The End.

[Hidden Chapter]

Now, as then, you float in nothing. An empty void stretches all around, infinitely, devoid of even you within it, your perceptions a hollow imagining. While there is nothing to indicate movement, the feeling of rising, or coalescing, prickles at your being. You’re not ahead, like before, body on the mortal earth and you in the ground below; only infinite dark nothing stretches out before you.

You must be very far away.

The thought echoes dreamlike in the nothing, vibrating with a tangible disruption. It begs for company. Before, in the dream you can only remember while dreaming, you could feel your body above, in the cold of the earth and the rolling small stones under your fingers. They feel numb now; non-existent. You reach out anyway, not physically, but mentally, groping blindly for a connection. The notion that your body is gone and lost in the nothing, that you are dead and relegated to spirt, is considered emotionlessly and thoughtlessly, like a confusing object there are no words to describe, and every time the hollow nothing void answers your search with its namesake, you consider it again.

Finally, something. Memories wash like seawater, back and forth, gripped in your memory for a moment only to slip away the next. Feeling returns as well; sensations mixing, smells and sounds equally muffled. They mix. You feel him on top of you, the memory given life, but the violation holds no pain and its dream reality is revealed. It fades like mist under morning, leaving only the hot wet afterglow of recollection.

Voices stir in the sounds, unintelligible and muffled, and you feel these as well are false. You begin to hear them as you want to; like faces seen in the shape of objects. They speak in the familiar words of your father, or the soothing coos of your mother. People from throughout your life come and give meaning to the muffled blur, and each gives you more of yourself while leaving you more and more lost. Up is no more, but neither is the thoughtless void. It tangles you like webbing and leaves you lost within, present but powerless, and you don’t even know which way to struggle, so infinite and suffocating is the darkness.

Then, you see her.

Like before, you, or the impression of you, lies on the grounds of reality, so far in the distance as to be a speck, a single dim star in an empty night sky. You move to her, rushing, clawing, falling, and tired. So tired. Tired and weak.

---

You open your eyes, which is odd.

Why having eyes is odd fades as fast as the dream that proceeded it.

You look about and find far odder sights than seeing itself. The roof is wood, but it’s quite close, and far in appearance from any ceiling beams. It’s angled oddly; sloped to one side, yet on both sides, and in a way that your eyes glide across its curves uncomprehendingly.

The delicate clink of tiny bottles comes from the side, and you roll your eyes that way, hoping their weight may turn your head. You feel so very weak. A grey shape bustles close by, hands working the unseen bottles. From the barefoot ankles poking out of the ragged grey skirt, pulled up and pinned under the press of squatting knees, you mark her a woman and yourself as laid on the ground. Her hunched squat is partially for the lowness of the ceiling.

She continues to work without care, giving you time to look about the place. Light streams in, orange and steadily dying, like a sunset, and from its angle, the low ramshackle shanty must be open to one side, painting you both by halves. A mothy curtain hangs, tied to a stick that can be pulled across as a faux door, and beyond the opening is the faint sight of sky. You cannot raise your head to see more, but ocean sounds can be heard, faint and melodic.

“Oh!”

Your eyes shift again, to the woman. She had turned after finishing whatever she had been doing and seen you with your eyes open. As if in sympathy, her own eyes were wide with shock. “You’re finally awake.” She smiles at you, and the wideness of her eyes doesn’t go away; it seems a permanent expression on her, leaving her looking naïve, and a little mad.

You try to talk. The powerful thirst within you leaves only one thing to ask for.

“Water.”

Your throat feels raw, and even the whispered words croak through it.

As though waiting for the word, she lifts the ladle in her hand, already full, and brings it to your lips. From her speed and eager expression, you half expect her to toss it at you, but instead she holds it carefully to your mouth and pours with a careful practiced measure. You don’t even cough or ****.

“Drink. Drink. Drink. Down it goes.”

She speaks the singsong words with each refreshing gulp that slides down your throat. She refills it and does it again, without you asking.

“Drink. Drink. Drinkety Drink.”

You swallow it gratefully. Her hand is steady and you are so weak you doubt you could raise your own to see if it’s even attached. The blanket over you is loosely thrown, and it feel light, which is welcome in the summer heat, but it may as well be made of rocks or mountain for all you can move it.

A twinge comes from a hard swallow, your side spiking with a sharp pain. As the empty ladle is taken away, you begin to ask.

“What happened? Where-“

“You were hurt,” She cuts you off with a high toned voice, like a child, “Then you got sick from your hurt and wouldn’t wakeup.” Her hand, again shooting quickly to your face as though to slap you, slows instantly before you can flinch and continues on to brush your cheek and your loose hair with surprising gentleness. “But don’t worry buttercup; Sarah is here. She brought you home when you washed to shore and she tended your wound. She knows the herbs, she gave you food and water and medicine. You’re ok.”

She strokes you in silence, looking at you without blinking, and when she speaks it’s with a similar suddenness; speaking loudly and not at all like her hands gentleness.

“Speaking of!”

She whips away, turning to the bottles she was working on and bringing a little dirty vial close to your lips with the same speed. It’s old and cracked, and looks more ancient for the green swamp water contents that’s clings to its sides. She brings it closer. It certainly smells like medicine.

“Medicine. Medicine.”

She says the words in a sing song voice and you wince down half of it. It tastes like swamp water as well, with a strong rooty undercurrent, but it distracts from the unpleasant dull presence of the wound in your side. She pulls the vial back.

“Medicine.”

And puts it to her own lips.

“Munnun,” she swallows, “Munnun,” and swallows, downing the rest.

