...get on your knees and do as she says, for now.

You sigh and with upmost ****, you nod.

“Wonderful.” She strokes the word, giving every syllable a loving caress before biting her bottom lip in anticipation. “Absolutely wonderful.”

A nod of her own sees the guards drop you back on to your feet and let go of your arms. What expression they wear, you can’t tell; your eyes are dead ahead, fixed on the gallows before your execution. Her stance is wide, with feet apart and hands on her hips. Those hands move, slipping from outer gown to inner, pushing it aside and revealing her body’s magnificence like the curtain pulled aside before a show.

Her crotch is hairless. You wonder why anyone would do that. The idea of plucking such a region is a deeply unpleasant one, yet the prospect of brining a man’s shaving razor down there is even worse! The image of her doing it, with a fluff of shaving soap like your father used to use between her legs is almost comical. Regardless, it sits where a crotch should be; in the centre of wide hips and strong thighs that are also devoid of hair. You look up. Her breasts are revealed as well, not that they were well hidden behind the gown to begin with. Round and heavy in a way your own never will be, she displays them proudly before you and the two men. It’s a simple display, radiating natural confidence in a way you could never replicate. The occasional scar marks her torso, and the skin of her face is noticeably darker than the flesh below.

She arches an eyebrow, finger tapping below her bellybutton, pointing down.

You take your first hesitant step towards her, then another, shuffling with upmost ****. If there’s a way out of this then it hasn’t presented itself yet. In an instant you’re too close, loomed over by the other woman. Across the room would be too close, considering what this woman wants from you; an ocean and possibly a continent or two between you would be much better. Her breasts are head height with your short stature; insistent pink nubs gazing outward and warding you back, even as you’re **** to approach. You look away, glancing up at her above, and find eyes you really can’t match right now, sea blue, calm, and dominant. You look away almost instantly.

Gulping with a suddenly dry mouth, you slowly drop to your knees, careful to stay upright. The knots holding your arms in check are as tight as ever. No escape. The dagger could be right beneath you and there’s not a damn thing you could do about it. You vision swaps the pair of round, soft looking breasts for something far more complicated, her thighs standing like gates before your final destination. It looks...different, than your own, and not just for the lack of hair. Hers hangs down slightly with her standing gravity, a hanging hem, red and angry and almost dripping with anticipation, like an open trapdoor, or a gaping wound; by no means swinging like a man’s pendulum, but far more open than you’ve ever seen. A flower in full bloom. Yours, as you know from your more curious bathing sessions, is the opposite; small and tidy and contained; like the edge of two slices of heavily peppered bread hinting at perhaps some bacon within. You remember being starving hungry the last you looked at yourself, wondering what to eat as you scrubbed up. The comparison to food is far less funny now than it was then.

The lips hang down by a thumb nail and the middle holds a nub not unlike your own, but standing proud instead of buried. The glistening wetness is much clearer from down here; clear sweat or some other fluid smeared across her upper thighs, yet the centre holds a dribble of a white cream A mans seed perhaps? It seeps down in a thin line, questing for the floor.

You feel sick; from the sight or the smell, or the task at hand. A distinct fishy quality hits the back of your nose and you lean back involuntarily. Maybe having your hands broken wouldn’t be so bad. Why does your mind have to analyse everything? Is it to avoid thinking of what comes next? What comes next. What _does _come next? What do you...do? Just lick it? Which part? You look up to her; past the underside of her heavy bosom to the cool face looking down. You swallow again, and she raises an eyebrow. How do you say it?

“I’ve... never...”

She laughs. “Of course you haven’t! Not enough women have!” She tilts her head to the side, smiling before laughing again. “First time a woman hired me, I had no clue what I was doing.” She leans back, getting a better look at you and inadvertently bringing her hips closer. “I soon learned that pussy tastes no worse than dick.” She brings a hand out and strokes it over your tightly bunned hair, like a puppy, while her eyes take on a dreamy quality. “First time the tables were turned...well... I’d been fucked before, an I mean really fucked, and I’d squirted myself before; begged some to stop and screamed for some to keep going...” She bites her bottom lip, eyes still on you. “...but never all at the same time. I prefer men. But I’d be lying if I said there isn’t a special place between my legs for a woman like you.”

You don’t know what to say. She turns; exposed crotch turning to ample rear as she walks over to a bed side table. The thin silk really does hide very little. She pours a silver pitcher of water into a nearby tin mug.

