prize before it can be taken from him. You feel the head of his cock brush upon your lips, and wasting no time on ceremony, he thrusts forward-

“Stop!”

-and slides up your slick face to rest upon your outer hairs. You can’t breathe. Your hips meet, yet looking down your body you see his member resting upon you, looking up at you with a single eye, as though you its owner rather than its recipient. Its length -beyond the reach of your belly button- sends dizzying feeling throughout your body, twitching your loins with longing at the bounty they missed by a hair. What would it feel like to take such a man, now frozen at the captain’s word?

The captain herself lowers her outstretched hand, still looking upon you with a hungry expression.

“Why-“ She pauses to swallow and consider, darting the tip of her tongue out to wet her lips before continuing. “-no, I know why you want to, why you want me to... but why should I?” It’s a stupid question. You know it’s stupid, but you yourself feel rendered too stupid by her touch to know why. You look into her eyes, which look into your own and twitch as they’re drawn to the sight of your naked body, and to the man’s body, and to the hard cock that lies at rest, ready to ram you into senseless oblivion. Suddenly, the game makes sense now, in a way it never would have before today; the sight of you getting fucked -being bent over this table and having your needs thoroughly filled- seems exciting in a new way. You’ve heard men talk about being ‘horny’ or ‘up like an animal’ as they seek a woman and not a wife. You’ve heard men describe their lovers (temporary or otherwise) as ‘gagging for it’. Well right now, you’re horny; right now, you’re gagging for it; and above all else, you know that the captain feels the exact same way. This whole game was to see you fucked from the start; to drink in the sight of an Agent turned whore to satisfy her own cunts fire.

Her question is stupid. Why should she? Because a pudding is on her plate, and its just begged her to take a bite.

“I’ll...I’ll tell you whatever you want!” That’s not right. You quickly rephrase. “I’ll do whatever you want! Just let it be you. Please.”

Only the sound of panting follows; from you, from her, and from him. You feel the furred sack of his balls press against you, drinking the sopping wetness that mats them flat. You watch as she bites her bottom lip, considering as her ample chest rises and falls with a steady yet deep rhythm. No one’s breathing is as unsteady as yours.

The form of the captain towing over you, sighs several times before speaking.

“Sorry Symon.” She doesn’t look at him. “Maybe next time.”

She puts her hands under your arms and pulls you up the table towards her, a journey made all the more easy thanks to the river of sweat you ride on. The man’s cock falls away from your belly, and the last you see of him is a bitter frustrated smile cast at you and the captain. He disappears from sight when she pulls you until your head comes to pass the opposite edge of the table, dangling off it by your neck. Your feet and lower legs still jut into the air over the tables other side, but not enough to hang at the knees. With your head hanging over the table, stretching out your neck and baring your throat to the room, you have an ample (if upside-down) view of the captains body. The blue silk robe that had covered her previously now comes undone at a tug of one of its cords, and like the curtain of some wondrous show, they open to reveal the flesh beneath.

Her body is wide in the hips, thin in the waist, and thick in the thighs; a beautiful hourglass enough to entice all but the most pious of men. Looking up, her breasts are still covered as the material hangs from them, emphasising their standing points through the fabric, but following the exposed strip between them leads down to a gap that is completely hairless. How did such a thing come to pass? Should you be hairless as well? Perhaps it is something whores do. The idea of taking a razor to such a place almost makes you cringe, but it becomes a purr at the thought of her being the one to do it. Surely those fingers, that you so ache for, could make even the touch of steel seem blessed. The lack of hair makes it clear that, unlike your own, her flower is in a rich bloom, hanging red and open; a rose ready for the sun. Your memories of your last bath paint yours as smaller, tidier; no more than a slit in the skin until pulled apart. Perhaps yours is like hers now; waiting and wanton.

“You want me?” She smiles down at you, too lustful for further games. “Fine.” Her hips get closer, blocking her face from view and replacing it with the sight of her draping folds. You think you see the same spot on her that she rubbed a fire into for you; a small nub playing host to a dangling drop of white liquid. “Then show me what that tongue of yours can do.”

She places the proffered glistening point upon your lips, letting no misunderstandings pass as to what your tongue is expected to do. The drip breaks upon them, wetting them, coating them with a pungent smell that dares you to lick it away.