After a satisfied exhale, as though quaffing a fine beverage, she places the empty vial into a box that you wrench your head slightly sideward to see. It’s half buried in the sand, at the edge of the thread bare sheet -the carpet come mattress- which makes up the floor of the hovel, and you see within it a collection of other bottles, most broken, along with string, roots, grasses, rocks, and other strange oddities of questionable value. The mighty (and quite tiring) tilt of your head, also gives some new perspective on the off kilter room. The ceiling is a boat. Rather, it’s the inner side of a rowboat, turned upside down and made into a roof. The sight of the fading half-light sky through a couple of deep cracks shows why it is perhaps a better roof than boat right now, though you suspect is doesn’t excel at either. It’s larger than the one you sailed upon last, and the flat side of its aft rests on the sands, while its bow is held up like a door arch. The sandy slope had clearly been dug out to accommodate and left it partially flat, though not completely, and scavenged flotsam seems to make up the rest, half buried in the sand. You see broken crates and cut planks, and some driftwood warped by the sea and piled up to its best effect; the whole thing is of hopelessly ramshackle construction.

“Suns almost gone.” She looks forlornly out at the red sky and sighs. “We’ve both worked hard and it’s been a long day,” she sings with made up lyrics and little real tune, “so buttercup and Sarah are gonna hit the hay.”

She smiles at you. It seems that you are ‘buttercup’.

As though it the most natural thing in the world, she crosses her arms and grabs below her arm pits, pulling the full length of her tatty dress over her head and leaving herself naked. You look away, using the last of your rediscovered strength to haul your head back up. The light goes out, the cloth door on a stick pulled to, and you feel the blanket on you shift as she climbs under. It makes sense; there is little room to spare; though it does make you aware of your own nakedness, especially as she shuffles to you and presses close. She cuddles you gently, like a stuffed animal, more by simple touch than gripping pressure, and you wonder how often she had done so before you woke, and where you are, and who she really is.

“What-“

“Shhhhh.” She silences you, stroking your face and making you thankful for the dark, glad to avoid the sight of her fingers racing towards your eyes again.

“Nobody else. Nothing to do now but sleep. You need sleep. Sleeeeeeeep.”

She shifts and a motherly kiss lands upon your forehead and manages to draw a yawn from you, wide and long. You are tired; for all your sleep before, it feels like do didn’t rest a moment of it. Still…

“How long-“

“Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeep.”

You pause, and feeling sleep draw close despite how you fight against it, you manage to at least say one thing.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. Sleeeeep.”

You fall asleep.

---

The next morning, you wake to the sound of your saviour’s moans. Confused at first, you quickly grow concerned at the angry, frightened tone of them, her body writhing under the sheets. In the faint light, you see no wrong, her eyes closed, and you count it as a nightmare. You touch her and try to coon, stroking her and saying her name until she begins to calm, her eyes finally opening and staring blankly ahead.

“Not yet.” She turns to look at you. “Not yet.”

Happy for her wakefulness and the end of whatever bad dream had claimed her, you smile, and she returns it. You’re repaid with a hand over your eyes.

“Sleeeeeeeep.”

---

Later, you awake far more naturally, to Sarah checking your wound and applying a green paste. Naturally, this means you lying naked before the woman, which is not a wakeup you find particularly welcoming, but its likely nothing that hasn’t happened before; you’re just awake to see it this time. You raise your head before even remembering the difficulty you felt before. The weakness is still there, but it feel like it’s fading, your body walking the long road to recovery. The scar at your side looks small, but you remember how deeply the blade had sunk. In your memory, it looked a fatal wound, but now it looks like nothing more than a nasty cut with a liberal scattering of dark bruises around it. The whole thing looks near healed, and you comment as such to Sarah.

“That’s because it is.”

She has a serious look on her face as she dabs more of the paste upon the scabbed crack. It seems an ill-fitting expression upon such naturally wide eyes, and for a moment the woman who seemed half mad the night before looks a stalwart professional in the morning light. She carefully scrapes her finger clean on the rim of her medicine jar and returns it to the half-buried cubby, along with her serious persona; a wide satisfied smile returns to her face and gives her a somewhat dopy expression.

Armed with many questions, each undimmed by the lingering lethargy of sleep, you continue your query about your healing scar.

“How long did that take? To heal, I mean.”

“Weeks, maybe.” She shrugs.

“Weeks?”

“A month and a half, maybe.”

“A month and a half?”

As conversationally poor the parroting of her words is, you don’t know what else to say. A week would be bad enough, weeks unreal, and a month and a half **** on a beach seems impossible. The unsure, and worse, unconcerned, way she says it only makes you doubt her more. Yet there is the scab; a thin line on the way to scarring.

“Explains why you’re so skinny. But you weren’t much better before.” You refrain from pointing out that she is little better than you. She covers you in the ratty blanket and lifts up a bowl. “Now you can eat breakfast so you have no excuses.”

The broth, for lack of a batter term, tastes like a watery pre-chewed bread with a mushroom undercurrent. Even as you ****, your hands still not strong enough to hold the bowl yourself, your body feels like its celebrating; going from empty to full in the space of a minute.

After, when you have both had your fill, you watch as she lifts her side of the blanket/carpet and pulls a large clear glass jar from the sand. It had been mostly buried, with only the tops flat cork available to those who knew of it, and it’s larger than all her rest: as thick as your palm and as tall as that again with fingers included. Past its sand smeared edifice, you struggle to see its contents, but the tell-tale rattle of copper pennies comes from within, and freely enough to speak of how empty it is.

“Got to get more money.” She uncorks it and tips the few coins into her hands, counting their low number out loud and with a measured slowness. Evidently, numbers are not her expertise, and you feel a moments thanks that she is spared the challenge of counting in teens.

“Oh dear.” She looks at them, as though willing them to multiply. It must have cost her a lot to keep you.

“Thank you.” You had already thanked her before, but that tired moment of returned life had already become like a dream itself.

She looks at you with confusion.

“For what?”

“The food. The medicine. Looking after me…All of it.”

She smiles, too wide to be considered normal, too childish to be considered adult, and she pours the coins back into the jar, talking as they bounce like metal raindrops.

