…attack before she leaves.

Better to attack on your own terms than be discovered and rooted out. You gently shift your squatting crouch, placing the heel of your foot against the wardrobes back board and ready to push off it like a feast day racer.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

The twin wardrobe doors open with a bang and the thin light of the keyhole becomes a world of dotted candles and confused captains as you push out between the fine silk dresses. You land with your left foot first, and for a terrifying moment, your leg buckles, struggling with the shift from long squat to full sprint. You stagger, your first few steps taking you in queer angle and an arm’s reach shy of your target, forcing you to stop or topple forward to the floor. You stop long enough to turn and once more charge at the captain with blade forward.

The diversion was not long, adding a mere two seconds to your attack, but for the captain, her expression shifted tremendously in those seconds. Shock turned to fear turned to anger turned, at the moment your blade righted and lunged again, to readiness. Its point cuts the air before and after her as she turns sharply, and your momentum carries you onward faster than you can change it. Her arms, fumbling and acting on instinct, come to yours to grab the blade, and you feel her hands lock to your wrists like prison irons, guiding your strike not into flesh but to wood. The sharp stiletto sinks into the doorframe with a thunk, biting surprisingly deeply and wedging harder than you can pull it out. Not that you’re given the chance; the bigger woman tackles you down, throwing you back and to the floor with **** strength and piling herself atop you in a tangle of limbs and body. Your wrists slip her grasp, but your hands push against her for only a moment, finding no purchase in the space of her open gown to shove her away and escape. They are quickly snared again, and the battle becomes one of where they are end up pinned, instead of any hopeful if. She’s strong. Her height is a head taller and her arms thick as she strains them. Her fingers reach all the way around your thin wrists, and with her weight she presses them down. Your arms cross at the chest, then are pushed up to your neck. Her bare feet push against the floor, lifting her behind up as she adds more weight to her advantage, and your own legs lift, trying to strike and kick her, or sweep her feet or throw her forward; anything to get her off you so you can escape. She moves your hands up again, letting you lift them just so she can throw them further up, above your head, so she can pin them to the bare floorboards.

She and you are panting hard, and some part of you not struggling franticly begins to notice that she has not, at any point, called for help. The struggle had been almost quiet, with sawing breaths interrupted with only swallows and grunts of effort or impact.

Now in a standing squat, bent at the waist, she side steps your legs and quickly hops around, keeping her behind in the air and your upturned arms to the floor as she manoeuvres her body up to them. You kick out your legs, putting sole to floor as quickly as you can and trying to push up from it, twisting and pulling at her grip with little success before she pulls you, dragging your back along the floor and crumpling the effort of your legs. It’s only lasts a short distance, and ends with her crossing her arms, and therefore your arms, rolling you to your front before hopping over to your behind, twisting your arms up into your lower back.

And just like that, you’re pinned.

She holds your wrists there, pressing hard to pin both them and you in place. Her grip shift as she holds them with one hand, and her weight increases with the aid of a bare knee upon your forearms. You tug and twist and kick and succeed only in looking like a worm under a bird’s beak, squirming as her free hand feels at your body. First she grabs up your arms, feeling for hidden weapons there, before she pulls up your top as much as she can, showing no blades at your hip or the small of your back either. Unsatisfied, she pulls at your trousers, tugging them down right left right left until your pasty thighs and flat behind are bared to her. You buck at this, trying to strike her with the back of your head by bending up your spine. You’re miles away.

She gives a self-satisfied ‘hmmf’ at the sight of the leather strap about your thigh, and she pulls free the vial of poison before tossing it away. The leather knot is next, as though the strap’s a weapon in its own right, and she ungently tugs it free from your inner thigh, where you so carefully tied it this morning. Unlike the poison, it does not sail the air of the room. Instead it comes to you again, wrapping about your pinned wrists several times before pulling them tight together. She works the knot like a linesman, adjusting it every time you pull something loose until there is no looseness to pull, and with both her hands free and yours fully tied, she starts to really search you.

