…and look down again at his creeping hand. You’ll…do it.

His hand comes to your face, stroking your cheek in a way you think is meant to be kind. It just comes off as possessive.

“Good girl.”

He walks behind you, tipping the chair you’re on and dragging it out, pulling your across the floor with a scrape of wood on wood. Predictably, he stops near his narrow bed.

You can’t believe this is happening, after everything. You shouldn’t have gone after him. You should have stayed, hidden, or better yet run. Instead you watch as he unbuckles his belt, the sinking pit in your stomach growing at what’s to come. Hopefully it will be quick, and while it will never be dignified, perhaps it won’t be humiliating. The belt and the sheathed knives still within it fly and clatter upon the surface of the table. A lone map falls of its end.

His wide scarred hands rest heavily upon your shoulders, shaping their weak curve down to your arms. He feels horribly strong, his palms soon returning up in their stroke and falling down your more privet side, across your chest, gripping and feeling at what they find there.

“You’ve got some growing to do girl, before you’re a real woman.” You wince under his uncaring attentions, and again with heaping disgust as he takes a breath, smelling deeply the bunned hair of your head. “Still, I’ll make you as much of a woman as you can be.”

He pulls back, resting his hands upon your shoulders again and pushing you forwards, bending you down enough to expose your tied arms. He tugs in several places, slowly undoing the tight knots until the whole length of rope comes away. It’s long, having been wrapped several times about your wrists. You bring your feed arms forward and roll your shoulders, opening and closing your palms to get feeling back into them.

Arms freed, Roland’s first order of business comes clear. Reaching down and grabbing the hem of your top, he rolls it up and over your head.

Bared now to the room, he neither looks nor feels your bosom, rising and falling quickly with your shaking breath. There isn’t much to their contours that he had not already discovered anyway. You feel the rope come about your neck, and panic sets in, raising your hand to stop the strangulation.

“Easy.”

No strangulation comes.

“Just a little lead to keep you in check.”

The rope is tied like a noose, or a collar, wrapping your slender neck loosely. While it may not grip hard, it’s close enough to your skin that you can’t get your head through it, or at least it feels such, and you doubt the knot is a weak one. Now is not the time to experiment with such things.

You watch as Roland lifts a pair of boots, knotted by the laces and slung from a thick hook nailed to the wall above his bed. They are tossed away, not important, and the rope in his hand is wrapped several times about the previously full metal. It looks like a coat hook, or a dock mooring, protruding up and down, and the rope wraps it like a ships mainline, holding you to the wall. There is slack in the length, even sitting beside the bed; the rope is long, the cabin is not.

He steps about you, facing you, his arms out with palms up. He could be asking you to dance, were his eyes not so firmly on the pink nipples of your exposure. In the first act in what you hope is not many, you obey the unsaid instruction, grabbing his hands so he can pull you to your feet.

Standing, he begins to kneel before you, tugging at the rope about your ankles in a similar fashion to what he did with your hands, pulling it and loosening it until it’s tossed away, landing near the discarded boots. You shift your feet, now fully free save for the rope at your neck. Thoughts of attacking him come to mind. You could knee him in the face, for instance, perhaps breaking his nose if you caught him off guard, but it’s not like you could run anywhere after with the rope about your neck. All you would be doing is throwing away your hope.

He tugs, dropping your trousers, and suddenly hope does not seem so worth it.

His hands slide up your thighs, their every callous feeling clear and defined on your pale skin. You’re naked before him now, save for the crumple of fallen cloth about your ankles and a strap of leather at your thighs. Two tugs, and that comes away as well. His hands slide up to your buttocks, squeezing them and kneading them like small balls of dough.