Hips planted, she leans in above, letting her hands slide across your soaked skin and glide to your flat breasts. She gathers them up in each hand, somehow making them feel more than they are, before squeezing so sweetly that you gasp into her crotch.

Her hands work wonders, as they did before, disguising debauched intent with playful movements. “Do well...” She purrs, perhaps spurred by your hot breaths upon her “-and I’ll even let you join my crew.”

Her words are muffled, more by the blood pooling in your head than by the blue robe that embraces you. They sound like they’re coming from underwater. The meaning is irrelevant and lost, but the words carry a tone of promise that’s enough to get through to you. You want only one thing from her. Your tongue slips its moorings and charts a heavy line down her strait that digs free a shuddering gasp from the woman above. The reaction is obvious as her body shivers and her fondling hands still in their pursuits. Her body folds at the hips as you rob them of strength, leaving her body propped up against yours, and struggling to recover her composure. It’s a move that almost sees her leave you, but you lift you head and let your tongue chase the purl it was promised.

“Ohhhh fffffff-“ She slaps the hips her roaming hands wander down to, making you jump with the impact. “You TwoOoa. Oh. You two wait outside.”

Her hands are caressing you, sliding up and down your body, and you’re earning every touch with the enthusiastic movement of your mouth.

One of the guards -the men watching you lick the slick snatch of another woman- responds with a feeble “But captain” before he’s shot down.

“Just, wait the fuck outside!” Her tone is far higher than before, pushed up her throat by the tongue between her legs.

Her hands trace the V of your inner hips and you open your legs wider, inviting her to partake even as the door closes with the men’s last glance. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before after all. Her hands slip between, grazing you with teasing movements even as you give it your all for her, sending jolts and shivers through you, each as bad as when her knuckles rapped against your moaning door.

This is not you. The woman you are now is not a woman you’ve ever been before. You’ve gone far beyond licking; lifting your head to tuck into every part of her you can reach. Burying yourself between her thick thighs and working her with lips with your tongue, sucking and tunnelling, twisting and driving. Every time you think of something you’d wish she’d do to you, you do it to her, willing her to return the favour with more than just heavy breathless moans.

“Ahhh. So much for not wanting to kiss me. Eh? Oooohfffff-” Yes, you’re kissing her, and with more passion than you’ve ever given before in your life. Her words are mocking, but how can you explain? How can you tell her that right now, the woman who was too uptight to talk has been replaced by someone you don’t even know? Replaced by a woman who’s hands would grab and squeeze the backside above if they were free; a woman who’s savouring the taste of hot hairless cunt in her mouth and twitches with each brush of her bared breasts and slick nethers.

As you work, your tongue slides on more than just her, tastes more than just her sweat and her sent. Something else, still foreign and unknown on even this new horizon of experience. Your lapping tongue dislodges it, and encourages it to ooze from her passage and coat your hungry muzzle. Her gown, once a tent to shelter you from the room and bind you intimately to her, now falls as she shakes it loose, freeing the sight of her nakedness and your encouragement to the empty room. Buttocks stained blue through the fabric and hidden in gloom now shine like beautiful rounded moons of tanned skin, begging to be gripped and used to press your meal to your lips. You pull back, letting your head fall for a second, to take in the sight of her, her crack, her thighs, and the lips once shaded to purple now returned to their rich ruby red. White cream adorns them, smeared in the centre where it emanates and hanging in messy ribbons to your mouth. You know what that is. Had you seen it before then perhaps you’d have been more careful. As it stands, it covers your mouth, your nose, and the rest of your face. Some of it even covers your throat and no doubt belly in the few mouthfuls you’ve swallowed. Too late to be squeamish now. You purposefully lick up a thick glob before returning to your task with gusto.

“That’s right...ooooohhh that’s right you dirty slut.” The captain sucks a breath between her teeth. “Lick it. Suck the seed out of me. Clean me right up with that dirty tongue.” You do so, sucking mouthfuls of a long absent mans leavings from her, ignoring the taste in favour of the feel of her nub upon the tip of your tongue. “Ahh! Ohh. That’s right.” Her hands stroke and probe you, before finally an errant finger slips up between your legs. “Looks like you get a man’s worth after all.” She laughs in a husky throatful purr as she strokes back and forth over you, sending shivers up your body. “You know...you know, Roland, he had two goes at it. Neither got me as close as- Oh fuck! Right there. Suck it.” She barks the last part through gritted teeth as you dig your tongue against the same wicked point she found on you. Your lips close and a ripping slurp sounds. “Fu- Fuckin suc it.”