“Call this a... life lesson. If you want to survive, tap in to what people want and give it to them; make yourself useful. That’s how I started. First a cunt or a suck, then love and hope, **** and power, gold...” She drains the mug and drops it before walking back to you. She crouches down to your kneeling level. “When you have a hook in someone then it doesn’t matter who they are or what they want, only what they can do for you.”

She smiles, evilly.

“When you give people what they want, you’ll find a lot of doors open to you.” She reaches out, fingers brushing your cheeks. You don’t flinch, her smooth words like a sweet treacle in your ears. “You want to get out of this in one peace, don’t you?” You nod, aware that this is how the village butcher talked to spooked animals to calm them before slaughter. Regardless, she’s right. Getting out of here is a one way road, and is passes between her legs. Her smile returns, sweet and toothy. “Then let me tell you what my first client with a cunt told me.” Her smile twists into a mock grumpy face. “She said ‘Girly, stick your tongue out and lick. Lick where you’d want to be licked. Go deep. Go along. Go around. Go all over. Suck and smell and drink and slurp and watch all of me. You find a spot that sets me smilin, or gaspin or beggin for more, you set to it!” She winks at you before standing, the robe dropping completely, landing in a pool around her feet.

Back at the start. You don’t know why she told you all that, but you do feel...soothed? More determined to get this over with at any rate. Still, it’s right there, and your disgusted senses hold you back. One way through this. The men look on. A whisper floats down to you, spoken through smeared red lips.

“First licks the hardest.”

The smell coming off it is pungent; heady and foul. The room spins. Your mouth is dry. A thousand reasons, both valid and nonsensical, all scream the wrongness at you. You take a deep breath, and you dart forward, nose pressing into her mound and tongue sliding along the thick acidic centre before returning to her front. She sighs, hands slipping onto your head as you go again.

She tastes foul; like rot and sweat and salt. You shut your eyes tight as your tongue flows over the white line of her past guests leavings: a bitter, sour sauce for the meal you must endure. You watch her, as she instructed, looking up her body and her face. The former looks the same, though rendered titan like as you look up its long form from your lowly position. Her face, meanwhile, takes on a more smug and predatory look; eyes falling further closed with each of your salty probes. If she were a cat, you suspect her purring would fill the room.

There’s a scuff of feet behind you, reminding you that this humiliation comes with an audience, and the captain head falls back with a sigh before looking back down at you. Her fingers continue to stroke your hair.

“You two can wait outside.”

There’s a pause, filled only with the silent sound of tongue ploughed meat. One of them starts to protest, either at leaving there captain unguarded with an assassin or at being denied a show.

“But Captain!”

You lick again; your tongue churning the pot, sending fresh streams of seed into your waiting mouth. Disgusting, but effective. She jumps slightly as you catch her someplace sensitive.

“I said fuck off and wait outside!”

The sound of boots moving and a door closing accompany your next, long lick; the tip of your tongue tracing the lines of her womanhood.

When the door closes, she shuffles her feet; widening her stance before pulling your head in closer. Your nose presses against her shaven front while your mouth continues its amateurish work, though she proves you a fast learner, amateur status fading as the first real moan escapes her lips. It’s more of a robust sigh, but she does close her eyes completely as her taste covers every part of your mouth and the wetness that was on her thighs now stains your cheeks. It’s bad, but if it’s as bad as its going to get, then it’s not as bad as you thought. The more you put in, the faster it gets done. With that in mind and your new **** closeness, your bring your lips in to help, giving her something like a marriage kiss, albeit to the wrong lips. More moisture is given in responce, both hers and the sticky white of his. A minute passes. A full and complete minute. One filled with the crackling moisture of your sticky kisses and ending with one breathless whisper from her.

“Deeper.”

You tilt your head back, tongue sinking deep into her passage. Her soft lips giveaway to a softer core, wet with Roland and seeping with her own enjoyment. Whatever seal held his essence back breaks easily at your touch, sending a sudden stream of vile liquid onto your tongue and sliding into your mouth. You swallow by reflex and pull away ****, the taste and shame of the sudden encounter sending you reeling. To your horror, as you lean back the white mixture follows, trailing thick lines that link your mouth to its source. You turn, plastering them to the side of your face as you fight to keep control of your stomach.