‘This cannot be happening. It can’t.’ All you can think of is to deny it, to deny reality. I doesn’t work. A man, who could be well more than twice your age - even older than your father - kneels before you and looks into the space between your legs; a tunnel made above your thin thighs that is roofed with your furred womanly lips, ending in a firm rolling grasp that leaves you alternately pushed together and pulled into further exposure. He leans forward, kissing tenderly at you belly, below the button, where your short hairs begin to thicken. You feel the rasp of his unshaven lip, his chin like stand paper where it touches you further down. You want to brush him off, or cut him away, like an unwanted growth. He looks up, his dull brown eyes searching for something in your expression. Whatever it is he doesn’t find it. He shrugs and stands, taking off his clothes without ceremony, and to the discarded rope goes his coat, his shirt, his boots, and finally, his trousers, forming a pile that is beyond your notice.

Several things stand out, one most readily and most prominently. The first thing to see is his chest, walled with hair and lined with many silvery scars. Not a single hair is grey, unlike his head and stubble, and it’s broad, with a workman’s definition. Clearly his time as a captain had not been spent shirking, labour or fighting. His arms are thick knotted and dangerous, and his posture is not crooked, but his skin had begun to sag in places with age, looking loose at the chest and stomach. Below that was the more obvious.

You watch it swing, like a metronome, shaken from side to side with each step. It’s…big. Your reference for such things is naturally limited; perhaps it is only average and the others you had glimpsed or…felt, were below such norms. Judging from where it was likely to go though, there is no question that it far exceeds requirement. Gods, if you did not want it before, you certainly don’t now.

He ducks the rope and lies on the bed, head towards the window and manhood lying up at his hips.

“Climb aboard Miss Agent.”

The rope strains, pulled taught for the short space you can back away. He lifts himself, pointing its terrible length towards the wooden celling.

Fuck him, or get fucked by him. It makes sense now. Before today, you had only ever been with one man, and that had also…not been your choice. It had also been up against a wall, and while you knew with grimaced memory where things went, you had never taken the lead in such things before.

‘How much of a whore you are depends on if I open that belly of yours before I toss you out.’

Roland’s words echo clearly. ‘Play the whore’ you think, ‘Play the whore’.

You step towards him, out of trousers and pumps, reaching down with your hands to either side of his body, and lifting up a leg. It sinks into the hard mattress, your knee pressing down as your shin comes to rest across the far side of his thigh, squeezing between it and the wall. A short hop and your other leg leaves the floor, knee similarly positioned at his side. You shuffle forward, until it’s aimed right.

His free hand strokes up your thigh, to your raised hips and up your form, reaching just shy of your breast and then back to your hip, its weight adding to the pressure to drop.

Play the whore.

You reach down and grab him, feeling him hot and hard in your hand, and you guide the tip to your entrance as you lower yourself.

Down. Down.

In. In.

You take it slow and steady, feeling his girth push you wide, until you no longer need to hold him up by the hand.

Down. Down.

In. In.

You wince, your expression screwed by the unpleasantness of it all, and then for the stretched pain as more of him enters, pushing your unpractised puss to its limits. His chest is like a carpet and you place your hands upon it, tangling your fingers in his fur as you sit up straighter, **** so for the ridged rod in your hips and your need to push away from him. He sighs, both hands on your hips, quickening your fall.

Down. Down.

In. In.

Stop.

There is none more of him to take, finally, his short hairs pressing hotly against your own. It’s almost an achievement, for no woman can be designed for such impalement. The rope about your neck is a reminder; him inside you is the only way for you to get out.

Hope. As narrow on the horizon as your slit feels upon him.

You know what he wants, but you take a moment to adjust first. It…twitches, inside you, sometimes beating with the heartbeat you feel through his chest, and other times twitching hard, as though begging you to begin. His whole body radiates heat, the slight rasp of his breath breaking over you like a warm breeze. His rough hands feel at your behind, pushing and pulling to get you started, and feeling that there are no more seconds to delay with, you push yourself up and fall.

It’s not much; merely the barest bounce of your behind, but it doesn’t feel so. In the moment, his whole length slides upon some part of you, inside and out, pulling then turning the tight inner passage in both directions, and re-hilted, you feel a slight punch inside at his furthest reach.

He sighs, closing his eyes.

“There you go.” You do it again, rising and falling at his command, his hands stroking all he can reach. “Knew you could do it.”