She seems weak, and her thighs press against your head as though she can’t keep them apart. Tendrils of long blond hair begin to stroke your belly, piling in spilling clumps as she lowers herself toward you. Her waist bends, grinding her dripping snatch on you, taking its length away but pressing its nub down upon your lips. You accept it gladly, and your prize is a clear view of he raised backside, flattening her cheeks and revealing the puckered hole between them. Was she similarly bent when her last guest fucked your current meal into her? You find the thought exciting.

Soft breasts press into the bottom of your ribs, gently placed before being squeezing into pooling orbs at her press. Draping hair scrapes your thighs in tickling sweat sharpened points. Her breath feels like fire upon you, and, eventually, her tongue feels-

“AHHHHHH!” You yell your appreciation in-between her legs, letting it be smothered by her thighs and grinding hips. Is this what she’s been feeling!? How is she still sane!?

A hot snake of a tongue takes the place of fingers, writhing over and inside you, parting hairs and folds and the lips of your moaning mouth. She walks the roads your tongue travelled with casual ease, reflecting all you did back onto you and magnified with the grace of intimate familiarity. Her hands squeeze your thighs as she holds your legs open, tucking in and driving you mad. You can’t keep up. Your once vibrant mouth can manage only scant kisses and inelegant thrusts between its moans and cries and **** breaths of hot musky air. The feeling you felt before, that made you cry out before, returns with its driving buzz: the fuzz in your mind cartwheeling towards some unknown climax. She sucks on your pussy, licks it, delves it, teaches it the joys of a tongue that far overshadow the reach of any fingers. Your whole body tenses, braced for some calamitous impact, and with the sudden driving inclusion of two adventurous fingers, it arrives.

Your head explodes, or it feels like it does. Crackling, blinding feelings of raw pleasure shatter their way through your body, arching your back as your legs kick pathetically. Her mouth goes, but the fingers remain, and each frantic rubbing stroke of your bliss ascended passage send fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your usually soft muscles turn to iron, their control relinquished to the raging storm, and they lift your head, burying it into hips above enough to lift the captain to her toes. You scream into her folds, letting her body muffle you as you empty your lungs into her. You feel yourself shake with uncontrollable tremors, running through your body and rattling the table on its legs. Her fingers still, hilted, before freeing themselves with a feeling of zero resistance. It’s over, and you’ve never felt more spent in your life.

“Impressive squirt” You don’t know is she’s calling you short, or referring to something else.

Sensation returns. Your knees feel weak, and wet. Your head hangs limply off the table, dazed and confused by what happened. Was that what a woman’s kiss feels like? Those rare and deviant women, who prefer the touch of another woman, who were referred to as ‘lickers’ by some. Guess you know why now. Not that you...prefer such things...right?

“I think that’s enough for now.” The captain straightens above you, letting her hands slide over your form to linger over your breasts before falling free. She steps back, off the fallen saddle of your mouth, standing upside down in your vision. “For you at least.”

She turns around, presenting her rear to you before backing up, taking a step towards you to saddle up the other way. The back of her thighs hit the table edge, just above your shoulders, making thick columns either side of your head. You look up at her, both still panting, and see a giantess looking down between large, soft looking breasts. Between them hangs an amulet, glittering blue and laden with all the rewards her **** would bring, yet a jewel of worthy worth for a whore of her calibre. She smiles, rolling her eyes as your head lolls back down.

“There’s no way I’m going to be left wanting again.” She leans down and lifts your head, placing it firmly back upon her snatch, this time with your nose resting upon her hairless front mound. Her taste, and the taste of a man’s stale seed, no longer excite you the way they did; rendered sour after your...whatever that was.

In truth, you feel more clearheaded than you have since she first began touching you, as if excised of whatever magic she used.

Her soft cheeks rest against your neck and chest and the pulled up top that lines it as she leans more against the table, as if reminding you of the damage her careless weight could do to you with your neck in this position. With some resignation, you shift your head in her hands so your mouth is more upon her, and let your tongue travel down the ridges of her valley.