“The food we can manage between us, and the medicine is easy; there’s all sorts growing on this island. Just got to know how to mix it.” She winks at you with both eyes. “And me, well, I don’t mind. Your feet are like hot coals though; no cure for that.” After returning the jar to the ground and covering it up, she runs her fingers through her hair and smacks her cheeks lightly with both hands. “Ok, I’ll go see what I can rustle up.”

After she had strode out the boat-house in as much a stride a hunch can bring, she straightened herself and disappeared from your sight, leaving you lying still and alone with your thoughts.

If she is out to get money, you must be on an island with other people. You recall the moments of that night, finding comfort in the distance between you and it; a month and a half suddenly seems too close. After…the man in the woods, you recall the docks and the fight and the fall into the waters of the long end of the pier. Hopefully the current took you far away, though you are no expert on the myriad islands of the archipelago. You’ll have to ask Sarah when she returns.

As odd as it is, you’ll also need to introduce yourself; you don’t fancy being ‘buttercup’ for ever.

As you listen to the sound of distant gulls and experiment with moving your stiff and weak body, you consider that, all things considered, this is quite a lucky outcome. You could be the plaything of those scum in the hold of their galleon, weeks into their company. You could be bloated and floating out at sea, or in some fishes belly. The idea that you could also be turning in a bounty of 50,000 gold doesn’t even cross your mind; you realise now that there was never much hope of that. Instead, you’re awake, you’re healing, and you’re getting stronger by the day. Tears form in your eyes. Gods you’re lucky. So very, very lucky.

Sometime later, after the morning had turned to a sunny mid-day, your saviour returns in the company of another. You hear them talk at first, their words smothered by the gentle sounds of the sea, and as they near to sight, standing some distance outside the boat house, they still aren’t clear. The feat of lifting your head had fallen within your grasp in the hours after eating, and with it you see an old man; older, you should say: about twice your age and greyed perhaps before his time. The bend in his back and his sunken mouth make him look ancient, yet his face is free of all similar markings, save the spider web lines about his eyes and a somewhat weathered look. Her father perhaps? There is little family resemblance.

They smile and step close, into a kiss: a meeting of the mouths that slips into the intimate crashing of open lips and darting tongue. Not father and daughter then, at least you hope not. She rests her hands on his shoulders and he on her behind, squeezing quite tight through her skirt. Husband and wife? He may be older than her by many years, as she perhaps has only one or two on you, but such couples are hardly rare. After a squeeze or her rear, he moves to her chest and well past decency. Her hands fall to his, to push him off, you think, yet are proven wrong almost instantly. She pulls down the loose fabric of her dresses bodice, baring herself to his touch, smiling against his lips, joining in his indecent behaviour.

You let your head drop, saving her from your sight and speculation. If that’s her husband or lover or something more…practical; well, whatever she wants to, or has to, do, you suppose.

The light goes out, and looking up again, you see them both close to the entrance, with Sarah crawling in and dragging the man behind her.

What. The. Fuck?

You’re speechless. As he follow and she, still very much bare chested, draws in close for another kiss, it’s very apparent that their passions are not done. Indeed, they only grow stronger, and you are left very much aware that below your scrap of blanket, you lie very much naked.

“Oh,” she kisses him, her mouth making messy noises against his as she lathers his mostly toothless gums with her tongue, “Oh, that’s it big boy,” she falls back, onto the cloth next to you where she slept the night before, pulling him down, but mostly forward in his crawl, “you know what to do.”

They both pick up her skirt, which bundles in a thin heap about her belly, and her thighs lift about him, parting and welcoming like raised banners for some noble visit. He grunts. She gasps, and breathily whispers while stroking his back.

“Oh. You know what to do.”

And…do it he does.

You, lying so close to her that her bouncing thigh touches you periodically and his forearm is up against your shoulder, stare at the ceiling, trapped in the most awkward moment of your life. This is her home, you suppose; it’s not like there are multiple rooms or multiple beds, or beds at all really. Where else is she to…_entertain _male guests?

“Ahh! That’s it! Fuck my little cunny big boy!”

Still, you wish you didn’t have to hear that, or hear that, between her legs, like the slop of the breakfast gruel. It drums with the sound of their shaking breaths, thumps with the beating of the sand below. You want no part of it!

“Uuuuuugh. Yer friend,” he swallows, directing the pause in his panting breath at you, “she part ‘a package? Eh?”

You tense up even more, eyes closed, ridiculously feigning sleep. Not husband and wife then.

The memory of the man before had faded somewhat, despite its trauma; it was too close to the dream, both before and after. The edges of the memory and your intimate recollection of the event, while clear in concept, had faded in detail, but even so, your womanhood clenches at the thought of another rough man between your legs, and you shudder with the thought that you’d be too weak to stop him.

Salvation comes from your moaning nurse.

“Mmmm,” she strokes up his back, urging him to continue, “no.”

You could kiss her, were she not similarly engaged with him at the renewal of his thrusting. As their lips part to panting, she continues on as though nothing had happened.

“Ugh, no, she costs extra.” She strokes his face. “Twice the women, twice the cost.”

He doesn’t respond, moaning now with each disjointed hump. His passions rise, and oddly enough, Sarah’s cools off, fading into the odd ditzy curiosity of before.

“Is this a no to that?”

“UUUUuuughaaa. Haaa. Ugghh.”

Her hips, pressed against yours, rides up as she is pushed, his weight drawn towards his deepest penetration. You ignore the noises, and keep looking at the ceiling. It’s still a boat. She lives under an upturned boat. Why, by starlight, did you think husband? You’d cover your eyes with your hand if you could, but your desire to stay as much under the covers as possible, as well as not to draw notice, wins out.

After he finishes himself, he rests upon her for a moment, her hugging him and, you’re sure, at least for a moment, patting his back like a toddler that tried his best. He recuperates enough to slide lazily off her, her shuffling away and him lying between you, both of them panting hard. You grip the blanked with what little strength you have, keeping it close. The smell of their sweat and fluids is unescapable, but fades with a lucky breeze through the open door, which cuts through the heat and the threat bare blanket to blessed effect.