You fuck him, your hands on his chest, your hips bouncing listlessly against his; there is no other word for it. You bounce, his cock inside your flower, rubbing every part of it back and forth with your motions, and he starts to breathe heavily, making satisfied noises. You begin to breathe hard as well, the awkward motions of it taking an unexpected toll.

You watch the burning island through the windows, fading and continuing to slowly slide across the windows sight as the ship makes a very lazy turn. The orange glow is caught in the billowing grey clouds of smoke and ash, rising up in a column and no doubt showering the ashes of your visit down on all who would try and flee. Somewhere behind that island is another, where your guide sits quietly in a little boat, waiting for you to swim up with the necklace in your hand and a smile on your face.

Roland’s hands grab painfully at your breasts, shaking you from your distant contemplations. His hands swallow them, pulling and squeezing all you have as he reaches under your arms and stops their limited sway. You let him, or ignore him. Had you any say over any of this, you would slap him into next week, but in that case his dick would not be so obviously enjoying the strain of your sex. He pinches you, the hard points of your nipples crushed between thumb and forefinger, making you grimace and stop, sitting on him as you try not to cry out in pain. Your eyes scrunch tight, your mouth open, and finally he relents.

Looking down at him, sweating in his bed, your haired crotches melded together and the red points of your nipples in his hands, he contemplates you back in a way you thought him incapable in the throes of his lust.

“Undo your hair.” His voice is strained, raw with his panting and kept so by your bodies’ embrace. You silently raise your hands to your neck and find yourself tempted by the ropes noose collar, but his hands are still on you like a milkmaid to a cow and so you pull the cord out of your tight bun and let your dark brown hair spill down as he pleases. It had gotten long in the last month, falling far past the gripped points of your bosom.

“Kiss me.” He says it flatly; an instruction to be followed. You lean forward, letting your hair fall before you like a curtain, keeping the room from seeing. It seems an odd thing, considering his manhood is still lodged deep inside you, but of kissing you know even less than of sex. It seems too…intimate, for what this is. You think of the last boy you pecked shyly, back when you were still a girl with a future full of husbands and love and dresses and children. Your lips brush his, stabbed by the hundreds unshaven hairs covering his upper lip, and when suitably brushed, you move to back away. Your head is stopped, the grip of his hand in your hair, partially remaking your bun in his closed first. He drags you back, forcing your lips against his, and with a licking tongue, he pushes his way inside to you inner mouth. You let you jaw go slack, your tongue protrude and hang for him to bat like a cat with a toy. Whatever this is, it is not kissing, any more than his penetration is love making. It’s fucking, as before; he’s fucking your mouth, as carelessly as he fucks the rest of you.

His free hand slaps hard upon your rump, cracking the raw sound into the room and giving you a clear message, to buck like a trained horse. You move your hips again at his signal. His hairy chest is like a carpet, rubbing coarsely against your own leaned and pressed front as you once more have to work out the foreign rhythm of such things. His equally scratchy arms, thick with muscle, begin to rove up and down your back, stroking and holding your slender body to its task while abandoning the grip of your hair. You slack jaw gives way to his probing and pecking, hanging above him like a stem of gasping dandling grapes from him to gorge at his pleasure. Your mind is at your hips, the saw of your knees, the aching rhythm and grinding penetration. You don’t want to get pregnant, but don’t have a choice. Both he and the timing of things -of the moons grip on your womb- work against you with ill intent. Perhaps if you can step aside before he finishes? Disembark, as he would put it? You don’t think he’d like that, and a violent **** is not the birth control you need.

His stroking hands, which more and more stir the beading sweat about your back, hold you in an embrace, pressing you to him and slipping your mouth down to pant into his ear. You wipe your forehead on the bedsheets beside his head, listening to his own breath as his hands stroke between your bony shoulder blades and the thin length of neck below your spilling hair. No more can you move up and down him, but he doesn’t seem to care. His hand slips from your neck to your rump, gripping it, pulling and pushing until you get the point again. You…hump him, grinding him with your hips as you roll you’re your lower back, feeling his cock move again in your tight valley.