You’re not into women, right? It’s hard to argue that you’re not a licker while your tongue solicits moans via the crotch of another woman, but it’s not like... It’s not like...

What it’s not like takes its time coming to you, but it must be within reach. You’re normal; not some deviant or weirdo that likes women. Not inside. The captain moans, rolling your head and reminding you just how far ‘inside’ you are, but that doesn’t count. As you look up her perfect body, you feel only disgust. Maybe a little jealousy for her more attractive form. You can admit that she is attractive; you’d have to be blind not to. You recall the desire to grab her behind and squeeze it, letting her soft flesh spill between your fingers. That behind brushes your collarbones with her delicate movements. Grabbing it would make your current job easier... and maybe satisfy your curiosity for what real curves feel like, but that is. It’s not like you’d enjoy it or anything.

“Ooooh. That’s it. Keep it there.” She doesn’t ever try to keep her voice down as the student works her master.

You follow her instruction, stroking your tongue back and forth insider her, flat against her favoured spot. It aches, along with your jaw, both having never received such demanding exercise in the past. Little twitches run up her naked body, jiggling her breasts and swaying her sweat darkened hair. A playful smile is on her face as she looks down, framed by her heaving pointed chest and draping hair, biting her lip as she clearly enjoys herself.

Shit. You go red faced, if you weren’t already, feeling it heat up for reasons much different to the burning juices running down its sides. She’s attractive. More than that, you find her attractive. The idea of licking her body is not so revolting, while the image of you sucking on her womanly breasts is even intriguing. Kissing her soft red lips, still smeared and stained from their brief time upon you, is even a little exciting. You take a moment to draw a long, deep breath through a nose, still pressed against her crotches mound. She smells good; a dizzying mix of sweat and excitement; a pheromone enriching your senses. She doesn’t taste good though. Your tongue churns the remaining creamy residue that coats her, mostly gone, with your throat the prior means of its disposal. You turn the seed -a man’s seed- over in your mouth: how is this worse? Why is it that her womanhood can be so enticing yet a man’s seed revolts you? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

The grip on your head tightens, her hands shaking as she begins to hunch over you on unsteady legs. It must be her fault. Did she...turn you, in some way? Her gasps had grown into moans, which had themselves grown to loud exclamations; sometime words, or swears, but mostly just wall piercing sounds of animal pleasure. She looks down at you again, eyes half lidded, watching you work, drunk on her power over you. She knows. Damn her but she knows, and better than you do, you’d wager, what spirit she has awoken or planted inside you. When all this is over, you may need to self-reflect; see what the future could look like in the arms of a woman. Better yet, you may need to find a husband quickly, to undo the damage she’s caused.

Either way, you decide, she has no place in your future, save in the cold ground of the grave you’ll put her in. Her body, that stands above your lips so enticingly, is a work of art, but the soul within is rank with evil. No matter what your body may think, this has been your **** from start to finish. You try to keep that in mind, even as your efforts work to bring her the same climactic bliss she gave you.

“AHHH! OH! Oh my- Oh my- Don’t stop. Don’t you dare fuggin stooahp. F-fuck! Ahhh. Ahhhh! AHHHHHHHEEEEHHH!!!” Her thick thighs clamp down on your head, along with her fingertips digging into your scalp, as though to keep your bound and pinned form from escaping. You don’t even try. From either your own desire to see it through or knowing that to mess it up in the last moment would have dire consequence, you keep your mouth to task, diving and caressing and kissing and sucking. Fresh fluid floods your mouth, spilling over your lips and chin and even getting up your nose. You make it last. The sight of her twitching in time to your movements isn’t even a bonus.

She lingers, after, and you continue. Sensing the mood, you slow your movements until they consist of simple, broad lethargic licks of her of her spent pussy. Eventually, she steps away, letting your head fall as she staggers toward the bed in silence. For a moment, you watch her, stripped of her clothes and her control; no longer a cat toying with a mouse, but woman fatigued by the joys of her own game. You hate her. You make yourself hate her. Your **** lover. The lesser of two evils. She slumps to one of the beds four posts, turning to look at you, still lying naked on the table. A lazy smile plays across her face. The worst part is that you know the feeling; fatigue in the bones, yet still humming with pleasure, like the embers of some fire still sapping you of strength. You say nothing, of course; what is there to say? The seconds march on, as if the world is oblivious to the madness it just witnessed.