They are both still clothed, save upon the places clothes were made to cover, and you wonder how they can both be the more dressed of the three of you; it seems an unnecessary flourish to the absurd situation. The seconds tick on, longer without a clock to do the ticking. Should you… make conversation? Perhaps introduce yourself or comment on the fine weather? You almost bark a mad laugh; somehow your mind found a way to make it _more _awkward. Go you.

You remain quiet as they recover, a feat Sarah manages first as her breathing returns to an even keel. The man, whoever he is, is close. He touches you at the shoulder, his weight pulling and pinning the blanket until there is a thin space of chill at your other side. One side of you cools while another grows hot, but the discomfort of both is absolute. How many times had Sarah done this while you were ****? Defenceless? Any of the men could have-

You feel a hand on your thigh, over the sheet, lightly gripping and slowly drifting up. A grunt of discomfort escapes your lips, your hand sliding down under the sheets to intercept his and protect yourself. You look at him, and he is looking at you, smiling. You look away.

“Ah, ah, not without pay-ying.”

Sarah lifts her head, reaching over and pulling him off you. She rolls atop him, with difficulty, throwing her leg over and tangling it with yours, until she straddles him, her head close to the ‘ceiling’ and his hands placed firmly on her hips. She smiles down at you both, mostly at him, her bared chest getting a smile back, and she speaks after solidly grinding her hips against his for a moment.

“Heh, why are you tryna grab at her when I can _feel _you aint got another in you.” You watch her hips roll, the sound of ruffled fabric drowning out other, slicker sounds.

His hands snake up, to her back, under her arms, pulling her forward.

“Well, sometimes, I just can’t help me self.”

She falls with his pull, leaning towards him and shuffling up, letting her exposed breasts lead the way to his face. They are quite unlike yours; all pointed slope and ending in puffy points, dangling like cherries over his puckered toothless mouth. You look away again, the declined spectacle giving chase to your senses in the form of loud sucks and delicate giggling.

He leaves, eventually, and with no further incident. His last act is standing at the entrance, bathed in sunlight, tossing two coppers at Sarah with a smile and a nod.

“Bonus for the titty suck.”

She scoops them both up, smiling with her wet points still showing.

“You’re a sweetheart!”

The sand stirs as he walks away, a few stray stones clattering as he kicks them loose, and you’re left with your saviour, who waits a moment before uncovering the buried jar and depositing her earnings with an empty rattle.

You feel…conflicted. On the one hand, you feel a little hurt; she did that next to you, and even offered you at one point, leaving you wondering sharply about her motivations. And yet, she cuts a tragic figure; a skilled healer, but also a touch soft in the head, with a childlike innocence, even while doing such adult things. Perhaps in a better world, prostitution would not have been her path. Still, you do have questions.

You watch her carefully wiping herself with a rag, swabbing free the seeded garden of her sale while humming tunelessly. Like with the man, she ignores you as she works, but this time you cannot stay quiet.

“What did you mean about paying? For me, I mean.”

“Oh, well,” she looks at you briefly with a smile, turning back to her task as she talks. “I figured, with you awake now, two at a time and we could charge him more, or something.”

She shrugs, her attitude apparent as her shoulders convey a simple ‘That’s all there is to it’. She shows little concern for what you think, but it’s less than callousness; her voice contains nothing but simple practicality, the prospect of you joining her in prostitution a facet of normality. Perhaps she already thinks you such? How often do circumstances conspire to wash a naked woman upon a shore?

You think for a moment.

Depends on the shore, you suppose.

“Where are we?”

She chuckles to herself, as though your words a jest.

“Wendigo island, silly.”

Your blood runs cold. The same island; you never left, just floated out and floated back! You try to think of the moment, but there is no point, it’s too blurry. Could her crew know? Would they have left you here if they did?

Sarah flicks the rag she was using, sending droplets of wetness in a lazy arch out the door hole.

“Need more clients today if we’re going to get breakfast tomorrow.” She says to herself idly, looking at the rag as though it was solution and mystery both. You lick your lips and ask, carefully,

“Has anyone…come looking for me?”

What would you do if they have? Lay low? There is no running for you right now. You add ‘getting clothes’ to the top of your priority list.

“Sure.” Your blood goes from cooled to frozen at her word. Who? When? Was it…

No. The idea that it would be that same hateful man is just a paranoid fantasy.

“Oh!” She looks struck, as though given the answer. “Yes, I could go fetch him! So strange to think you two haven’t met yet; he’s here all the time. He says he likes you though. And he’s the second mate of a rich man’s ship. Pays good money.”

You have to ask, though you suspect you already know.

“Good money for what?”

She pauses as she steps out, shrugging and tossing the rag down next to the driftwood wall for unintended emphasis.

“Just pussy stuff.”

She leaves, the empty blue sky taking her place.

---

The time you spend alone, waiting for her return, is a strange mix. The minutes drag for boredom, bereft of things to see, people to talk to, or the strength to really move. However, they also move quickly, the incoming awkwardness visible on the horizon, even from where you lay. You spend the time straightening the blanket with your arms and hands, keeping them under the cover. Too closely pressed and you feel as though your bodies curves are shaped for all to see by the material. Too loose and you fear exposure. It’s a dichotomy that has you constantly readjusting everything again and again, distracting you from her words.

Why would this ‘second mate’ come looking for you? And who is the rich man he is second mate to? Could it be Captain Roland? Could the second mate be… here to check if you’re awake? What will he do if he finds you so?

Questions without answers shuffle about your head, and unlike the coppers in Sarah’s jar, they’re too tightly packed to make any noise or headway. You need to get off this island though, that much is clear, but even there you are limited by your recovery, then by transportation. Your guide will be long gone, to the point of writing you off for dead, and you don’t even have money enough for food apparently, let alone clothes on your back. The problems stack up higher and higher the more you think on them, and the means of solving any are far beyond you reach right now.