When he moans, it’s right into your ear. When he kisses you, it’s a wet sucking of your neck. You lay your arms about his shoulders, once more learning a carnal rhythm, and with it, straining carnal muscles. His friction builds, radiating a raw heat inside you that is most unwelcome on the summer night, and you feel the wetness of the bedsheets, already drenched in sweat, your dangling hairs becoming tangled worms as they soak in the stifling cabin. His chests fuzz flattens under your press, and where your hips meet, a slick sound can be heard, as burning and wet as the breath upon your neck. His grip tightens on you, letting no air into your press, making it all worse. It won’t be long now, surely. His grunting and his passion can rise no higher.

As you think it, it happens. With a moan, the rod inside you begins to twitch and a thick blossom of damp heat can be felt at its buried reaching point. It happens again; moan and twitch, his insistent manhood feeling to pulse with a travelling thickness, from its base to the flood, his seed flowing from him to you. It isn’t just his cock, but his whole body, wound tight and jumping like a renegade spring, bending and twisting you as he holds you pressed, and each time the wetness grows, his moans and breathing more lurid, lifting you and milking himself with the speared tight folds of your gripping flower.

You ride it out, trying to ignore it.

He finishes, eventually, leaving you feeling soiled and sweaty. You lay atop him as you both catch your respective breaths, yours returning with a little more speed than his. He slides you to the side with a pull, pinning you between him and the wall, and keeps an arm about you so you remain half draped nakedly cross him. Your head rests on his shoulder and chest, your arm and leg still across his belly and thigh respectively. The pinning doesn’t seem intentional, just a thing of limited space, and the cool wall of the ships interior presses your buttocks with welcome relief. Had he pushed you to the other side, you would have fallen to the floor and been stopped only the rope about your neck, and so you try to be thankful for what you get. Thinking of it, and seeing it still tied to the wall in the corner of your vision, you feel it now more than during, tight on you, damp and slick and warm. Some of its length coils slightly on your back like a waiting snake, reminding you that you are held until he says otherwise.

Of all the things you feel, that seems most tame.

His hot hard body lies beneath you in places, and where it does not, it presses your own as it holds you pinned. It disgusts you. Even as you think the thought, you don’t know to which body you refer. Looking past the arm resting below his beating chest and the swampy fallen hair that sticks to your face, past his abs and carpeted hairs, you see it, looking up at you with one slitted eye. Before, you would have looked away out of embarrassment and shame, but there is nothing more intimate than where it has already been and already strained. It looks smaller than before; longer perhaps for its matted shorthairs, but diminishing before your eyes. It leaves a slugs trail as it shrinks, glistening with the mess it made.

You, meanwhile, excluding your naked sweat and the body your slim form is draped upon, look mostly the same as before. Your breasts are the same as when you dried them after swimming to shore so long ago, but now they are pressed hard against his side, reddened slightly and twisting as you breathe. Your hips are still the same bony protrusions as before, but now they shelter a man’s rising seed; your lower lips a broken gate to the fortress of your womb. You’re still the same, aren’t you? Do you want to be? Was the brave girl from before -the one that became an Agent and succeeded in her mission, killing Wendigo herself- the same girl that would ride a man like a whore for the chance to save her own skin? If you weren’t, if you were different before -and better- then perhaps you could be that way again. But if you were always like this…

A surprisingly tender kiss lands on top of your head, on the centre spiral of your hair.

“Did you enjoy that?” You know he’s not talking about the kiss.

How should you respond? Honestly? Your expression throughout must have left him with no illusions as to how you felt. The arm you rest on shifts, his hand sliding up your back and under your hair. You only respond when his hand pinches hard at your neck.

“Yes.”

It’s a lie. It’s what he wants to hear. You know it and he knows it.

“Say… ‘Yes, My Lord.’”

Still staring away from his face, you afford yourself a roll of the eyes before you close them and acquiesce.

“Yes my Lord.”

They’re just words. A husky smokers laugh comes from him, loud and wheezing through the chest you lie against. It takes a moment for it to calm, diminishing slowly into dregs.