Breathing hard, she pulls your fingers out from the grip of your clenched fists, laying out your bare palms, then she feels up your arms and back, pulling up your top and wedging it under your arms. Turning you over, she pulls it up further at the front, laying bare and your small breasts and confirming that you hide nothing there. She moves you your legs and pulls down your trousers further, feeling about your ankles and popping off your pumps. She leaves the tangle of material there to hobble any chance of running away. Finally, she returns to your face and pulls down the mask, confirming you hide nothing under your chin if such a thing is even possible.

Satisfied, and to your **** discomfort, she lays upon you, the gown covering you both, but with her bare front against your bare front. Under her weight, you can’t even squirm.

“Hello there.” She still breathes hard, but she smiles, revelling in her victory. A croak of laughter shakes be breath. “Looking for me?”

For your part, you’re as out of breath as she is if not more, and locked in her grasp as you are, your breathing does not slow but instead increases significantly with new heights of panic.

“Shhhhh.” She strokes your face with one hand, resting both her arms on the floor near your head and lifting herself up. Her back bends and she looks about wearily with her head, pulling away yet still leaving her bare and heavy chest pressing against yours. The trap necklace glitters between them, closer than ever, but you have no more interest the gold or silver or the sorrowful gem in its middle. “Not going to call your friends?”

You stay silent, and so does she, watching and listening in the sudden stillness. Her hand presses your forehead as though checking for a fever, and it’s only after the move that you consider striking her with your head, or even trying to bite her. She pins you into her own same stillness, and after almost a minute of it and with breath fully returned to her, she looks back to you with a smile.

“Guess you don’t have any friends.”

Her skin burns where it touches you, prickling a **** sweat over your skin with the heat and closeness of it. Her long legs stretch either side of your own, her feet reaching further than yours as she levels her taller self with you, putting her head level with yours. A cascade of sweat stained blonde hair falls, blotting out some of the room, and framing her predatory face in curling snares.

“I-“

What can you say? You came here to kill her and now you’re in her grasp. That doesn’t leave much room for negotiations. But, you have to say something! Your mouth is dry and your damn breath won’t slow!

“I co-“

“Shut up.”

Your lips seal as though by a spell, though her words had no sharpness to them. She smiles and follows it up with a simple question.

“Employer?”

Your sweat doubles.

“A-Agent.” The word stammers out before you can think.

“Ahhh, so you’re a bounty hunter.” She smiles thinly. It’s not a question.

Any other day, the comparison would rankle, but you almost nod your head under the gaze of the woman above.

“Alone?”

You swallow.

She smiles widely.

She lifts her other hand, stroking it over your cheek and neck and the sweat thereon.

“Did you watch?”

Your mouth contorts to a thin worried line, pressing harder when the thumb of her stroking hand glides across your lips. You know what she means, but how should you answer! You would be murderous if anyone peeked on you, but her? Should you lie? Would she care if you did? Her hand strokes down your neck, and she continues as though your nervous expression was honest answer enough.

“Did you touch yourself?”

“W-what?” Words finally grace your throat, panicky and laced with shocked confusion.

Her wondering hand traces the bump of your collarbone as it travels, reaching down and down until her palm slides across the nub of your bosom.

“Kiss me.”

“Woa?”

The **** confused noise is all you can muster to her question. Her hand begins to cup your bosom, unable to grab the flattened flesh upon your ribs. Her face is close, her lips parted, hovering back and forth as though looking for an opening.

“You watched me fuck Roland.” You feel her hips and her body grinding against you, her voice horse and flushed. “You’re gonna help me finish what he started.” Her hand leaves your chest, pushing crudely down your body until it reaches the short hares of your hips. “Now kiss me. Kiss me till I cum, and I’ll let you go. I’ll put you on a boat and see you safely off my island, no hard feelings.” Her hand leaves you and switches to her, placing it into the wet heat she grinds onto you. She brings her face even closer, the minor flaws in her makeup hidden behind the distracting smear of her full red painted lips. Lidded eyes look down at you, closing as you nervously proffer your lips.

