...sigh, you just can’t do it. Try to get rid of him and hope for another way.

“Er, sorry…sugar. If Maxy finds out I had… fun with another man, he’d be mad.” You keep the airy tone, backing away from his member with all the hairs breadth afforded to you.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he sings back to you, pushing ever onward. It brushes your tight lips, turned head sending him to probe your ear fruitlessly.

You take advantage of the brief reprieve, words muffled by his sweaty crotch. “No, he’ll find out.”

“He won’t.” His voice is playful, like it’s a game, and his hand grabs your forehead, turning your head straight and pushing it back against the board. His other hand grabs himself, and turns it to your lips.

“Yes. He will.”

You have to say the words through gritted teeth, feeling his rod push aside your lips and scrape across them. Perhaps it’s the feel of teeth or the hard edge you put into your words, but it’s enough to get him to pull back, slightly.

“He ain’t gonna care. You want out, I want in; let’s help each other out.”

Again, the temptation. Should you just… No. You speak quickly, but try and keep at least a little sweetness; you’re in no position to anger this man.

“He will, sugar. I’m his and his alone.” You say it sadly, as though wishing it weren’t the case for all the wrong reasons. It stings to phrase it so, but what other reason could you use? The hot essence burning between your legs seems to smile at you.

“Then why would he leave you in the stocks?”

It’s a good question. You answer by instinct, looking up at him as best you can.

“So he could teach you a lesson.”

“What?”

Confusion twists his mouth, which is all of his face you can see. Not the anger or laughter that would come with believe or dismissal; confusion. You can use confusion. But how?

“You know…” You try to buy time, giving your mind the spring board it needs to create something plausible.

“No, I don’t.” Still confused, but something more? He’s not continuing; his rod hovering a short distance from your mouth. What’s holding him back? Fear? You remember the men at the docks; how they surrendered you so easily, their nervous laughter. ‘Maxy’ must be quite intimidating. You swallow. He’s certainly merciless.

“He… He wants someone to mess with me…so he can teach them a lesson.”

If that thing comes forward, you’ll need to clamp up fast. If he does, should you bite or…not. You’ll cross that bridge when it come to you.

“What?” He still sounds confused, but yes, there is a little worried tone hidden behind I it, you’re sure; not just conjured from wishful thinking.

You continue, letting the lie flow. “That way, he can beat the shit out of a crewman for good reason.”

“Why would he do that?”

“You know… to keep you guys in your place. So you know he’s tough.” Not enough. You keep talking, before you even think what to say. “He said he doesn’t like the attitude of some of the guys, so he’s going to set them straight. A demonstration, you know?” He’s on the edge, and like a salesman trying for the deal, you add, “I’m doing you a favour here sugar. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

The man says nothing, standing in a pregnant moment. Every second tells you that he hasn’t dismissed your words as lies. Every second makes it less likely he’s going to.

You feel fingers on your back, playing with the black top in thought. You can’t see him; not even his mouth; everything above his belly is too far, and everything below too close. The top is pulled gently, no doubt revealing more of your lower back, and the lack of trousers upon it. The material that was prior pulled down around your knees helps to hide how your legs shake.

You hear him mumble idly, “Yeah, but if I fuck your pussy he isn’t going to know.”

The experience of the last man comes sharply to mind, as though inside you once more, and your response comes out harsher than you would like.

“Are you listening to me!? He’ll know because I’m going to tell him.”

The man immediately drops to a squat, once more levelling himself so he’s face to face.

“You tell him and I’ll kill you.”

There is no knife, or other overt means of backing up the threat, waving under your nose, but it’s not needed; the hardness in his eyes is enough. It’s not an idle comment -he _will _kill you- but you’re in too deep to back out now.

“Ask yourself, who’s more frightening, him or you!? I’ll tell him… and you’ll be first-” you grasp for something intimidating, “first picking your teeth up off the deck!”

He pauses, slow in thought. While he’s looking into your eyes this time, there’s a vacancy their as he looks right through you; seeing a future with himself starring in the public beating you’ve concocted. Looking at him now, there’s no way you’d lose him in a crowd, despite his average appearance. To think he was your first kiss.

He seems to waver and you add a final “you want to chance it, then chance it. Your funeral.”