“Ahhhh. I could get used to that.” His free hand moves to your thigh, and you watch him pull it up, stroking it possessively. “Was it an honour, to fuck me?”

It’s just by a hair -more a twitch than a conscious thought- but the fingers still on your neck tighten for your response.

“Yes my Lord.”

Again, he laughs.

“Say it.”

It’s easier when looking away from him, even with your eyes closed. It’s as though reading lines for a play.

“It was an honour, to fuck you, my lord.”

He gives a chuckle, but lets it die, content to lie with his conquest in silence as you both fully regain your breaths.

You lie at his side like that for some time, him in bliss and you in sour boredom. Would that you could be anywhere else, save trapped by this sweaty log of a man, between him, the wall, and your own sickened thoughts. He even pins you inside, with what he left, arresting your future with the sound little footsteps; the sound of an unwanted child and the burden of raising it alone.

Thoughts like that roll through your head, back and forth and rarely good. Briefly, like a moth, the idea of him falling asleep flutters into your mind, resting and roving each time his fingers stop stroking you. Should he fall asleep… but no, now is not a night for such good luck, so you stay, molested and unmoving, the hope lingering over uncounted minutes.

What time would be appropriate to remind him of what’s owed? Should you? You don’t want to stay here, but nor do you want to rush to that slim hope he’ll keep his word. The grim idea of him gaining a second wind also comes into your thoughts. How long does it take until a man wishes to do it again? Clearly it is not instant, but nor is it eternal. The idea of another ‘dose’ of his (hopefully) lifesaving and (hopefully not) life making medicine is a nauseating prospect. You’d do it, you know. ‘Give a man copper and you’ll soon be giving silver’ after all, though you feel you’ve already skipped to gold.

A heavy sigh comes from him, blowing into your hair and wafting a cool breeze along your naked body. It has a resigned air to it, his thigh stroking hand stilling on your skin and the claw at your neck hanging loosely without provocation.

“Tell me that you love me.”

He mumbles the question, unseen and unmistakable. For a moment, after your confusion wains, you feel sad for him, and even pity him a little for the tone of his request. That soon gives way to disgust and apathy though, and then anger. You don’t love him, and likely no one does, and why should they? He’s a **** and a murderer.

Still looking down at his flaccid manhood, you mumble the words.

“I love you.”

They’re as hollow as before, without meaning or purpose beyond his gratification. You even consider if he’d like ‘my lord’ adding to the end, but reason, from his quiet voice, that doing so would be an insult of some kind; a sarcasm. Do whores do this for their clients? Whatever his reaction, you don’t see it, or feel it in the movement of his body. Once more, the minutes tick on in quiet contemplation.

Another sigh comes out of his deflating chest, and this time, finally, he moves, standing unhurriedly and brushing you off like a bed cloth. You slip into the empty space left by his absence, wanting to stand and run for your clothes, but left waiting to be un-noosed. Watching him shows only his taught manly cheeks, surprisingly pale and lined red where they were pressed into the creases of the bed sheet. Where you pressed them. What you rode can be glimpsed between his legs, but you make no effort to see it. You’ve had your fill of it for several lifetimes.

After a stretch, he walks to the windows and opens the centre pane, lifting the lower latch with his bare toes and dropping the upper with his hand. A cool breeze blows in, banishing the stale air of sweat and **** copulation, and replacing it with the scents of salt and night. He stands, framed totally by the large open space, the remnants of the island just an orange spec nearly lost to the far side. The sea has no eyes, and so his naked shame goes unseen by any but you, and he lets the freedom linger on him, blowing its cooling breeze upon his skin. The moment is his, the notion of slipping rope and running quelled by his daggers, still on the table at his back. He’d get them before you, even leaning against the windows middle frame. As though sensing your thoughts, he turns, looking at you with a face shadowed by the fading lights, and after a moments contemplation, he approaches.

This time, you look away. It’s not his rear that stands before your face.