Breathe. Just Breath.

No time. The hands that fell away return and drag you back to task.

“Drink up. Roland finished twice. Left a lot of cum up there.”

Tears squeeze out of closed eyes. It’s worse. So much worse. The slime that leaks out of her coats everything, gets everywhere. It seeps to your nose, rolls down your chin, floods your tongue. You swallow again, taking down a lot more than just your dignity, and only just keeping your last meal from coming up.

“Ohhhhh. Bastard still didn’t get me off. All that size, two goes, and shit to show for it.” One of the hands holding your head returns to stroking your hair, idly picking at you bun and undoing it thread by thread. You feel her eyes on you.

Meanwhile, the battle between her legs rages. Rolands seed charges out each time your tongue moves against her core, slipping past your open lips to dive down your throat. The ramparts are lost; churned into a sticky mess that **** your face every time your lips move across them. Only one nostril remains unblocked and you frantically wonder how you can keep it that way. Everything Roland gave her now comes to you, kept warm and wet by her hospitality. The moans of her increase with the passing minutes while more of him slips down your throat, burning in your belly, but the longer you busy yourself the more sure you are that it won’t come up for a reappearance. Roland; the man you had never met; how can he become so disgustingly familiar when you’ve never laid eyes on him? His essence had filled every part of her, now mostly drained save for the residue lining her inner walls and whatever your tonging movement pushes back up into her. She gasps and moans and even twitches now; between her folds lies a speedy resolution; within her cunt lies salvation. You dig with reckless abandon, to the parts where the worst is already licked away and her moans come thick and fast.

“Mmmm yes. Oh yes. Right there. Oh! Oh yes! OH YES! AHHHH! Mmmmmffffff! Hah! Mmmmmm!”

You reach and twist and suck and swallow with as much dexterity as you can manage. The nub at the front: that’s her secret. Either with tip or base, your tongue owns it, caressing it, sucking it, kissing it. Her knees shake. Her hands grip you tightly, pulling your hair.

“Oh that it! I-I’m almost-! Don’t stop! N-not till I tell you-! OHHHHHHH!” She moans long and loud, spending all her air before sucking more in between her teeth. “HAHHHHHHHH! MMMMMMMM!” Her knees practically give way, her whole body shaking as she crushes you against her. She grips your head, holding you half to keep licking and half to keep upright, while fresh wetness and familiar tastes pours past your lips as you keep pushing your lips upon her. Her breathless cry’s fill the room as she leans over you, pushing you back on your knees.

“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!” Voice turned hoarse, body dripping with sweat, she seems to hold you there forever as you flick her, tired tongue working half-heartedly, and you watch her rapturous ugly expression, up between her breasts where her twitches give life to the stone dangling between them.

She takes a deep breath before she pulls you away and lets your buttocks fall back onto your ankles. Your first act is to snort out your nose, blasting the heavy dollop of semen out across your lips and breathing again, unrestricted. It slips down your chin with lazy ease, melting into its fellows.

You don’t need a mirror to see that your face is a mess. It feels a mess. Stained. Yes, that word feels very apt right now. You look at her in time to see the last long length of slime thin and break, finally separating her lips from yours. You watch her, your…****? Sweat had made brown worms of her once blond hair and her chest heaves with returning breaths as she steps back to lean against the bed post. She doesn’t look at you, her eyes closed and head tilted back, and it’s the only reason you can stand to look at her. **** by a woman. Before today you would have thought that impossible. What’s left of Roland, unswallowed, swims about your teeth and tongue in a thin film of slime, and you gather it all and spit it out in a tired dribble, instantly losing it in the messy wetness that seems to coat everything eyebrows down.

It’s that moment she decides to look down. That moment she decides to see.

Her smile splits her face.

“Not bad. Not bad at all. With a few-“ she hums contentedly “-loooong hours of practice... you could be almost as good as Misty.”

You decide not to answer. Your part is done. Gods but you’re done. Now you’re part of her crew. That was the deal, wasn’t it? Lick her, join her crew, get untied and gut her like a fish? True she didn’t know about that last part, but still you wish she’d hurry up instead of gloating. She tilts her head as she looks at you.

“You know, if I’d known you were a licker, I’d have given you something more challenging to do...”

