…and spit two words back. “Fuck. You.”

“What?”

You grit your teeth, growling through them. “I said. Fuck. You.”

Silence. Clearly he was not expecting that, but he doesn’t honour you with wide eyes or a shocked expression. His hand had merely paused at your words, hovering before you as he reaches for your chest or face.

“Is…” he smiles, the words slowly forming in his mind amusing him as they do. “Is that what you’re going to do, or what I’m going to do?”

You don’t chide yourself on your choice of words. You’re too angry, at him and at yourself, but mostly at him. You take a breath, clarifying to yourself; you’re angry entirely at him. Time to give him the same clarity.

“Go die in a rancid shit heap you inbred festering tumour. I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last leg humping moron to be born out of your mother backside! I _literally _wouldn’t fuck you to save my life! You short, weak, pathetic sack of unwanted bastard.”

His face remains steady, but you notice the twitch around ‘short’ and ‘weak’. He didn’t like that at all. Still, he smiles, cruel and willing.

“Ok Agent, time to meet your gods.” He stands and hauls you up by your top, toppling the chair, before throwing you into the table. It hits your hips, drawing your front into its surface and bending you by the hips. “Because it’s time for some justice!”

You pull at the ropes about your wrists, turn and twist your bound legs. Your teeth grit, listening to the sound of a belt being unbuckled.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word! Pirate scum! You’ll hang one day and you know it, you _fucking _know it!” His trousers drop, his hands coming to you. “Scum! You disgusting ****!”

His hands grab your small behind, tracing and squeezing its subtle curve through the black fabric of your trousers. Fingers trace your womanhood, running down, pushing the material into you with their pressure, and so you stand, or try to anyway, leveraging yourself against the fixed table and throwing your top half up, your head back, growling, trying to hit him wherever and however you can. It’s futile. A hand jumps to your back, between raised shoulder blades, and pushes you back down hard, slamming you back into the wooden surface.

“You’re just begging for this, aren’t you?!”

The material of your trousers is pulled down, yanked by his other hand to cross your behind and smother your kicking thighs. You’re too mad care; blinded with anger and panic and the need to resist, you have only one thought in your mind: if you’re going to be **** and murdered, you’re damn sure going to make him work for it. You kick like a mule, throwing your bound legs at his with a savage guttural effort. They miss, passing between his too close legs and scraping the floor. One hand holds down your back. The other holds himself, aiming himself, as he moves.

Until he doesn’t need to.

“Ooooohhhh! Humf! You like that!?” His hand returns to your hip. “Umf! You happy now!? Eh? Bitch!?”

Your eyes shut tight.

“Shit! Shit. You piece of shit.”

The table presses into your turned cheek, smearing your words as your mouth is drawn to comic smile and dramatic frown by his dragging movements. It hurts! It’s too big for you! Your words feel weak, sniffing hard through your suddenly runny nose. “You fucking ppiece ohh f-fucking sshit!”

It’s all you can think to do, swearing at him with all the words your mind can think of. His hand pins you between the shoulders, the other holding your hips steady. He isn’t gentle. Your legs squirm, the table creeks, he grunts, and your words turn to mumbled obscenities.

“What was that!? UUGH! Didn’t hear you! UUGH!”

His words and his deep painful pounds rekindle your rage. You kick at him, aiming for his exposed shins, and he grunts with the blow. Your soft soled back pumps do little more than bruise him, the satisfying bony feeling clear to your heel, and the catching curl of his dropped belt armours him to attack, but it’s still painful enough to shut him up and cause him to shift positions. He leans back and begins to hump up at you, both hands to your hips and his thighs pressing against the backs of your own to stymie your movements. You pivot, bringing your head up again and once more failing to strike him with the back of it. He pushes you down hard again, freeing your legs to kick. He can’t block both, and the thickness inside no longer pulls and pushes you when you fight. His spoiled pleasure and annoyed noises are like fuel to your defiance.

“Stay. Still. Gods!”

His hand grips your neck, his other on your shoulder, forcing you down and giving him all hateful leverage he needs to hurt your deeply.

“UGH!”

“AHHH!”

“UGH!”

“Haah!”

“MFF!”

“Ahhh!”

You feel him punch you, backing up just enough for his blows to be felt. The clap against your cheeks is the only thing stopping him. You pant between cries, your legs feeling weak, from him and from fatigue. He’s stronger than you by far, and your every resistance feels it, straining against him in some way. You kick at him, feeling your bounds legs land softly in his dropped trousers, feeling something hard against your toes.