The turned sight does mean you see what he does, reaching over you and untying the rope from its wall side hook. It comes away and into his hand, but he does not reach for its other end at your neck. Instead, he holds the rope with an arm’s length of slack, pulling you up by it with what you assume is supposed to be gentle insistence. It feels more like a mules pull, all stick and no carrot, and you stagger up and trot behind him as he walks you to the window.

You can see why he stood here as he did; the night feels wonderful, the breeze cleansing, and the starry darkness holds a peaceful privacy, not even the churned waves reflecting what they see. You ready to jump, bracing for the cold waters.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

The rope pulls back, again with ungentle care. You stagger from the window into him, standing not far behind you, his hard naked body like a wall knocking free a breathless gasp. The rope is dropped, then tugged free from your neck as thick arms make their way about your torso, hugging and holding your body to him. Your wet hair is tugged as the leash falls to a coil on the floor, and he talks in a husky whisper, perhaps trying to be romantic after the words he **** you to say.

“I love to stand here, especially when I got pussy on me.”

Like before, he holds you there in his silent contemplation, this time stroking just shy of your navel with his thumb.

“You know, I have a rule: no woman boards my ship unless I’ve fucked them.” He reaches over with his free hand, brushing the loose hair from one side of your face and dragging it until it falls down your back. “It’s my favourite rule. A boarding for a boarding.” He rests his head over your cleared shoulder, looking out into the night with you, whispering. “So welcome aboard.”

The words spill out, warm and wet, reminding you of the price of admission, and more than ever the cleansing saltwater below calls out to you, begging you to wash away the grime of the night. Both his hands bar your exit, stroking ever so slightly, yet ever so possessively, upon your hips and stomach.

“I’ve lost count of the number of women. Don’t even remember half of them.”

You don’t respond, for all he pauses, feeling like before that he is simply using you to satisfy his own base desires. From his lusts to his bragging pride; what imaginative things he uses you for.

“You know, one of them even pushed _me _out this window?

Again, you respond with silence. What are you supposed to say? Good? Wish it was me? After a moment, his thoughts drift elsewhere.

“To think, I’m going to be one of the richest men in Coronac soon.” He plants a wet kiss on your neck, sniffing deeply of the sweat stained hair pulled across you shoulder. “And it’s all thanks to you.” He kisses you again, feeling wetter for it being the same place, and the new sucking barnacle quality of it. “My little dick riding assassin.” He kisses again, seeming to rock and dance with you. “My little murderous whore.”

A cool breeze takes the moment to blow a swirl of air about you both, like a bucket of cold water. It couldn’t be more welcome. His hold had grown a pressing heat up your back, pressed on the winter coat of his chest, and sweat was doing little to cool such a conglomeration of bodies. You and he breathe deep, sucking up the fresh air with greedy haste before the breeze ends. The hooked lantern swirls under its attentions, setting the room to a rocking mess of chequered lights, and as the ship tilts slightly as well, the stars and the moon and the table set lantern provide the only stability you can see.

“Doesn’t the breeze feel nice?”

His hands move, stroking more and more upwards, under your own limp arms, and you doubt the question is for the breeze alone. You answer with the same response as before; what he wants to hear.

“Yes.”

The window and your freedom are too close to consider anything else.

His hands reach your breasts, cupping and squeezing at the small mounds and finding little traction on their slick surface.

“Pfff.” He blows out his doubt between his teeth. “I bet all you can think about is jumping through right?” A hand falls, gliding down and down. “Right?”

You feel his finger push along your skin, leaping your bellybutton and parting your short hairs. With your buttocks pressed against his hips, you feel him rise again; a far less pleasant wind -a second wind- blowing in your direction.

“Go ahead.”

His finger slips its mark, drilling its crude digit into you.

“If you can.”

It moves as you moved upon him, plundering you back and forth as he pleases. You wince for it.

“If you want to.”

Your heart sinks with resignation. As close as you are, you know there is no escape while his firmness presses your back so resolutely. It rests above and between your pert cheeks as though eager to return between your legs, jealous of the finger that currently usurps them. You don’t know if he genuinely thinks that you enjoy this; perhaps he is capable of such self-deception, but you are not. Either way, a second dose is on the horizon, and you don’t look forward to it at all.