What else can you do! What _are _you doing? What is _she _doing!? This is madness! Soft lips land on yours, and like a leak sprung from a dam, the crashing **** of her passion washes away your defences in an instant. Your eyes bulge as her tongue pushes into your mouth, and the hesitant peck you offered up is turned into a lover’s kiss, full of passion and twisting like a storm upon your face. Both her hands grip your cheeks, holding you, one now smelling of the hot musk that rolls off her in heady waves, and her frenzied kiss shatters and breaks into many kisses raining upon your lips, roaring with her heavy breath and cracking with moans and stirring wet sounds. Your dry mouth feels soaked, along with your lips and from nose to chin, yet the unknown dance cascades through its steps without pause. She sets movements into your tongue, or nature does, the steps coaxed into memory or taught on instinct. The dance goes from hesitant to full, and while she always leads, you begin to follow with grace, matching her passion with your own flourishes until she pulls back, pushing away with both hands cupping your chest.

She pants in time with you, leaning back down as though to kiss again, but only speaking is husky tones where her breath can mix with yours.

“If you were a man, I’d fuck your brains out!”

Her hips rock back and forth as though **** for it to be so, her grasping and ungrasping hands reminding her that it is not.

You, meanwhile, catch your breath with the same frantic failing speed with which you catch your scattered senses. You’ve never been kissed like that. Never kissed anyone like that. She tastes like she smells; of Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin: a new flavour of experience catalogued in your mind. What was that? Why did she do it? Why do you want her to do it again?

She looks at you, or perhaps though you, with a confused expression on her beautiful face, before she straightens and looks about the room in a similar manner. Her palms touch you almost idly, turning both your nipples in a complimentary clockwork manner, and for the craziest moment, it seems unfair that you cannot do the same, especially as hers have a grandeur that would lend themselves to such a thing.

You shake your head, trying to throw free the cobwebs she spun into it and come to your senses. You haven’t thought about escape nearly enough, and you’re not so fool enough to think her one to stay true to her word. That said, the deal was made and completed; if she breaks it, you would at least retake some of the moral high ground lost when you tried to kill her. That doesn’t make too much sense, but then again, none of this does! You’ll take what you can get!

She stands off you, towering above and displayed in all her naked glory. Her lower lips look flush and red, glistening with a damp essence that reaches down her inner thighs. She discards the gown, having to peel some of it off her where damp with sweat, and tosses it to the side. You swallow.

Not often do you look at women who are naked, and never from such a low vantage. The public bathes you only occasionally frequent may offer such carefree spectacles, but the last you were in one you cared only for your own soak, like every other woman there. The only other womanly body you are familiar with is your own, and there is no comparison. You think of the people you interviewed -the victims and survivors of her crew- who claimed to have seen her. The men would describe her as a beauty as often as a devil, and the women rarely strayed from describing her as a whore. Here, from your low vantage, she looks to be all three and in grand measures.

She reaches down and grabs your top, still lifted and crumpled about your neck, and begins to lift you to your feet. Before you get them under you though, she turns and tosses you toward the bed, letting you bounce on the feathers as you lie on your back, the hard floor worryingly exchanged for soft. There is still a wet patch below your bound hands, which remain tied no matter how you tug them. The Captain immediately begins to root through the nearby draws.

“Come on. Come on.” She pulls them out of the large cabinet next to your old safe wardrobe, each small draw opened and closed and occasionally rummaged. “I know I have one around…” She closes the last and walks to the short nightstand by her bed, and then another set of draws next to that, opening and closing until finally, “Yes!”

She steps back victorious, holding in her hand an odd looking object. It resembles a rounded pipe, notched with odd bumps and ridges, and you cannot tell if it’s wood or something else. It’s painted in an odd subdued red varnish that catches the light, like polished porcelain, and several dark straps of leather, much like the one binding your wrists, dangle off one of its ends. There are three straps total, ending in a small silver looking buckles or clasps.

She sees you eyeing it wearily. “Don’t worry, this will just make it easier.”

Her words do nothing for your worry and you try to talk as you shuffle away from her.

“I though you sa-“

“Shhhhhh.” Her finger twists your lips. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

She places the rod at your crotch, facing out, and you watch confused as she sends the leather cords around your hips. She turns you, buckling the three clasps together above your buttocks and pulling it tight, squeezing your flesh and pressing the middle strap hard between your legs and making you wince at the still bruised tenderness there. She rolls you back and you looks down at the faux red member standing to attention.

Looking at it, at yourself, in the same spot Captain Roland lay, you know what’s coming. Some odd and detached part of you connects the dots with ease. Everything she had done and said had led here, to this moment and what is to come. Still…

“W-what are you doing?”