She thought you enjoyed…

“I’m not a-“ The words die on your lips. You’re not a licker; a woman who pleasures other women. But you are. You did. The term is meant to apply to women who shun men, and while you do shun men somewhat, you’re not... You didn’t even know why they were called lickers an hour ago damn it! You look down instead, spitting again as more seed slides off your teeth. It dribbles off your chin, slick and white.

She catches your eye and raises one of her brows. In the quiet of the moment, you can’t help but be shaken by the occasional cough thrown up by your tender stomach. Gods but you’d kill for a glass of water! Whatever; you’d kill for free to wipe that smug look off her face.

As if reading your mind, she smiles and gestures wordlessly, pointing her fingers at the condensation streaming pitcher on the night stand. In response, you gesture with equal silence at the bound state of your hands, and after a moment’s consideration from her and a fleeting moment’s hope from you, she takes action.

“Tony!”

Your shoulders slump as the door opens behind you.

“Captain?”

You don’t even bother to look, suddenly very conscious of the noises she made. The noises you made her make. They know what you did. The whole building probably does.

“Throw me that towel would you.” A length of material sails through the air and into her hand. “Tony, say hello to our newest crew member. Free her hands would you.” She wipes herself, methodically rubbing away the wetness that’s equal parts you, her, and a man you’ve never met.

Tony steps up behind you, pulling the ropes and knots free with his hands. If he’s distracted by the completely naked and curvaceous woman currently dabbing her inner thigh then he doesn’t show it. The ropes fall away.

You stand slowly, hesitant to make any sudden moves with the man right behind you. Diving for the blade is tempting but it’s some distance away and truthfully, you really need a drink right now. You walk towards the pitcher at a purposefully unhurried pace. Tony watches you, but the captain doesn’t. If you still had your poison... but you don’t. You use her mug; drinking and swallowing the clear water several times before letting it spill over your mouth and neck. The process is cleansing; washing the grime away inside and out, though a bitter taste remains. When you’re done, the captain is watching you.

“We’re going to have lots of fun my dear. I have big plans...” She throws the towel and you catch it, choosing the least stained part to dry and wipe yourself. “In fact, there’s something you can help me out with this evening... if you’re feeling up to it.”

That stops your wiping dead in its tracks. You try to keep the deep, bitter suspicion out of your voice, fully aware that this woman, this ****, could ask for anything. “What is it?”

She waves her hand airily. “Oh, nothing much. Just be on hand and help out when I need you.”

You look away, letting your eyes wonder as you think. The Stiletto is on the other side of the room and across the bed. Tony watches intently and the other two men should be waiting just outside. The captain also has an air of readiness now that your arms are free; a kind of relaxed, experienced awareness. You’ve seen it before; a stable hand dealing with a spooked mare, ready for it to try and bolt while giving it **** but to comply. It’s the look someone wears when they’ve seen this a thousand times before.

Now clearly isn’t the best time to attack. Something, your instincts perhaps, tells you that you would be cut down before you could do anything. You slowly dab your face, thinking. If her task is to be on hand then that means not accepting would take you away from here, perhaps to her ship or some other spot you could slip away and escape from. Escape. In the long minutes and hours spent either in your cell or between her legs, you prayed to the gods for escape. Now that the opportunity is here, or at least the best one you’ve seen, could you really turn it down in exchange for some uncertain longshot? The slim chance that playing in the palm of her hand could still lay that necklace around your neck and her blood on the floor? The stiletto shines, blazing to your eyes only. It almost seems mad to give up when she’s this close, especially after what you’ve just been through. You don’t know what ‘help’ she would need from you, but you doubt you would enjoy giving it. That said, more time around her is more time for her to get comfortable and drop her guard. Damn it! Go and run, or go and stay, or stay and kill. You want to do all three yet at the same time they all seem impossible to choose! You’ve never been so conflicted!

You take a deep breath, living in the seconds of inhalation. If you refuse and are taken away then running or staying as part of her crew is a choice for later. Right now, you just need to decide if you want to walk the safer path or risk a no doubt rocky road by staying. Leave and escape where and when you can or stay for some unknown task and finish this tonight, one way or the other. You take the towel away and blow a loose strand of hair out of your eyes; there was a reason it was in its bun. Perhaps you’re not thinking straight. Perhaps you’ll regret this in the years or minutes to come. Her look is expectant as she shrugs back into the loose blue gown.

“Hum? You could earn some goodwill, right out the port?”

As if you haven’t given her good will enough.