Eventually, having regained enough of her strength and composure, Captain Washkin stands and walks around the bed, to a nightstand and the beading pitcher upon it. She pours some of its contents, silvery pure water, into a pewter mug more used to ale or cheap wine, before steadily downing the lot. Gods you’re thirsty. Your throat feels dry and caked with things you’d rather be rid of, and you can’t help but look wistfully at the pitcher, an action the captain notices all too easily.

She walks the distance to you, beyond shame in her nakedness. You feel none either, as though your shared experience has pushed you beyond some point of no return. The pitcher clatters to a stop on the table, well within arm’s reach, yet far beyond your bound confines, acting as **** for your well wrung body.

“It’s more Roland’s style; that kind of...initiation.” She waves her free hand airily, the other still holding her mug, gesturing to the situation at large.

Perhaps your head hanging low, your face upside-down, makes your expression difficult to read, but you doubt it; she picks up on your confusion as soon as you display it.

“I meant what I said; even if I was horny as fuck at the time. Welcome to my crew.” Her mug lifts. Her head nods. ‘Cheers’ it all seems to say, congratulating you on your initiation into her ranks. You don’t remember this, though...as you think, she did mention something about her crew. Perhaps it was as her well stocked thigh clamped against your ears, or when the myriad of other distracting...things, took your attention away.

She squats down, bringing her head to your own level. Her eyes run black in slight rivulets, with sweat or tears streaking through her makup, and her lips seem thinner and more listless now that the paint upon them has been thinned with use. She looks almost a decade older for the loss, yet no less in her prime. Youth is a thing of eyes, and hers still sparkle with passionate intent. The fine spider thread lines beside them only add to her mystique, emphasising her years of experience and the authority they bring. Right now, those eyes look confused, mockingly so. She tilts her head as she looks at you.

“Unless...you don’t want to be a part of my crew?” The corners of her mouth twitch, and she tilts her head further, letting her hair fall upwards as she looks as you as upside down as you are. “Fair warning, if you’re not on my crew, you’re just a mostly naked tied up woman, who smells of sex, which on this island...may not go so well for you.” She says it like it’s some insider secret shared between friends instead of a threat of no doubt copious ****. “So, do you want to join?”

There are some offers you can turn down and some you cannot. This is clearly meant to be one of the latter. Why would she want you to be a part of her crew anyway? Perhaps your...performance, convinced her? If so then she may still be ruled by her desires, letting the promise of future fun place an assassin in her bed. She doesn’t seem that imprudent though. Playful, yes -psychotically so- but not stupid. You’re guessing you won’t be treated like a raw recruit brought aboard on good faith, but being a member of her crew sounds better than a prisoner in irons. Just like the game, you can’t get a good read on her intentions.

Realising you’ve been thinking about something with only one answer, you quickly respond in a hoarse voice.

“Yes” She raises a brow. “...Please.” It stays raised. “Captain.” Correct answer. Her face relaxes into another smile and she returns to squatting upside down in your vision.

“Wonderful.” Her hand touches your face, letting her thumb stroke your cheek possessively. “May you clean decks as well as you do cunts.”

She downs the rest of her drink as though in toast before slamming the mug on the table like a veteran drinker. “TONY!” Her sudden bark makes you jump, and the unseen door opening makes you snap your legs back together.

“Ay Captain?” The voice is trim and professional, as though to banish memory of said captain moaning and screaming in bliss however many minutes before. Or the other scream of bliss before that. Your face reddens as you choose not to think about it. He’s not one of the two who were present at the start of the Captains ‘game’, so the sight of your bared breasts and legs and all the space between them are no doubt of fresh interest to him, yet that is not the impression you get from him. You try and make yourself smaller and less naked, without moving. Naturally, you fail miserably.

“Tony, say hello to our newest crew member, and free her hands so she can get a drink.” The door closes and footsteps come to you, briskly stopping at your table before a pair of hands roughly grab you by the shoulders and turn you over like a sack of flour.

Your wet behind feels very cold all of a sudden.