You can’t help but ask.

She climbs up the bed and throws her leg over you, briefly grabbing and aiming the red member before sitting upon it. You watch it disappear. She once more leans over you, her hair falling, her breasts pressing, her necklace dangling, running a finger over your lips.

“I said, don’t ask stupid questions.”

Her kiss is gentler than the first time, and her grinding hips tug the straps with eager purpose. She holds your head with both hands, like a platter, sucking samples with teasing tender pecks that tug your lips into her mouth and leave them feeling full from the suction. When they start to feel tender, she kisses them, puckered lips to puckered lips, holding you in place. You’ve seen your parents kiss like this; lovingly and tenderly, without the wild passion of before. Now you do it yourself, for your first time, and not just with the person you tried to kill, but with a woman. Past the absurdity of it, some part of you even thinks it’s nice! Her twin warmths pressing your chest, her slick back and forth grind below, her fingers playing with your hair and worming their way into your tight brown bun; it’s almost a shame when she parts and leans back.

You watch in morbid fascination as she hunches, her hands once more cupping and squeezing your flat mounds and using you as sweat slick leverage to rise her hips and let them fall, bouncing a rhythm on your own strapped up crotch. The bumpy red rod stays in place, turning and impaling her lower lips with each rise and fall, but her face is somehow more interesting. Her closed eyes and even breathing, and the serene expression on her face all make her look relaxed for a time, as though enjoying the sun on a summers day, yet when her pace increases her mouth parts, letting out hot breaths and cracking her eyelids to gaze at you hungrily.

“Haa. Haa. Haa. I’m. I’m not gonna lie to you.” She swallows, raking her fingers along you and looking down with those predatory eyes. “This is not the most fucked up thing I’ve done.” She leans back, kneeling, with her arms reaching back to your thighs and her hairless grinding hips oscillating wetly over yours. Her hair falls over her full bosom, her shoulders up, her head back, smiling. “Ahh. But…mmmm, but it’s up there!”

She lets you see what she does, turning her weeping hips back and forth and filling the air with slick sounds and heat and heady womanly aromas for a full and intense minute, before falling back to you, her forehead resting on yours, her words thickly poured onto you.

“Kiss me like you love me.”

Lips meet. Lips push apart. Tongues touch and intertwine, first delicate and hesitant, then confident, and soon passionate and even hungry and wanton, competing on who tongues furthest, whose lips are most skilled, who wants it most. Hard kisses that make you both moan into each other. She pushes into you as much as you push into her, and you feel her lips smile as your hair is undone, spilling its length carelessly across the mattress. You bounce with her, and though from the moans and twitches and the ecstasy coursing through her pained and twisted expressions, you know you do not feel as she does, it still somehow feels good. Like some sea witch, some siren of legend, drilling her moans and her tongue into your very brain; it feels good to fuck her. Right to fuck her. The oddness of it fades, and one of her ever roaming hands finds the hard nub of your nipple. A squeeze gets a squeal utterly alien to gush from your lips, eaten up by her all-consuming hunger.

The long kiss end thanks to panting exhaustion, her face hovering above yours and wearing the oddest of expression, half yawn, half silent scream, eyes closed as she exhales hot breaths over you. It’s an unflattering look. It’s a beautiful look. Sweat drips down onto you, your bodies now sliding across each other with burning heat.

“AHHH!”

A single noise breaks from her, her expression changing to one even more pained, as though about to cry. She slows, pressing her forehead into yours and her hands dig painfully into your shoulders. Her eyes shut tight, her mouth open and gasping invitingly, and you try to turn your head to meet it. She twitches in her hot press, humping at you’re strapped up hips with a broken rhythm, riding out shudders of pleasure as they come and go for as long as she’s able.