“That’s right!” He growls at you wetly, tiredly, before clawing at your hair with the hand by your neck. He rakes your bun apart before grabbing your spilled hair, pulling your head back. “Scream like a whore.” He kisses your neck, his lips slobbering a wet mark on you and making you keen out a disgusted whine. Your feet work the found object, shaking as he works you violently.

“UUGH!”

His hairs tangle with yours, the punching scraping head drilling a grove for itself inside you. You spray spittle between your gripped teeth, managing to mouth words without sound.

“I hate you.”

Your bound feet find it, gripping between them the handle of one of Roland’s knives, dropped with his belt and trousers. You pull it free. There is nothing to can really do with it, aimed poorly as it is and with nothing but a weak and often violently shaken grip on its handle, held by your bony ankles and the inner arches of your feet. Still, you try, throwing a kicking stamp with all you’ve got.

“AHH!”

You smile, finally hearing him cry out in pain. He staggers back, falling from your **** with his britches about his ankles. You look back, straining yourself around to see him and know your next move with your still gripped blade, but it’s near impossible without putting your feet on the ground to lift yourself. Bending back as much as you can, you look at him, naked at the hips and still in his ugly coat, gripping his leg as it oozes a line of blood.

A thin line.

It catches the light of the candles and the island, which had long since crawled across to the horizons edge to paint the room in angled light. Lanterns and distant fires and moonlight all combine, making the line seem significant in some way, which you suppose it is, having hurt him despite being bound in hand and foot. Not as significant as you were hoping for though. He laughs before seeing the blade still gripped between your pumps, aiming at him, but in the moment you cannot think of a way to launch yourself at him without your hands. He kicks your feet, tossing the blade away.

Laughing and breathing heavily, he begins to tug off his boots, aiming to free his legs of the britches and blades.

“You are one mean bitch,” he swallows, smiling wide, “I think I prefer it this way. Ha Ha! Yes!”

His laugh is at your fall; without a blade to hold, you put your feet under you and jumped, landing hard, but near, the kicked knife. You begin to crawl, like a worm, desperately tired and propelled only by anger and purpose. If you can get it, you can cut the ropes at your wrists and then your feet, and then you can kill him.

When you’re close enough, you turn your back to it, reaching with your bound hands. The position shows a clear view of Roland, not as you left him, but now with the window at his back, and as he stands, free of his boots and lower clothes, he positions himself among the stars of the night sky. He takes the time to shrug from his coat, watching you with an unconcerned smile as he pushes the pile into a corner with one foot. It leaves him in only a stained shirt that does not hide his desire.

As the blade spins, tugged to and fro by your questing fingers, he takes a lazy few steps towards you as though mocking your crawl, his final step stamping the heel of his bare foot into your belly. You double up, wheezing in pain, and rather than move the knife, he moves you, grabbing your top and dragging you across the floorboards of his quarters. In the middle of the room, before the table, he dumps you down, kneeling over you, and the nightmare continues to the sound of your black top tearing up the middle.

A forearm holds your neck, a forearm holds your belly, and between the two, the unshaven hairs of his face rasp upon your chest, stabbing into your pale skin as he opens his mouth.

“Nnahh!”

Your cry is unique to your ears, as what happens is unique in your life. A man, old enough to be your father…suckles you. No, not even that; a babe would suckle at the nip, but he sucks upon your whole breast, pulling the flattened stretch into his mouth hard enough to hollow his lined cheeks, his tongue roving like an eel on a platter.

You let your disgust show, looking down at him with an ‘Ugh!’ that makes him look at you with a smile. He sucks and pulls back, leaving you red and wetted when he finally pops free, making an awful sucking barnacle noise. The forearm turns to a hand that lingers, fondling your other with impunity, while his other arms lifts his shirt.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” it passes over his head, leaving him naked, “I know what you like.”

He plants a kneed between your own, forcing your legs apart and making his intentions clear, and before you can raise your leg and land a blow where it would really hurt, his other knee follows suit, pushing your legs wide as he lays atop you.

A grip, a guide, and a push, and just like that it begins a new, this time with a rough floor at your back and the sight of him red faced above you. It’s not a pretty sight. Still, you do not shy away; you writhe and thrash, still gasping for fresh air through your exhausted lungs. Your legs are hopeless, pinned wide and held down by his thrusting. The arms behind your back leave little comfort either, bending you awkwardly over them as his hands keep your shoulders down. His panting breath showers your face with sour air, and with no other way to resist or escape, you bring your face closer, hard and fast as you strike his jaw with your forehead.

