New rules for these seas

Joana/Captain Belinda lay sprawled across the tangled cushions, chest rising and falling, thighs still twitching from aftershocks. Her new body might’ve lacked the soft weight of breasts, but the trade was worth it-tight, slick, and alarmingly responsive, she had never felt so sharply tuned to herself.

“A furnace...” she murmured again, brushing damp hair from her cheek, “and filthy in the best possible way.”

She stared at the pendant resting between her collarbones. The RAC’s disguised form pulsed faintly at her touch, warm against her skin like a sleeping heart. The arcane shell shimmered softly, and in response, a narrow interface blinked to life-hovering just above her chest in ghostly luminescence. Delicate. Sharp. Unreasonably powerful.

Seventy hours left in this reality. Her breath caught as she considered the number. Plenty of time, but not forever. She traced the shell’s edge with a fingertip, then leaned in close, lips brushing the pendant as she whispered her command-precise, practiced, and pure science cloaked in sorcery:

"Settings. Reality Context Modifiers. Global Cultural Layering. Pirate culture… broad."

The necklace flickered obediently. Surprisingly, the categories shifted and appeared in her mind's eye. She commanded it, her eyes narrowing with a grin as she formed her wish:

“All-female pirate crews are common; mostly lesbians. Masculine pirates extremely rare and often seen as cursed.”

She tapped her fingertip gently against the necklace, sealing the change. The shell pulsed once-deep and resonant. The air rippled like sound under water. A muffled thoom reverberated through the tent walls. Outside, the voices shifted. Higher. Lighter. Laced with teasing laughter and confident swagger.

Joana/Belinda smiled as the world subtly rewrote itself around her. She leaned back into the cushions, letting her fingers rest over the pendant.

“Now that’s more like it,” she whispered.

Joana/Belinda crawled toward the tent flap, curiosity piqued. She pulled it aside just enough to peek out.

The camp was the same in layout, but the cast had changed entirely. Where once there had been shaggy men with sunburnt beards, now there lounged a sea of beautiful, leather-clad women. They were lean and toned, with confident swagger and glittering eyes. Some bare-armed, others in cropped vests or flowing coats, all tattooed and sun-kissed and unmistakably female.

One leaned against a crate, laughing with a dagger balanced on her finger. Another was stripping out of her soaked shirt, revealing pierced nipples and a glistening six-pack. A third woman sauntered by in thigh-high boots and a blade at her hip, smirking as two younger crewmates followed her like puppies.

Joana/Belinda blinked.

“Oh, hell yes.”

But something felt… incomplete. Yes, they were beautiful, yes, the energy was more enticing, but the spectrum still felt too broad. There were pretty women, but there were mostly... haggard women, of every size, shape, and style. Joana/Belinda/Belinda, drunk on power and fresh from orgasm, wasn’t ready for realism.

She was ready for indulgence. Her fingers flew to the necklace again.

"For my crew only... they must be universally attractive by any modern standard, sculpted, symmetrical, sexualized to bombshell extremes, wide cultural spread, but... uniformly breathtaking, voluptuous, toned, maximal curves, optimized aesthetics, minimal, flattering, and... sheer when wet”

She was really indulging now and mentally confirmed her change as she tapped the seashell again.

And this time, reality didn’t shiver- it purred.

A soft sigh of pressure passed through her tent like a sensual breeze. Voices outside shifted again-moans, giggles, low murmurs in flirtatious tones. The thump of heavy boots gave way to the clack of heels and the pad of bare feet in soft sand. Joana/Belinda pulled the tent flap wider now, emerging into the warm night air like a goddess descending.

The scene before her stole her breath.

Her entire crew had changed. They were still pirates-tattoos, scars, blades-but they were stunning. One woman leaned by the fire, a brown-skinned goddess with abs like carved stone and breasts straining against a tied-up shirt. Another danced barefoot in the sand, long white hair trailing behind her, silver bangles clinking at her wrists. A third approached Joana/Belinda directly-olive-toned, with deep red lips and a sheer sarong that left almost nothing to the imagination.

“Captain,” she purred, voice thick with suggestion. “Your bath is drawn.” Joana/Belinda just stared. Somewhere deep inside, the rational scientist part of her whispered about data integrity and **** of control. The rest of her-new body thrumming with power, senses drunk on heat and skin-just grinned.

“God, I love my work.”

She twirled the seashell pendant around one finger and stepped barefoot into the firelight. The crew parted for her like reverent devotees. Eyes watched her with hunger and awe. Pirate royalty had emerged, and her every step was a command.

And she had seventy hours left to rule.