“Can I get dressed first, before I go?”

Perhaps it’s a risk, but being used again without any gain doesn’t sit well with you, and all things considered, it would just be practical to escape with your clothes. You don’t like the idea of being rescued naked, any more than remaining in his company, and for the same reason. At least bringing them into the conversation, and reminding him that you would like to leave, feels like a step in the right direction. You brace, wondering if his mood has soured with the question.

“Heh heh, yeah, sure.” Evidently not. His chuckle sounds mischievous, distracted by the naïve work of his finger. He presses you close, near humping between your cheeks and lower back as he drips his words into your ear. “If you suck my dick first.”

You look out the window for a moment, staring into the empty night, its waves glittering with shattered moonlight and its distant isles moving like great shadowed leviathans. You consider just jumping for it, pushing off him and trying to break his grip to slip free, but his strength dwarfs you own and you doubt his need would diminish for the attempt. Life or ****, and you knew before, lying on the bed, what you would choose. You knew before, when you looked down and were led away, what your pride was worth.

Play the whore.

You turn, choosing the angle that would pull his finger free of your hips and leave his others at your chest, and you look at him, sparing a glance as well for your fallen clothes beyond the table. He smiles, not gently but with crude and selfish vulgarity, as though finding a gold penny on the street outside a brothel. His hand strokes up your body, finding the other side of your hair and pushing the loose strands away to match the other side. He strokes your face, then neck, before resting his hand on your shoulder. Hard on your shoulder. You swallow and sink with his push, falling to your knees before him and his, the smell of sweat and sex assaulting your senses.

“Gooood giiiirrrl.”

His hands move to your head, wrapping fingers about your skull and into your loose hair. The lead he tied may be dropped, but the strain you feel tells you well and good that his hold over you is as tight as ever. He rests his behind against the table, which you see still bears his discarded knives, and the notion of reaching back for them while he is distracted comes to mind, along with thoughts of escaping with the necklace in hand. Such thoughts die when he untangle himself long enough to push the blades out of your reach.

Finding yourself once more guided to your fate by his insistence, you do as you did previously, grabbing him with your free hand and putting him inside you. The familiar feel of the hard bell shape pushes your lips apart, while the slick of your ride still on it is laid to fester upon your tongue. It tastes foul, and it’s hollow to wonder if it’s his taste or yours.

On your knees, your lips wrapped tight around a man’s cock, is not how you saw the late and early hour introduce a new day, yet here it is, feeling thick in your mouth. You try to stop thinking, letting your mouth flood with spit and readying to suck him as instructed, but this is not like before. He is not pinned and turned to the timings of your inexperienced jockeying.

His hands pull. You feel it on the roof of your mouth, sliding to the back.

“Uhhhh.”

He relaxes, and the hands of yours that had jumped to his thighs push away, sliding him back to your lips.

His hands pull.

The battle wears on, back and forth across your tongue, and its one that, kneeling, you try to ignore, failing only when he reaches close to your throat. You look up at him, his short stature turned oversized titan, tracing where the hairs of his crotch bleed into the hairs of his bare chest. He looks down and your eyes meet briefly in a moment of awkwardness that only you feel. You look away, down, to where it fucks your lips, and close your eyes seconds later when you’ve seen enough. His guiding hand had lessened, its rhythm imparted, and you focus on the cool wind at your back instead of the heat ahead, the sound of the waves over the wet slosh and the heavy breathing moans. Your movements become automatic, until you feel you could do them without his presence, and once more the minutes tick on in boredom and strain as you work to his satisfaction.

It works, should the task be classified by his pleasure over all else. His sounds become heavy, dripping with his satisfaction, and you begin to feel a shift in his rod. The idea of his seed in your mouth is as unappealing as they come, but you hope it comes soon. When it does and he’s done, you’ll grab your clothes and jump; no sense dressing and waiting a moment longer.