When it’s over, she sits up, once more showing her hilted self to you in all its glory, resting her hands on your chest as she catches her breath. Her hips move, as though they want to by their own will, stopping every time she notices. Your eyes meet through the fall of her hair and she smiles a knowing satisfied beautiful smile that stokes the heat within you. Leaning forward, she slides out the red member with a lift of her hips and brings herself back to you, lips crashing together for a final lovers kiss. You remember the first time she kissed you and you offered up a pucker, like a sacrifice. There is no such hesitation now, no **** as you kiss back with all you have. You feel like you’ve learned a whole new language on instinct and talk it now in confident flicks of the tongue and flourishes of your lips. It was all as wrong as it was fun, the guilt of enjoying it lingering like an after taste of its own. What does it mean? What does it mean to kiss a woman and like it? Does it mean anything? Perhaps kissing is just fun, or she is just good at it? She breaks the kiss and clambers off you, standing with her back to the bed as she collects herself.

She has a lovely bottom.

You don’t know why you thought that, but you suppose it’s definitely true.

She looks back at you, naked, your hair a mess, a fake penis buckled to your body, and she smiles at the sight.

“That was a first for me… and that’s saying something.”

She fans her face with her hand for a moment, blowing out her cheeks before walking over to the discarded cloth and picking it up. She walks back, once more wiping between her legs as she did before you attacked, and after a few dedicated moments, she throws the wet cloth onto the bed next to you. “Guess I lucked out. If you were a man, you’d have disappointed.” She sits down next to you and begins to unbuckle the leather, pulling away the red member and leaving your drenched muff feeling cold for its absence. “and if you weren’t a licker, you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

A licker: a degenerate woman who fancies other women. You’d heard of them, but hadn’t made a point of encountering one. Of course, it’s a preposterous claim; you’d never-

You feel her fingers run through your shorthairs, and your back arches on instinct as they enter you. It’s only for a moment. In the next, the captain holds the two digits out in the air, letting the candlelight catch on the wetness that coats them.

“And your certainly enjoyed it.”

No, it’s not possible! You like… The word ‘men’ dies on your tongue. You don’t much care for them, not since that day, and no more so after your last encounter with one. But that doesn’t mean… You look at her; the older woman with the strong face, heavy chest, wide hips and thick thighs. You remember kissing her, her tongue, her taste, her smell, which fills the room even now. It’s not poss-

“Tell me, do you want this?” You jump, your breath catching as you feel the hot, smooth member push at your flower, parting its petals as she gently strokes it up and down. Her voice comes in a whisper. “Do you want me to put this on and fuck you? Like only a woman can?”

The image of her atop you, like Roland was atop her, kissing you again as she-

‘Yes.’ You don’t say it. For a moment, you don’t even think it, the knowledge transcending your capacity for thought. Instead, you know it. You _feel _it. Your eyes widen slightly as the realisation comes into your head as clear as day.

‘Shit. I’m a…woman lover?’

The realisation that you prefer women to men, and likely have for some time now, is so all-consuming that you barely notice the rods absence or the captain’s vicious smile.

“You’ve got it bad girl, but don’t worry, I’ll see you safely off my island, as promised.” She picks up the cloth she wiped herself with, scrunching it into a ball before stuffing it into your mouth. The taste of sweat and her heady musk is strong, almost overpowering your senses. “But first, I have to sort some things out, such as yelling at my guards for letting you in and arraigning transportation for you.” She leans in, her smiling expression unchanging, yet letting an iron hardness enter the sweet saccharin of her voice, as jovial and fake as the manhood she strapped to you. “I also need to figure out whose blood is on your clothes, and how you’re going to pay for said transportation.”

Leaving the worrying thought in place, she turns and leans down, fishing through the discarded clothes on the floor until he has something light and thin enough to tie about your head and hold the soaked rag in place. As she does, she leans close, talking, stroking, “So do me a favour; wait here and, when times are hard and the nights are long…” She smiles her widest smile yet, stroking her fingers through your long loose hair, “…think of me.”

“MMMMMMM! MM! MM! MMHMMM! MMMMMMMMMMM!”

Captain Wendigo watched for a moment as Fainus ploughed the girl, making sure he was not put off by her muffled cries or twisting attempts to escape his desires. It was not a pretty sight. His pimply piggy behind humped himself between her flattened legs, his similarly hoof like podgy digits mauled at her chest, and he arched his flabby back, burying himself deeply in her pussy as though he had something to prove. He’d gotten a steady rhythm going -besting the assumptions anyone looking at his excess bloated body would come to- and he quickly put his host at ease with the familiar sounds of his grunting enjoyment.

