…let go of the dagger, breath through your nose, and say it.

You **** your hand to let go of the dagger, the time is not right to let your body take action without the consent of reason. You swallow again, and once more after, one for the taste and one for your pride.

“I...am a whore.” The words burn on your tongue, adding their flavour to the one already coating your mouth. You watch his member shrink before you, like a fire dying to embers. The strands of semen that link you to him steadily break one by one.

“Mmmmhumm” he growls with lazy satisfaction. “But ‘ore’s ain’t allowed on our ship like proper crew see, Captain Roland won’t let em. No, not even you”, he shakes your head from side to side as he continues his mockery. “You want to get on board then I could give you a mention. Stick my neck out for ya, since you was so quick sticken yours out fer me.”

This idiot actually thinks you want to join his band of savages? You consider this for a moment; he was going to ask about the uniform sooner or later, and the explanation he offered was as good as any. You nod your head, this time unaided.

“Yeah? You’ll share my hammock though. Do what you just done fa me every night, an I’ll see no one else touches ya less I wan em to. Eh? We got a deal?”

You nod your head again, agreeing to the proposition that no sane person would, anything to get away.

“At a girl. Keep behaving, and I’ll wait till your good and ready for I put a babe in ya.”

How generous of him. You bring your hands up and button your top closed.

He still holds your head; you can tell play time isn’t over.

“Unless you changed your mind? Ey? Want it in you right now? Drinkin down Berk junior got you wet?”

Your disgust wars with your savage amusement. Berk? His name is actually Berk? No wonder he turned to a life of crime. Keeping your face neutral isn’t hard. He could probably enforce his suggestion if he wanted to, and was able. You shake your head from side to side.

“No? Just a natural dick sucker then ey?”

You wonder what the best response to such an absurd question could possibly be before deciding to simply nod your head.

“Nah, that’s not good enough. Not for my future bunkmate. Ya got to say it.”

You briefly close your eyes and muster your resolve.

“I’m a natural...dick sucker.”

He grins down at you, offering further instruction.

“Say wot an onna an a privilege it was ta drink down me juice.”

Your jaw tightens, not wanting to simply acquiesce without a fight. This man wouldn’t know honour if it bit his dick off. In a flat, cutting voice you respond.

“It was an honour and a privilege to...drink down your juice.” Again your mouth burns, from both the words and the lingering taste of said ‘juice’.

He gives you an expectant look and realising what he expects you add through gritted teeth, “Thank. You.”

With his thumb, he wipes away a tear you hadn’t noticed as it runs down your cheek.

He chuckles to himself. “I love it when the posh bitches talk gutter. When you got words that sound all good, but you still got to take a dick. You may think yer better than me, but in the end, yer still just another cunt what needs a good fuckin. We leave tomorrow. Find us on the docks midday and bring them lips. I’ll teach ye yer place.”

He uses his hand to shove you to the floor, a state from which you quickly pick yourself up and start walking down the alley, hopefully towards the manor. You feel his eyes on you, no doubt on your posterior, but he doesn’t move from his spot and you round the corner without incident, passing through a tighter alley to re-join the main street.

What just happened swirls in your mind, but its contemplation put on hold. Before you step out, the glow of a lantern catches your eye, radiating across the street, causing you to press yourself up against the nearby wall and hide in the shadows there. A large group of about thirteen pirates, all in red and white and wearing discontented scowls, walk down the street, passing your shadowy alley without incident. As you stand there, waiting for them to pass, you hear words echo in your mind. Your words. His words, even if they were **** out of your mouth. You close your eyes, the still fresh and echoing words fading to insignificance against the backdrop of what he made you do. Did he make you do it? You offered. That you ever would is a shock of its own to you; a choice you never thought yourself capable.

Does that make it better?

You…suppose. Looking at it one way (the practical and hopefully not self-deluding way) it is better to take control than have that control taken from you. If it was a choice you made, it was not ****, but a clever ruse; the high road free of **** and the best of a very bad choice. It does make it easier to deal with in your mind. Slightly. Like the man you killed on the beach, who’s very clothes your wearing right now. Both bad things done to serve the greater good. You gather the moisture forming in your mouth, swilling it around before spiting it onto the floor. It dribbles from your mouth and down your chin, more due to your limited experience of spitting in the street than the vile contents you’re trying to get rid of. You wipe it away with your forearm, contenting yourself with the thought that his seed burns in the acid of your belly, rather than dig into the walls of your womb.

Seeing the street is now empty, you make your way up to the manor that should be at its end. You pass a set of ornate stone gateposts, lacking their metal gate, without even really seeing it, passing trees and following the dirt path with blind obedience. When the scrape of dried dirt turns to the crunch of gravel underfoot, you know you’re on the right track without looking. Your eyes instead look to the recent past, chasing meaning within the events both pre and post the inns main hall. Putting aside the questions of the appetites of men and their cruelties, you focus on what you heard, specifically from the mutton chopped man. Bitch, whore, cunt; you sift through all the things he said you were and discard the irrelevant. ‘Captain Roland’, the man he said wouldn’t let whores on the ship; I that was more useful; seems he is the one that Captain Washkin is meeting. You think of all that you know about him, remembering the neat pile of notes you made back home containing all your notes on all her pet captains.

His colours use to be purple and green so they must have been changed recently, though why you can only guess. He and his crew focused on raiding the southern seas before he was chased far into the north, where you thought he still was. He has been one of Washkin’s subordinate captains for some time, but kept at a distance for some reason, likely for his overly violent temperament. He has the reputation for brash, sometimes thoughtless action leading to tactical simplicity, which is the main factor that has limited his rise to power and **** him to side with more devious scumbags. You know nothing more about him as you really didn’t expect it to be him she was meeting.

The gravel continues its crunch under your feet and the more you filter the Berks words, the more irrelevant the dregs you’re left with become. He called you a whore. While you disagree with his label, you did voluntarily suck upon his manhood. You...satisfied him with your mouth. Were even the one to suggest it. To avoid ****, to continue the mission, to just get away from him; either way you provided a ... service in exchange for what you want. You spit him out again, more successfully this time.

You’re not a whore. You’re just...not.

The path splits in two, one wide and going to the front of the house while another is thinner and goes to the back, and for the first time in the walk up, you look at the building you had been approaching. You’re close now, foolishly, faced with the wide expanse of a long buildings end. There are some windows on the lower floor but most of them show complete darkness and look quite sturdy. Large stones make up the building, which must have been an absurd undertaking considering the size of the island; each would have to have been brought by ship and dragged up from the docks. Where not weather worn, the stonework bares some ornate chiselling, giving the place a tired look of dilapidated grandeur.

Following the main path around the house and keeping a more present mind, you see the long front of the building and walk its length to the inlet of an entrance. Within a cleft of its front face, a sturdy front door is guarded by an even sturdier looking man. Built like a bull, he leans against the wall, watching you with one hard eye from a slab like face of hard angles.

Hoping your disguise will be enough to gain access; you walk up to the door and start to open it. His eyes follow you, judge you, and seem to note down everything about you, but his body remains steadfastly leaning against the wall. You brace for a challenge -some request for a password or secret handshake or requested bribe- but none come. Perhaps he sees you as a harmless whore as well. Perhaps not.

As soon as the door swings open, you step through and into the manor.