And so you stretch your arms and legs as best you can, readjusting the blanket as best you can, and wait, as best you can.

When Sarah returns, you hear her chatting airily, her wide eyed face and ‘unique’ social skills clear in your minds eyes. When bare soled footsteps shuff through the sands to the door, you expect to see her face. Instead, it’s a man’s.

It’s a squat face, with a narrow jaw and bug eyes rimmed with black bags. A slap of black hair thins upon his head, and his face hardens to see you, as though you were the intruder instead of him. Oddly enough, Sarah still talks outside, and when the man turns away from you, to her, you see why. She kneels in her dress before another man, shirtless and broad shouldered, with a plane long face, all chin. She talks up at him, her hands on his trousers; the source of both the bored and eager parts of his odd expression.

“She’s awake!”

The man at the door shouts at Sarah, his words accusatory. Did he not expect you to be so? The man with Sarah barks a ‘hey!’ back, frustrated at the distraction levied at his purchase.

Sarah shrugs.

“Costs the same.”

The man grumbles, turning back to you.

In the new dark, his body blocking the light beyond, you watch as he pulls off his top.

“Sir.” You lick your lips. What do you say? What’s happening? A part of you knows, but perhaps if you deny reality long enough, it won’t be so!

He pulls the blanked off you in one solid tug.

You twitch as you try to cover yourself, a movement shooting a spasm pain through your side, which requires a lethargic hand to clutch.

“Sir!” You wince, watching his silhouette come closer, crawling inside. “Sir, I don’t know what you-“

His hand covers your mouth.

“Just be quiet. I preferred it when you were quiet.”

His feet kick down his trousers, a process started with his other hands help, and your slowly writhing feet feel the material pushed to a bundle about the doorway, his legs fully free of it. Fighting is pointless; you feel so weak and he handles you like a kitten, barely feeling your resistance, until he wants to. Climbing between your legs, he enters you, pushing himself up the passage of your womanhood with a satisfied sigh.

Your first thought, beyond an anaemic dose of shock, is resignation. Despair is mixed in there as well, but far less than you expected, and there is little you can do but wait him out. You hand holds your side, your other uselessly touching him as though warding him away. Your legs are pushed apart by his idle moves, his side effect stronger than your resistance. Your mouth is pinned by his hand, and while it was needed for the first few violating movements of his penis, your hummed yell dies to a whisper quiet.

It’s hard not to compare it to what you remember of your last **** -on your back with a man between your legs- but for all its similarities, they are not the same. You remember the fear and the pain and humiliation before. Here, it feels almost pedestrian. He rests with his forearms about your sides, working with hips alone to send cock to your core. It doesn’t hurt. It isn’t fast or violent. He doesn’t even look at you, his eyes closed as he breathes into your face. It’s as though you just a hole: a tightness to grip and milk what he offers. Each push barely moves you, clearly conscious of your injury, and after a minutes or so, he moves his hand from your mouth to stabilise himself better.

“Oh Shashana,” he mutters. Whereever he is, whatever his closed eyes see, it has little do with this place or you. He moans as he humps, muttering again the word, “Shashana.”

You toy with a response, but don’t bother. What is there to say? What can you do that he cannot overpower or smother to silence? You lick your lips, close your eyes tight and open them, looking away, looking back, looking down at the place he violates so casually. Doing so gives wings to his thick feeling, the sight filling in the blanks of the image in your mind. The drive of hips into hips is near mechanical, yet still he works with eyes closed and mind away. You look beyond him, behind him; if he isn’t paying attention to you, you see no reason to do the same for him, despite the difficulty. You look for Sarah, spurred by anger and resentment, wishing to see the one who…let someone do this to you.

With his body lowered, Sarah is visible again, right where you left her, save for a minor detail that cannot be overlooked. She still kneels, but her head presses to his exposed crotch, and you watch it, bobbing back and forth, the man clearly enjoying himself. You watch, bereft of other distractions, as her hands hold his hips and his own rest heavily on her head. You watch, **** to escape, even visually, the man above you and the growing heat his cock brings below. You watch until the other man moans, her movements stilling, but not detaching, his body convulsing and his hands now holding himself steady to her.

Your man is close now as well, or you hope so, the press of his base growing more insistent as his tower finds no more push to gain. He feels hard and hot, like the man before at the same stage of your ****, pulsating against the tight passage of your furred lips and feeling fit to burst within your inner valley. He no longer moans the name, or moans at all, his heavy breath and scrunched brow laden with concentration. You want no part in its end, so you look away again.

Sarah’s head is now free, and bobs again with what you assume is a needlessly theatrical swallow. Perhaps it’s for the man’s benefit, but no spit comes and you’re left with a growing acceptance of its sickening sincerity. She stands, leaning forward for a kiss, but the man seems to share your feelings somewhat, pushing her back to thump her behind into the sand.

“Not with that mouth. Here.” He tosses a small collection of copper coins at her before walking away.

“And a thank you very much!” Most would say those words with affront, or sarcasm. She just sounds happy.

With a long sigh, the man above deflates, blowing out air, and blowing out seed. You feel the wet heat bloom from his stilled cock end, his hairs and yours tangled as he forces the mess in deeper. Load given, he gives a few more thrusts, letting your grip squeeze out his softening member before its removal. He leaves tiredly, without looking at you.

“I preferred her when she was asleep.”

The words sicken you, competing with the overly cheery response given.

“She’ll be asleep next time if you want!”

He too tosses a scant handful of copper pieces, the cost of your body, along with your pride and dignity, into Sarah’s outstretched hands.

“See to it.” He grumbles, walking away in the same direction as the other man.

You feel ill; dizzy with unwanted revelation, and weaker than ever. You watch your saviour enter, only she never was your saviour. She was, and still is, your pimp.

“How many times?”

She looks at you with confusion, lifting the cloth and pouring the coins into the jar to fall like metal rain against the glass.