His steady hands pull on the rope at your back, loosening the knots in a quick and experience manner before the whole lot comes away. You try to stop your stiff arms from springing free, sticking to slow and deliberate movements: easy to read and less likely to end with a swords point. You clamber off the table and waste no time pulling down your top, and pulling up your trousers. Your legs feel unsteady, but it’s good to be halfway decent again. The Captain picks up a towel from one of the piles on the floor and begins dabbing down her naked form, wiping her breasts and between her legs. The man doesn’t notice. He stands ready for orders, but you can tell his attention is on you: watching you for any sudden moves.

The dagger is on the floor behind you, the captain is by the bed, and the man stand between you and the room’s far window. Now that you look at her, the captain, who’s still wiping as though completely unconcerned with the world, still has you in the corner of her eye. The door behind no doubt leads to a dead end from the way it’s unguarded, while the door to the right -the door you came in by- still has the two previous men ready to enter by **** at the sound of trouble. Now is not the time to act rashly. You feel like you’d be cut down before even reaching the dagger, or soon after at least. Instead, you walk to what you need most right now, picking up the captains disposed mug and filling it with water before downing it in one. Never has something so simple tasted so satisfying. You pour another, drinking it more slowly. You consider spilling it on your face, washing free the mess that still coats your lips and nose and chin in copious amounts, but the idea of making a mess, especially while no one is talking and eyes are on you, doesn’t sit right at all. Your sleeve will have to suffice. Before you can clean yourself with it though, the captain hands you her used towel like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You accept, and try to use a part that she didn’t use between her legs to wipe clean your face. It smells of her all over.

“We’re going to have lots of fun, you and I.”

She sits on the end of her bed, as if to emphasise the implications of her words, leaning back with her hands and crossing her legs. Being a member of her crew, you hope, will simply be a means of escaping later on. You could even find yourself in a position when you might finish the job before you leave. Still, you don’t like her tone, or the idea of being in her grasp any longer than you need to be. The rules of her original game left the care of a crew as a final and terrible fate. You can only hope that same fate is no longer in her mind.

“You’re going to love it aboard my ship. I have some plans in mind for you...”

You can’t help but wince, and draw your shoulders up. Despite her earlier words, those plans don’t sound like swabbing the deck.

You hesitate for a moment before moving the towel briskly under your top and over your breasts, and hesitate again before pushing the towel under the hem of your trousers and down your inner thighs. Somehow it seems too inelegant to do in front of others -too unladylike- but you’ll be damned if your lowering your trousers first when you don’t have to.

“In fact, there’s something you can help me out with this evening... if you’re still feeling up to it.”

The towel comes to a sudden stop at her words: stilled about your knees.

She throws her legs apart as she stands, and your eyes can’t help but flick down to the still red petals of her flower. Only when she picks up her gown and clothes herself in it again, do you relax a little. You manage to keep your voice as neutral as you can, forcing yourself to resume your cleaning with as much nonchalance as she used previously, keeping your head down as you work.

“Oh?” Neutral is relative. To your ears, it sounds a little higher and more nervous than you would like, and you need to swallow again, your throat dry once more. ‘Oh’ is as far as it gets.

The Captain -your captain, if you’re playing along- doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s nothing much. Just be on hand and help out when I need you.”

The game goes on, and still you have no clue what she’s doing. First, she plays some terrible game to satisfy her lusts. Perhaps you got the better deal from that, considering what her man was going to do to you. With her lusts satisfied, you hope, she now forces you to be a part of her crew? It’s likely to serve as some future entertainment, though why on her crew you don’t know. Why not as a **** or prisoner? The image of meat hanging in a pantry also seems appropriate. Now this? The way she said it made it sound like a choice, as though you can stay or you can go. Stay and help out with some unspecified tasks, or be taken elsewhere. You know that elsewhere should be easier to escape from, especially if she’s true to her word and gives you some freedom as a member of her crew, and after time to think in the cell and on your back, escape seems a wonderfully tantalising prospect. On the other hand, here is where she is: your target and the source of your shame. Staying keeps her where you can see her. The tasks she likely has planned for you can’t be good, but they may be the best lead you have to seeing her dead. From the moment you were caught, your future has been one big risk. Now it’s simple: leave or remain? Give up and take the best chance going to get home, or stay the course and risk **** or worse to return home victorious, if you can.

The captain leans in slightly to give her unsolicited advice. “You’re a good and loyal member of my crew, right? This is a good chance to earn some goodwill with your captain; though I understand if you’re...tired.” She smiles at that last part, making you aware of the fatigue in your jaw and between your legs.