“Ughf!” He pauses, touching his unbruised face where you struck, “Hah ha ha! Still got fight in you? Uh? UGHH!?” He places a forearm across your collar bone and neck, holding his top-self at a distance while his bottom-self pushes aggressively onwards. His free hand mauls at your **** shaken chest, denied purchase, if not pleasure, on its now slick surface. Little was gained, yet everything was gained. When you have nothing, as now, with even your own body taken, defiance is something you can be rich in. You snarl through your bared teeth. He smiles through a dopy open mouth. Your womanhood burns in its violation, feeling inflamed and thick about his length, and increasingly slick about his hot deep point. Is he seeding you? It’s inevitable really, but you don’t think he’s there yet.

You turn your head and push up your chest, twisting it and forcing his arm to slide up your slick skin, past bosom and neck to rest on your shunning jaw. He doesn’t mind, crushing your head with his weight as he continues to pin and pound, but you mind, and you quickly strike, turning back as much as you can and sinking your teeth hard into the soft flesh of his forearm. You don’t hold back, and as he yells the taste of blood becomes apparent on your tongue. He pulls back, desperately climbing off and out of you, and while you try and twist and tear like a rabid dog, his arm comes free with only a line of red oozing teeth marks. It returns fast, backhanding you with dizzying speed. Would that you had taken a pound of flesh, but it seems more than incisors would be needed to skin his hide.

He looks at his arm, panting, his manhood wet and erect, dripping his lust from its blunt point. It’s bigger than it felt when he was inside you, but its shape is like a wound looked at, burning the stretch of your pounded puss more for its sight. You pant as hard as he does, chest like a forges bellows through your torn rags. The knees he pulled apart are brought tiredly together, and with the last of your strength, you throw a weak kick his way, aiming for his shin. It does nothing. You both pant some more.

It’s an odd moment, you and your **** just breathing, panting, and swallowing. He holds his knees, sitting and resting when not turning his arm and pulling at the bite. You just lie, not even curling up, just staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. Men still move outside. They must have heard everything.

Roland is the first to recover, stepping forward and grabbing both side of your torn black jumper, still clinging to your arms and back, and pulling you up right, dragging you straight. He pulls you to the table and throws you across it, face down, rear up, squeezing your behind. This again.

He slaps you, like a child, landing a spank upon your right cheek, but that’s not what he wants. One hand leaves, looking to himself, guiding himself, and as before, it only returns to your hip when he finds his mark.

“UGH!”

You can’t breathe, or scream. Even open mouthed, your panting stops. Your fingers curl into fists. The toes in your pumps as well.

“UMMF!”

Your eyes close, shutting tight. The shock fades. It hurts! You feel a scream coming, or a sob.

“MMF!”

A dull moan, all that’s left of your last breath, crawls dying through your throat, eager to leave so a new deep breath can be drawn.

“UMMF!”

It comes in shaky. It leaves loud.

“AHHHHAAAA!”

“UMMF!”

You take another shaking breath, tears welling in your eyes.

“UMMF! So, anal is your weakness, -UMMF- is it?”

It is, evidently. The thick rod you had seen in the rooms mixed light feels a dozen times the size as it plunders the hole between your cheeks. Your legs twist, but it’s like you don’t own them. The cries come from your throat, but it’s like they’re someone else’s. He builds a steady rhythm, pulling you back and forth, inside and out, as a pool of tears begins to form on the table.

“Fffffff-“

“UMMF!”

“-UCK! Y-yu-”

“UMMF!”

“OOOOHUHU!”

“UMMF! Don’t mind- UMMF! -if I do. UMMF!”

And so he does. The first few strokes were for you, like breaking a horse, but his movements begin to ride to his own desires, and there is little you can do but sob like a child. Your defiance had been precious while it lasted. Heady, even. Now, exhausted, beaten, and hurting so so much, you no longer kick and bite and scream insults. You don’t have the energy, physical or mental.

“Fuck this is tight!” He leans upon you, your back, your hips. Hilted. Gripping your bound hands to stop your clawing and your shoulder to give him leverage. “Tight. Tight. Tiiiight.” He punctuates each word with a slow example. “Tight. Tight. Getting looser. Heh heh he.”

His hand pulls your hair away, revealing your face and revelling in your shame. He laughs huskily

“I win.” His sack touches your raided temple, every time. “I. Fuck-ing. Win. Ahhhhh.”

He leans close for a moment, watching your winces, until he leans back and works you with earnest silence, back and forth, tip to tail, and his strain lasts for all of one unresisting minute before a hot wetness begins to form about him in your colon. He moans, and stills, and twitches both inside and out. It’s all so…pathetic. You flutter like a pinned collected butterfly, and he wheezes like an old man, celebrating a race that only he took part in. He waits until he’s done, sure that every drop he has to paint your insides with has been spent and excessively applied, before withdrawing and leaving you bare and broken wide to the room.