“How many times what?”

You try to stay patient, feeling your teeth grind together.

“How many times has that happened, with a man, while I was asleep?”

Perhaps it was triggered by your question, or simply overdue, but she runs her forearm across her lips, wiping them clean before reaching the same rag from the morning. She brings it to your crotch and begins to wipe.

“Oh.”

Her response to your question makes her sound bored, as though she couldn’t care less. Her fingers dig and wipe with practical and well-practiced precision, like she did with your wound, but it just annoys you, and the fact that you couldn’t push her off any more than the man who made the cut, or the man just now, leaves you doubly frustrated.

“With him, or with men in general?”

Your mouth twists sharply down, your response given through clenched teeth.

“Both.”

“Oh. Well,” she shrugs, her eyes on your body and the task at hand, “with him, I don’t know, he’s been coming for the last few weeks, so, thirteen? Fourteen? Maybe twelve?” She nods to herself. “He likes you a lot.”

A part of you is too numb to accept it, like being told by a healer that you have some fatal illness. Fourteen times!? And that’s not even including…

“And…in general?”

That question has her more considering, finishing her task and moving the rag hand to under her chin.

“Hmmmm. I don’t know.” She squints in remembrance. “Non until a couple weeks in, when you were healed enough. After that first guy, at least one a day. More now with your admirer. So I guess…” She counts on her fingers. “Six-sixty? No that’s not right. More than a month, but less than two months.”

She seems satisfied with her answer. Thirty minimum, sixty maximum. You’ve been **** an average of 45 times on this island, plus 2 for certain. The numbers seem unreal; like something found in a dry log book. Each was a man. Each was a ****. Each was a time that she sold you.

She looks at you as though confiding some exciting secret.

“I think we’re on a roll tonight. We can get breakfast, but if we can get more, we can get you some clothes!”

You feel your anger begin to melt away in the face of her wide eyed sincerity. She’s a whore, with only half a mind, and you pity her. You hate her also, and try to hold on to it, feeling the emotion slip through your fingers as she smiles so earnestly. She did the best she could. You’re alive. No one **** the men to hand over their coin.

After staring at her grinning face in silence, she moves a finger to your nose, pressing it with a light tap and moving to head out.

“Wait.” You don’t want to ask this, and don’t really need to, but at the same time… “Did they all…” You glance your eyes down at your crotch, still exposed without the sheets return. “…like the last man?”

“What?” She looks confused, perhaps unaccustomed to subtlety, and you have to rephrase, pointing at your crotch. She wiped it a moment ago, you don’t know why you can’t just ask.

“Well, did they-“ You spread your legs a little. She looks down.

“Oh! Well, yeah. They fucked your pussy mostly. That guy used to eat it first like, but I think he got a nasty surprise when he wasn’t the first of the day, you know?” She thinks for a moment. “Annnnd I think there were a couple who did it to your face, three times for definite, but most did pussy stuff. I wouldn’t let them turn you or nothing cuz your wound.”

After what just happened, the image of men putting themselves into your mouth is only a dull ache. The real question you have is-

“W-what about…babies?”

She looks at you for a moment, as though you were the unhinged one.

“Medicine.”

Her finger points to the partially buried box with its jars, and she smiles at you with motherly affection before covering you with the blanket. After that, she darts forward as though to head-butt you, and after you flinch, all that lands is a gentle motherly kiss upon your lips.

“Wish me luck!”

She leaves you staring up at the ceiling.

---

---

You sit on the beach, in the doorway, looking out to sea and thinking of the last couple of months. The setting sun has a ways to go, and seems a fine accompaniment to you time here. You won’t miss this place. Not one bit.

In the weeks after you first woke, you slowly regained your strength. Like a new born, you began to sit up, then crawl, and finally take your fist shaking steps in what felt like forever. You didn’t go far with your new found freedom, especially at first. Despite her words, the dress came a week later and was more of an ad hoc affair from a few stitched patches of cloth; fine in the sun and the heat, and as you learned later, fine for business as well.

You kept the docks at arm’s length at first; the last you were dragged along its walkways, you doubt any man present was looking at your face, but for several weeks you steered clear from any workers there for fear of discovery. You had hobbled through the woods instead, the soles of your unshod feet hardening with the days as you grew your strength, until you misjudged your return and bumped into a few of the men heading to the local tavern. Only then did you realise the foolishness of avoiding them; they didn’t care you ran afoul of pirates then, and they still don’t. They aren’t paid for it.

Looking over to the distant docks, you see faint people milling in the distance; the new ship, a sloop, had brought in fresh visitors. Sarah should be there, seeing what its business is, which is a task you’ve left to her since an unfortunate run in with a face you recognised on a ship you didn’t. He didn’t recognise you though. You must have changed a lot since he last saw you.

It’s a small enough ship, yet tomorrow morning, when all is quiet, you’ll get a closer look. There’s rarely been any galleon sails rising over those warped wooden planks, save one exciting time Captain Washkin returned and you laid as low as possible. Still, ships aplenty dock to rest and resupply, or repair, or sell provisions to the islands quarter master, and from the clatter of hammers, you suspect repair and the formers. The men such ships disgorge are always of a disreputable sort: naturally knowledgeable of pirate dens and what such places can do for their needs. For all you wish to avoid them, they were and are a much fought over source of income for the female residents of the island, and to your eternal shame, you learned how to fight for them as well.

You sigh. Yes, there was only one way to get coin on the island, and you took it. You regret the need more than the acts. At first it was because you had ****; because when Sarah brought a man back to mount you and grunt like a pig until satisfied, you couldn’t fight back or do much of anything. Once you could walk again and had regained some of your strength, you did it because you still needed money, and because you didn’t fight back before.