“Uh, huh, huh, hu, uh, huh.”

“MM! MM! MM! MHMM! MMMHMMHUU!”

His partner turned her head, her expression one of disgusted agony. She’d been quite useful. With the smell of a wet aching pussy filling the room, Fainus had been surprisingly easy to negotiate with. Usually, he needed the promise of a dick suck before his rates became reasonable, but sitting him at the end of the bed and in sight of her naked body was enough to have him spewing discounts by himself. The would-be assassin had earned her a hefty sum of gold in the pimping.

It was something of a shame though. Unless she missed her guess, the girl had, this very night, discovered the joys of women. She’d been a reasonable kisser as well; inexperienced sure, but passionate and willing. Now she mewled and sobbed under a red faced degenerate like Fainus, and Captain Wendigo took no pleasure in it. Having had a childhood spent in similar circumstances, she couldn’t even begin to. Still, the sight of the girl running out with dagger in hand and **** in her eyes kept sympathy far at bay. The blade was still stuck in the doorframe, stained with her crewmen’s blood. Its sight left her quite comfortable in her decision.

She watched as Fainus reached down with his hand, squeezing at her pale behind while he fucked her undefended front. From his grunts, he’d be a few minutes yet before finishing, and from her cries, she’d do nothing much to resist until he did. When that happened, she’d quiet down again when he’d emptied himself, and then the next man would have an easier time of it. A story told again and again.

Leaving Fainus and the tied up dyke, Captain Washkin walked from the room with the aim to fulfil her bargain. She could choose not to, she knew. The promised passage off the island tonight was one mode while possessed by Roland’s half-finished job and was as far from set in stone as possible. No one would know at all if she just killed the girl. Still, _she _would know, and while she’d done worse, there were better uses anyway.

Before opening the double doors, she tightened the rope about her gown, drawing it closed where she let Fainus’s wandering eyes linger. After that, she ran her fingers through her hair unnecessarily. It was fine, and her lipstick had also been fixed before Fainus and not smeared as usual with his negotiation. She stepped through the double doors with confidence, purposefully not looking in the direction where her crew was found.

“Gentlemen,” she let her arm rest on the banister, descending the stairs in a womanly fashion and looking at each of the men below. Her glance shifted briefly to take in the sight of her extra guards, Ref and Jorassa by the foyer walls looking dangerous. Ref, ever the good interpreter of her will, shook his head, speaking without words: ‘the search goes on and no one else had been found’. As she neared the businessmen, she carried on in soothing placating tones.

“I’m sure you can appreciate and forgive me for tonight’s disruption. As soon as Fainus is done I’m sure I can find time to meet with each of you individually.”

There is a murmur of understanding at this from the men. The only unreasonable man of the night had already fucked her and fucked off.

“I suppose you must deal with assassins like a commoner deals with lice?”

The remark came from ‘Mr Nokim’ who any idiot would know just from his look is actually Lord Such-and-such: Lord Bellafontie, the dock master of North Lilia, to be precise. He could be left until last, the wait helping to smooth that noble ego to a manageable level. She let a sparkling, well-practiced laugh tinkle from her lips. Nobles liked that laugh. It reminded them of parties and fancy dresses.

“Oh it varies, and assassins have their uses. Lice, meanwhile, take more _negotiation _to get rid of.”

The smallest amused twitch runs through the corner of his mouth. He’s good, but to her eyes he may as well be howling in rage at the insult.

“If you don’t mind my asking, is he a bounty hunter?” The gold rings of Mojarieal’s fat little fingers glitter as they’re twitched against his ridiculous red smock. Clearly he’d prefer them pinching the pressure in the bridge of his red cold filled nose. “Or perhaps he was sent by someone more… nefarious?”

Captain Wendigo liked Mojarieal; his face was always a challenge to read. There was as much trust and friendship between the two of them as both sides could fake, and over the very profitable years of dealing with the information broker, the mask of civility had grown roots, at least for her. That was dangerous, she knew, but for all he probed her for gossip and secrets, she always learned more than he did. Under that garish red shin length tunic dress, forming loose curtains over his fat protruding belly, was an excitable dick, as short and fat as its owner, and it always meant she could guide his probing appropriately. A shame for him he’d never be able to lay eyes on his undoing.