He sniffs to himself, suddenly quite uninterested in you, walking to the window and opening it top and bottom. It’s time for your promised end; the one you fought for; belly open and in the deep; a witness with no story to tell.

You gave it all you had, for all its worth. Hopefully that bite will scar.

“Ahh.”

The roar of the waves, ever present in the room, yet unheard, jumps in clarity beside you. The hot room begins to cool instantly. “Nice breeze. Feels good on the dick.”

You turn your head, planting your beaded brow on the table and letting your loose hair curtain you from his sight. Through it, you see him stand before the open waves and night sky, naked buttocks before you and satisfied expression hidden. He looks back, remembering your sodomised self slumped over the side edge of the table, but you’re not going anywhere and as he said, the breeze feels good.

After a few minutes, he looks back again, before blowing a sigh and walking to the window corner where he kicked his clothes to. Where his belt and blade lies.

“You know, I gave you the choice-“

You jump, shocking him, shocking you, and shocking every burning muscle protesting against it. The biggest shock shoots up from his violation, which was thorough enough to see you un-walking for weeks, let alone un-jumping. You ignore it all, having planted your bound feet, drawn yourself from the table, squatted, and leaped, now finding the windows frame flying by with the speed of every **** ounce of strength you possess. Roland, who leans for his knives barks a “Hey!”, reaching out to you, but it’s too late.

The churned waves come. The ocean swallows all.

You’d like to say you swam for your freedom, but in your bindings and weighed down by your fallen and torn clothing, you were barely able to swim for the surface. There, your loose hair, your black top still holding on, and your legs kicking like a fish’s tail, you had been unseeable flotsam in the night for Roland’s retreating ship. You were lucky. The current carried you here. Had it deigned to take you to the sea bed instead, that is where you would be now.

Luck. It feel odd to think it, still sore and salted for your treatment. Luck should have no part in your wretched life, yet here you are, alive. Is that lucky? It feels ungrateful to say otherwise. Perhaps you can settle on things being a…mixed bag?

Your target is dead; you’ve done what everyone said was impossible, breaking her rule, throwing piracy into chaos, and avenging all those who fell into ****, slavery, or brutal mistreatment at her hands.

On the other hand, you can only sit on your current fallen log by the thighs, your violated and soiled rear proving too delicate of late. The villain, Captain Roland, your ****, was on his way to the capital of Coronac to claim your prize, and you… You don’t know where you are.

The archipelago contains many islands. Uncountable, they say, and shifting according to the locals, though that is more for the odd currents washing the weaker away and rebuilding them elsewhere. There are trees here. In the rising red sun, it looks little different than Duke Fatheron Island, save for the pirates and the size. It’s too small to have the same hills and cliffs. Some of the trees bare similar fruits to those you have seen in the markets of New Lilia, browning on the late summer vine, and so you are not overly concerned you will starve.

What you are concerned about, is that they will get away.

You’ve been ****, you’ve been robbed (more or less), and you’re very angry. If Roland is concerned that you will get to New Lilia before him and testify before a judge-priest that he had no hand in Captain Washkins ****, then that’s exactly what you’re going to do. The problem is how you’re going to do it.

And so, you look out at this morning’s most recent troubling twist.

Sails. They stick out from a ship which crawls across the horizon like a slug, weaving the islands on a course that should take it right by here.

Now, no one is marooned for long in the archipelago. That’s not for the high traffic, though there are always boats about the jaws of the Lilia river; rather, it’s for the fact that there are always islands in sight. You may need to be a strong swimmer for some, but they’re always present, tempting you, and Coronac is a matter of West and effort. Of course, those caught out by the unknown currents and dragged down to the depths tell no tales of survival, but the point still stands: drowned corpses don’t count as marooned.

Hailing the ship could bypass that risk and get you home much sooner. Remembering Roland’s plan to dock far to the south of Lilia, it may even get you there before him, but…

The ship comes from what may be the direction of Wendigo’s cursed island, though you do not recognise it as one from the docks. There is no telling if they’re friend or foe, or where they’re going, such is the maze of currents between islands. A captain may sail south west to get into a current that flows a quick east, simply because it’s faster than sailing east in the first place. You poke a rock with the stick you found, accomplishing nothing. You don’t know much about the archipelago, but you know it can be random, and cruel.

And so the matter of your luck is important. Are they friends or are they foes, and if you take your ripped top off and tie it to the stick, waving them down, would that make an irredeemable first impression? What can your bargain with for passage?

Well, it will be ten or so minutes before they can even see you. You poke the rock again, looking at the red morning skies.

Time enough to decide such things.