****.

That isn’t to say you went all in. To both your shame and pride, and especially relief, Sarah continued to take the brunt of it, which she had always seemed happy to do. Double service is what you try to aim for in your sale; something no other women on the island could offer, save perhaps at the brothel in the village. It usually meant having your mouth licked out in an ungainly kiss, or having your nipples sucked, while Sarah got the load. A party of three meant two for her and one for you; you try to avoid anything more, needing to convince her to cast a narrower net when a big ship comes in, like this evening. Being less of a whore is a strange thing to be proud of, but more men means a greater chance that last line gets crossed, which you have no desire at all for. Even Sarah complains of soreness after that. Besides, convincing one man to part with more money is always preferred, even if it earns less than two men. Perhaps it’s cowardice: you hiding behind your friends skirts whenever a man wants a fuck. Perhaps it’s…

You go red faced at the thought, burning through your mind like a shooting star, in and out and gone sooner than you can see it. You shake your head, embarrassed by the old reaction. That’s not the reason, you remind yourself. Definitely not the reason.

You picture your odd friend in your mind, envisioning her wide eyes and gaunt face and big smile freed from sense and the constraint of social understanding. Her auburn hair had grown longer than when you woke, falling limp and lifeless from her scalp with a halo of the slightest frazzle. You find it everywhere, different from your own darker locks, which in fairness you also find everywhere, and it takes only a moment’s glance down to pull a strand from your top. You hold one end and run a nail down it, watching it curl. The permanent herb smell about her comes to mind, often mixed with sweat and sex, but you had grown inured to the latter two on yourself while the former was unique to her. When you slept together, that sent had kept you awake. Now it’s oddly reassuring. You smell the hair, but find none of it had lingered.

What could help _her _sleep? It’s a question you had asked yourself many times. The nightmares and odd dreams that came to her had been a nuisance at first, wakening you up with mumbles and moans, and even flailing arms. You assumed them mementoes of whatever ill fate had brought her here and robbed her mind, but bit by bit you had grown to see them for what they are. You’ve never believed in seers overmuch, or prophecy or fate, but some people do, and despite the tricksters and charlatans willing to part them from their coin, the image of the remote seer, cursed with foresight, was burned into the collective mind of the east and the west. There must be _some _truth to them.

She had known that man was going to die. That you would run into a cat (which didn’t exist on the island and needed a new ship to dock and loose one that morning). That it would rain the next day and that lightning would strike the mast of a docked ship (in the height of summer with no signs of cloud the day before). Upon questioning, even you had appeared in one of those dreams, and from it she had known where you were that night, at sea, bleeding in the dark waves. That you would live, and more that she would not say. You had grown prepared to be a believer, and you would freely, even gladly, trust that her dreams showed her some measure of the future, were it was not for one thing. Most of them nightmares.

You had seen her endure deeds that you would not do, and embrace a life that ate at your soul. She did so with a smile. She had told you of past deaths foreseen with a nonchalance, spoke of rapes she had endured as though bad weather. What could keep her tossing and turning and mumbling ‘not yet, not yet, not yet’ over and over?

You take a deep breath, trying to rid yourself of such worries. Perhaps they were simply regular nightmares. As far as you can see, things are looking up. Thanks to you taking over handling the money, and certain negotiations, the jar had filled substantially. Passage on a ship out of here could be bought within a few days!

Technically, you could leave now, assuming the docked ship would take you, but there are other problems to consider. This is no open port here; all crews are suspicious of all passengers. Sarah had already pointed out that most whores who travel do so by service, and they usually don’t fair well boarded with a hundred men for weeks at a time. Having enough to be self-sufficient, with food and a separate cabin, as well as enough funds to setup in a new city, requires more than just the cost of a basic journey. Nearly there. Coppers are worth much less than silver (despite all the things you have done to get it), but if you have enough of them it doesn’t matter.

Your mouth flattens to a line. It’s not the first time you had considered taking the jar and making the journey on your own, but no; you’re determined to take Sarah with you. She’s a skilled healer, who shouldn’t be rotting on this damned island, and a friend, more or less.

Again, the image streaks through your mind, this time stopping as though doing a double take itself. The client behind Sarah, kneeling, fucking her. Sarah on her hands and knees, head down, wide eyes up, locked on yours. You, on your back, legs spread as the client wanted, feeling each lick of her long and dexterous-

No. You don’t think of that. Not at all. You cross your legs. It was one time, a week ago. Two men had done a similar thing to you as well. She just…knew what she was doing. Makes sense when you think about it.

Maybe that’s why she’s such a good kisser as well.

Odd what some men ask for. There are some who request that you both kiss, or…more, and some who seem disgusted by it. The latter are few, moral decency not being the most requested service for prostitutes, and so the sale was often made on such promises. You had even encouraged it. Maybe next time, you could be the one that-

…

You’re thinking about it again.

To distract, you look about the little hut you will soon be leaving behind. It had grown some. Perhaps it’s being born a carpenters daughter, or being **** to look at it for weeks on end, but the boat house had to change.

It’s still a boat house -you couldn’t magic up anything nicer- but now it has more in the way of walls; finer branches foraged from the woods had been woven into the warped driftwood, with matted leaves still on their twigs in places. The roof is higher, and less slanted, and more sea worthy for the crude plugging of its holes. It would still sink, but at least rain will not flood you out. You spent a lot of time working on it all, building your strength and distracting from the less savoury work waiting when the sun went down. It even had decorations woven from grass and flowers. Leaving it behind gives you no sorrow; there are definitely more bad memories here than good, but the idea of someone else taking it over when you are gone, especially one of those other whores at the docks, gives you mixed feelings. It should all be gone by next year anyway, the high currents and strong winds of winter washing it away. That gives you a smile; the image of time washing all this away.

Sarah will return soon with one or more men, likely from the new ship. He or they would fuck and leave, and after another night or two with a sore cum filled cunt, exhausting the coffers of yet another group of travellers, you’ll finally be able to start the journey home.

Home.