His question was to gauge if a rival had made waves, and she let slip the truth, both for him and the person she actually wanted to hear.

“_She _is an Agent, and quite a pretty little one at that.”

From the corner of her eye, Mr Drogger shifted, leaning forward a little more attentively. All good so far.

Mojarieal, supressing a cough, answered with perfectly constructed sincerity.

“Goodness, they get bolder by the day. Makes you long for an honest guardsman.”

Again, ‘Mr’ noble twitches, sensing the slight against his kind, and Captain Wendigo smiled. The Agents of the Principalities may have been made by the nobility, but to hold that inauspicious history against any individual seems petty. As individuals, they’d all done far worse after all.

“May I ask what you plan on doing with her?”

The oddly polite question came from the usually foul mouth of Mr Drogger, and it was a welcome one to Wendigo’s ears. He was asking exactly what she wanted him to ask.

“Oh, well,” she pretended to think for a moment, as though caught off guard, “last I left her, Fainus was enjoying her charms.” She glanced back to the top of the stairs for clarity. Fainus, based on his usual performance, had likely a minutes humping left before he painted her _charms _with every drop of said enjoyment.

Oddly enough, ‘Mr Nokim’, who had perked up at word of a lady assassin, grew disinterested at the news of her current predicament. Sympathy wasn’t in it, and beyond the risk of him doing something stupid, she did not care.

“I was going to invite Mojarieal up next,” she made sure to touch the fat trunk of his arm tenderly, “and see if he would like to turn her over and enjoy the rear side of her _virgin _charms as well.” She put on a concerned expression and looked at Mojarieal sickly face with wide eyes, “That is, if you’re feeling up to it of course!”

They had talked in the past, and she remembered well the kind of things he spoke of wanting. Oh, he was never one to slight or turn down the services of an experienced woman, at least in her presence, but given the choice, he was the type to choose fresh over ripe and ready. He’d even lamented that his recent guest confused one of his young daughters for one of his often younger concubines, taking her virginity and, apparently, worth. He was _that _kind of person, and the quick dart of a tongue showed his interest.

He sniffed deeply, trying to sound healthy and failing. “The best way to get rid of a cold it to pass it on, yes?” He glanced up the stairs, his distracted face a little worried. “Though, I would have to see the… asset in question first, and I’m sure we have much to discuss before any such things?”

Captain Wendigo smiled at him, squeezing his arm as she sensed his unease. Fainus had proved the girl wasn’t a virgin, and was no doubt cumming inside her right now, but he’d have no stamina to stick it anywhere else, and Wendy knew, from her kiss and from years of experience, that the girl’s arsehole had never been fucked. It was no man’s land, and even if all her instincts failed her, no man could tell.

Mr Drogger twisted his lips, clearly wishing to push the question; his face screaming ‘What then? What will you do with her after that?’ Instead, he adopted a confused, thoughtful look, tilting his head as though trying to remember.

“Don’t you have guardsmen for sale as well?”

Wendigo smiled. It was a well phrased question, as though the girl was already for sale. She turned to him and once more looked at his gaunt and cruel appearance, his bare tattooed arms tucked into his belt as though uninterested in what she had to say. Captain Wendigo hated him. Not for the **** trading, as most would, but for his character. In her life, she’d had to deal with only a dozen or so people like him, and she recalled them all, especially from before her captaincy. Whore killers; the kind of men who got hard from hurting people, or breaking them in his case. She had scars from men just like him, and in some very delicate places. Sure there were men who liked a rough fuck, even those who only liked it when the other was unwilling, and not a small number of them made up the average pirate crew, but his kind of evil was smart. Slavery was a good business for him to be in.

She thought for a moment, not needing to act as she recalled the two men taken captive recently and locked up in the cellar with the others. Slavery was an unpleasant business and she preferred looted gold and supplies over things that need cages. Still, she reasoned that enslaving people was better than killing them. It was only people like Mr Drogger that could make her doubt that.

“I do. Two of them in fact.”

“Perhaps this Agent of yours could be included in that deal?” Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Bekinsail, the curmudgeonly last man who had, until this point, remained silent, spoke up.

“You’d _buy _one of those animals?”