His eyes come into focus then out of it, his hand still resting on your forehead. You feel the spit filling your mouth, unable to swallow lest it leave you even a little less convincing. Sweat beads on your neck, hidden by the stocks.

“Fuck.”

He pushes away from you as he stands up, walking away without looking back. Again, you hold back your body, **** to sigh in relief and shift your aching legs; determined to appear strong even if he isn’t looking. He diverts his course midway, stepping up to the other woman, and while you fear for her for a moment, he takes one look behind her and changes his mind, returning to his original path to the door and away from your brief reprieve.

“Smooth words girl. Dey won’t help you long.”

The words come some moments after he leaves, accented with unmistakable southern speak. The woman sounds emotionless, but not as tired as you would think; if anything, her voice is strong and lacks the same hoarse scratchiness that yours now has.

She’s also right. You may have convinced one to go, but your situation has hardy improved. The white bearded bastard Maxwell will no doubt return soon with the captain, and then what? You tug at the stocks, but it has you fast; you don’t even rattle the lock.

You consider what to say to the woman across from you. It’s not like she has some advice to break free, and what kind of conversation can be had at a time like this. You’re not really in the mood to talk anyway, but in the stillness of the room, it almost seems rude not to try.

“What’s your name?

Nothing. The shape of the woman does not move, and only her breathing can be heard. Silence stretches, until you’re sure that you simply imagined her words before in some fit of madness. Cheers push through the walls; the patrons of the distant inn still singing and cheering and making merry. The woman hears them; there is nothing else to hear.

“When dey come for you, do not cry like before. Do not give dem a ting.”

She says it all with the same flat tone, unchanged by her situation. You sniff a nose that had been blocked since you stopped crying. Had she weathered her torment better than you had, or simply suffered more of it? Will you be like that soon? Somehow you doubt it.

“Captain Washkin is going to get here soon. Maybe I can convince her to let me go?”

You have to be able to; it’s your only hope. What can you offer? You run through it all in your mind and find the list is quite short. As an Agent, it’s not like you could be a turn coat, really; Agents of the Principalities are essentially freelancers working under a central body, so it’s not like you hold a position of power she could use. Maybe you could offer your services? Sure, you clearly aren’t the best assassin, but maybe she needs an adviser? Another deck hand? A foot scrubber? You’ll take what you can get, as long as others don’t.

“Maybe.”

The woman doesn’t sound convinced. In fact, there is something in her voice that sends thunderous chills down every inch of your spine. She _wants _you to be convinced, if only for a while. Why? It must have just been your imagination.

“If I do, I’ll come back for you.”

It seems silly to say it, with you and her in the same position, but you mean it nonetheless. Maybe you could bluff the captain? You, the vanguard of an invasion, willing to turn on the navy you lead here? For freedom of course. Or you could convince her you were here for something else; a thief is better than an assassin after all.

You plot and scheme in your head. The dark skinned woman says nothing at all.

Over the next...hour? Maybe? No one else enters the room. You don’t share your ideas with the woman; every one of the creaks and footfalls thudding through the building could come from spies sent by the captain. You have no intention of giving the game away until you’re far removed from her company and her island. Wild creeping thoughts come to you regarding the woman you share the room with. Was she sent here by the captain to get a read on you? Is she actually part of the captains crew? You squash them all as they come, paranoid intrusions as they are, determined to trust her, a woman going through the same nightmare as you.

Other women -different women- can be heard through the walls. While the inn’s raucous crowd is host to a low baritone of many men, this part of the building has many woman as well, each seemingly engaged in their own private party. Roughly half of them sound as though they are enjoying it, or pretending too, with exaggerated shrieks and moans of pleasure. The other half not so much, with despairing, fearful cries occasionally slipping out before being smothered to silence. Had you listened before, the words of the man who brought you hear would not have kept you quiet. The high pitched noise of abused women seem common here, and almost become an irritation as your heart hardens to them, leaving bitter thoughts that echo hare as they fade. ‘It’s not their fault. You’ll save them all’ you tell yourself, ‘when Captain Washkin sets you free, you’ll come back and save them all.’

Footsteps pass above, or in the next room. Each time they do, a shake runs through you; a jump of neither fright nor anticipation, and soon, a pair of boots come closer than any other, coming to a stop outside your door.

The Captain? It must be! You ready the arguments you’ve gone over so many time before; ready to tell the perfect story.