The word seems alien. Is it the flat you rented on a beggars dose: the payment for your work as an Agent of the Principality? If it where you grew up, with your parents? The question of if you could look them in the eyes has no answer. The girl who left their door wanting to catch criminals and evildoers had now sucked and fucked more of them than ever caught. Are you even still an Agent?

Yes, is the answer. If anything, you’ll be better at it now: more willing to spread your legs to get where you want and learn what you want; It’s how the stereotype goes and why you never got on well with your fellow female Agents before. They had probably thought you naïve, and been monumentally right.

Perhaps Sarah will join you; she must know much about the **** trade, being so knowledgeable of herb lore.

You distract yourself with the future you envision, planning for what to do next and reminding yourself that it all depends on the boat, the destination, the willing captain and free cabin and many other variables. There is no need to rush, but you do want to. Just a few more days.

You spot Sarah in the distance, bringing the evenings haul.

It’s not just one man.

---

It had been a solid evening. Solid day overall really. Everyone was a little put out, what with the storm damage, but they had gotten to port and made profit enough for repairs and fun. Not that fun had had a high cost.

The sun had not long set and still painted the sky in deep yellows and purples, like old bruises, and Jered walked with fresh steps, alongside Zafeir, a man he had shared few words with, but now felt closer to. The dark skinned south man faded into the growing night, the little ring in the middle of his nose twinkling in the setting sun, and the whites of his eyes shining with tired mirth. Odd how sharing a whore could bring men together, but it could, and of the group that trudged back to their ship, he could count eight new brothers, and five new step brothers.

The dim embers of conversation smouldered at the back, talking of places and people Jered had no knowledge of: conquests of the past similarly shared by brothers of old. It was only when past met present that the embers caught.

“She was like the short one; kid body, but fine in the face. Not a full woman there.”

He was referring to the shorter whores tits, which Jered had also found lacking, despite choosing her as his whore of choice. There had just been something about that tight little behind that drew him in.

“Shorter was cuter though.” The words were spoken by the first new man to join the old conversation. There was a murmur of agreement, of which Jered silently partook.

“Cuter.” The man responded with good natured ribbing. “You sound like an old woman goin on about a kitty. Bug eyes was feisty.”

Another man joined in, from Jereds camp.

“Bug eyes was fucked up. Don’t no one want an ugly whore.”

The five men who Jered had not shared a woman with made dismissive noises, one rising above to make his case.

“She was _ok _in the face-“

Another man chimed in, “yeah she was” to a chorus of tittering.

“-and even if she wasn’t, ugly’s just got more to prove. Mean the pussy’s gonna grip more.”

This prompted a jeering response, which Jered could not keep himself from. The words were ridiculous, and the voices with the most authority, belonging to those who had partaken of both women, supported his dismissiveness.

“You trien to say bug eyes was tighter than shorty? Shorty? The short one? With the smaller tits and the little scar on her belly?”

“The one with the tight pussy?” One man unhelpfully adds.

“Maybe after I was done with er,” adds another.

The notion was ridiculous. The smaller one, with her pretty face and skinny legs and tight tight holes had milked him dry. He hadn’t just cummed, like he did in his lonely bunk, he had cummed; the kind where you can’t think straight after. He had to repeat his words from the time.

“That girl’s arsehole was virgin tight. She had never-“

“-been fucked in the arse before,” another man, who had not experienced more than the throat of the googly eyes one, retorted, “yes, we know, and we don’t believe you.”

“She’s a whore,” another man retorted. They don’t know. They can’t.

“You see how she fought when I stuck it in? You hear the noises she made? Dan did! Fuckin, Zafeir did!”

The two men nodded. Zafeir had stoppered her throat in the best way, and when Jered finished, he had walked the same path right after, thanks to the enthusiastic endorsement given. The dark man nodded with gusto.

“Only the one with more arse was into it,” another man conceded, “Shorty resisted from the get go.”

“That was just from what we was takin.”

Jered didn’t believe the man, even though he carried the prize. There was a lot of fucking coppers in the jar. He sighed, willing to be the peacemaker.

“Ahh, whatever. Hey, drinks are on me!”

They all cheered as they went, debating like scholars the merits of mouth over pussy, light over rough, arse over throat. The conversation went on and on and on.

---

The boat was overturned, left facing the right way up. It had not withstood the **** it received. Driftwood was scattered like old headstones, marking the graves of shattered bottles and spilled contents, the aftermath of a malicious storm that had blown through and ravaged everything.

You lie naked in the bottom of the rowboat, where you had been dumped, the torn rag of your once home blanket under your backside, stained with wipings both yours and theirs, and slowly suppurated with she streams of their parting gifts. Its acrid tang stings the back of your throat, having shared in the drenching. For once, you are glad of the holes in the boat.

“Is this what you saw?”

Sarah, who had been dumped next to you and lies tangles together in an exhausted embrace, doesn’t need to ask what you mean. She lies in silence, and you don’t ask if she is ok. She received the same treatment you did, and you are not ok.

She shakes her head, speaking in halting words, like remembering a dream and interpreting it in the remembrance.

“There is a darkness in the West.” You drag your eyes to hers, breaking the crusts of dried tears and finding her looking back at you. Perhaps what she saw, what she dreamed, real or not, was the cause of her ever-wide eyes.

“It’s going to come, years from now, and swallow us all up.”

She looks at you, absolute certainty in her eyes, laced with a heavy miserable tragedy that stands somehow apart from the night’s events. She reaches a hand up, placing it on your shoulder.

“It’s going to swallow us up, because you’re here, with me.”

She pulls herself up, dragging her naked battered body across your own and levelling her face to yours. Cum is on her lip, and jaw, and breath, as it is on yours, and as her eyes stare into your own, still holding that certainty, and she kisses you. She kisses you like no man has ever kissed you, gently, tearfully, caring and mad and loving. You both kiss, and you both cry, bodies pressed in a shaken embrace.

‘Good’, you think, ‘let the world fall into darkness’.

Beyond the boat, the last of the suns glow dies.