A look of distaste twisted his old taught skin as he spoke, and while he didn’t deal in people or livestock as a rule, his doubtful expression was clearly aimed at the worth of an Agent over the business of a slaver.

“Who wouldn’t?” Mr Drogger shrugged as though it were obvious. “I know several darkstreet brothels where an attractive female… law adherent would be worth…” A small fortune, Captain Wendigo mentally completed. “…a good amount. That is, if she isn’t too used.”

The last part is question and warning both. Captain Wendigo ignored it for now.

“Hmmm, I suppose I could sell her to you. You’ll have to take her from here tonight though.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want her to be here tomorrow.” Telling him about the deal would only give him more negotiating power. Better to answer his other question instead. “As for her being used,” she leaned in close, as though telling a secret to the men, “she’s actually a woman lover, and one so prudish she’d never even kissed anyone before, unless I miss my guess.” She looked to Drogger specifically. “My _very _good guess. Good for your needs I think. Not so good for hers.”

A man going to a darkstreet brothel and asking for a way to get back at the law isn’t looking for a tumble full of giggles and moans. The less she enjoyed it, the more they will pay.

He rasped his slightly stubbled jaw with thumb and forefinger for a moment. “Hmmm. You know I don’t have room in my ship for cargo today.”

“I know she’s a slip of a girl who’ll spend more time tied to your bunk than in your hold.”

She didn’t know that, though she knew he had room and would try her at least once.

”Well, we’ll see. I still need to look at the guardsmen first.”

A quite descended on the conversation, and while it left nothing for Mr Drogger to do but consider the merits of his purchase, Wendigo was relieved when the ever probing Mojarieal turned to Mr Bekinsail.

“You dislike Agents?” An obvious question, but no information flows unless the broker asks.

“Hmf! I had a run in with some. They burned down one of my warehouses. I had to hire a dozen men to find out where they lived. They’re like rats.”

Captain Wendigo was about to inject her own thoughts on them, how they are growing more infamous or that many people have similar tales; something tailored to increase the girls worth. Instead, Fainus chose the moment to walk through the double doors at the top of the stairs, aligning the hem of his cream coloured silk britches and drawing all eyes to him.

His face was flushed red and grinning a wide satisfied smile, and Captain Washkin couldn’t help but return it and ask a question of which she definitely knew the answer.

“Enjoyed yourself?”

He pulled the tight material about his crotch while walking down the stairs tiredly, and his step both limped and sprang with his mood.

“Tightest wettest pussy I’ve ever fucked; tight as a maiden! How old is she? 17? 18?”

She couldn’t help but widen her smile. “Older than she looks I’m guessing.” It would be far easier sell high with Fainus gushing to the others. The worst thing she could have done is overhype the girl, but if someone else does it then all the better. As a bonus, the girls next lover looked about to burst with anticipation.

“Mojarieal, perhaps you and I should-“

“Of course.” The obese man cut her off with eager politeness.

Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin turned to Fainus as he descended the last step.

“It was good to speak to you again Fainus.”

Leaning close, she kissed his pimply cheeks, left, then right, and finally she gave him a friendly peck on the lips, the thin pubescent hairs of his upper lip tickling her. The ruddy face lined with the red spider web veins of a user, sheened with a sweat that had caught and held his limp greasy locks, beamed at her like a happy child. Men were all children at the end of the day, and whether their toys were the hard metal of swords or gold, or the soft flesh of a woman’s pussy, pleasing them was no great achievement.

She squeezed his upper arms and moved around him, looking ahead to find, for the first time, the fat man ahead of her on the stairs.

This one may be more difficult.

She knew what he liked and had set a fine platter to satisfy him, but overweight clients were always a bother. She considered the mechanics of it for a moment; that the girl will need to be on the end of the bed, or be retied in a different position. She wouldn’t bend willingly of course, but she’ll need to be as bent as possible to get under his gut, and for her own benefit as well, if that mattered. He may not want to stand for too long either. Obese clients can be such a pain.

But first, the negotiation. He stopped himself at the door, waiting for his host lead him further, and the captain took the chance to slow and let his need stew. Soft weeping cries wafted softly through the doors, and she let them marinate in the fat man’s ears.

Yes, the negotiations would be much easier than what came after. For everyone involved.