The hands pull again, but this time back, pulling you off him. Is he done? It doesn’t seem so. He breathes heavily, as though with fever, and he looks at you with unfocused eyes from a red face, dragging you up to your feet. You stumble into him, which seemed his intent, dragging you close and pulling your head in for a kiss. Body pressed to body, and face upturned, he freezes, looking at your mouth with delay and reconsidering the move. Drool reaches to your chin, spilled by his rods passion and mixed with its filth; he looks at you with vague disgust, as though it wasn’t him that dirtied you so, and he pulls back your hair again, tilting you back hard. A pressure lands upon your breast, and it’s not the brutish mauling of before, but a sucking kiss of the lips that aims to devour you. A disgusted look of your own spills to your features, far more intense than his ever was, while the prickle of his lips rake at you as he presses in his face, a ripping sucking slurp making bile rise faster than when he brushed your throat.

He pops you free and spins you, finally giving you sight of the sea, but a hand wraps your hips, holding him pressed hard at your back, and it’s clear he is not done. So, he wishes to finish as he did before? Fine. You are ambivalent to it now, already carrying the damage of a fresh dose in your womb. He aims himself, parting your folds drunkenly as he tries to hold you close, yet far enough to squeeze his hand between you. It slips out and you lean forward slightly, eager to get it over with.

He aims again, but misses again, and as he moves you realise his passion has a different goal. You feel it press against your rear.

“Nno!”

Your back straightens, your hand reaches back. This- That, isn’t want you-

“Just the tip, ddon’t worry.”

His breath rasps in his throat, his words just nonsense sounds to your ears. You struggle, and he does, both fighting briefly for his aim and a line he didn’t ask to cross.

“Nnnn.”

“Ugh!”

You lose.

For all his words, the tip turns to the familiar shorthairs of its base in the blink of an eye, crushing your split cheeks against his hips as he pulls with both hands. You cover your mouth, feeling the tears pool across your finger.

His hammer pulls back and strikes the anvil once more, the journey of it girth barely smoothed by your spit, and you bend forward, doubling up as though mortally wounded. You reach out for the distant window, for freedom and something, anything, to hold on to, somehow grabbing the frame as the next blow falls, and the next, and the next.

You look out to sea as you endure the rough sodomy, kept from leaping through by the hands at your hips and the weakness in your legs. It takes a minute, or an hour; some tortuous time for his primed pleasure to bottom out in your behind. When it comes, he holds himself there, pulling you back and to him and the table, to stand against his body as the wet heat rains on baron lands. One hand keeps you pressed through the twitches that run through him, the other energetically roving over your body, running from neck to breast, crotch to rear, and back again, like an energetic puppy.

Your hand remains over your mouth, which had not spilled a single shriek or wail of anguish, and the other at your belly as though feeling him through it. Apart from your shaking shoulders, no part of you moves, still paralyzed by his lingering presence, reminding you that it’s not yet over.

“Ahhhhhh.” His roving hand settles on the raw breast he sucked, holding you close to him to settle his chin across your shoulder. His breathing is heavy, exhausted from you, yet he still feels horribly thick where he joins and dribbles the last of his brutality. The breaths turn to laughter. No cruelty, just joy. You feel sick at how much worse that makes it.

“Ha haaa. Oh, oh I’m sorry. I’m sorry princess.” He plants a kiss on your shoulder. “Ahhh. Come on.” He says the words as though leading a horse, and sure enough he pushes you forward at the hips to the window. Still shocked and reeling, your clothes don’t even cross your mind.

Your arms snap to the window frame again as they did before, the distance between them and the table not so far, and your arms bend as he keeps walking forward, his arms still about you and still pressing inside below. You feel him shrink, each unsteady step draining him. When you get to the ledge, he stops.

“If there’s on things tonight can teach-“ He plants another kiss upon your neck. “It’s that some men are just bastards.”

A sudden cold blooms sharply in your chest, under your arm, between your ribs. The hand holding your chest lets go. Where is his other hand? The cold feeling slips out, leaving your heart still and hollow and oddly heavy, the world feeling to dim as the waves roar and churn below. His hand comes to your back, and shoves. Shoves you away, shoves you off him, off his ship.

The waves rush up to meet you, but you never feel the water.