...tell her nothing.

A flat line answers her question, your mouth drawn and pressed in defiance. This interrogation is not yours to lead, but the smarter criminals you’ve seen interrogated tend to say nothing as well, letting their silence protect them from having their lies picked apart. Sometimes, when luck favours them and there is little evidence to keep them held, silence lets them go free. You doubt you’ll be so lucky, but hope so anyway.

For a moment, she plays the same game, letting the silence grow between you. Humour spreads on her face, twitching at the corners of her mouth. It’s not the response you expected from defiance. The silent moment is a strange and unpleasant one; you feel you should do something, as though you an actor pushed onto a stage yet refusing to say your lines. The men at your side wait as well, all eyes on you: the audience waiting with hushed impatience. To make the feeling worse, the captain’s posture shifts as she leans back from you, examining you up and down, her eyes taking in and measuring every part of you, every detail, picking apart you clothes, your flesh, your very mind. It’s a ruthless, uncomfortable scrutiny that you’ve given others before. You didn’t know it felt like this.

“Ok...” She purses her lips thoughtfully before nodding her head. “Ok... You like to play games.” She looks down at you, at first struggling to keep her face neutral, biting her lip before finally succumbing to the smiles return. “Well...you happen to have caught me in a...receptive mood. I’ll play along.” She looks at you as though faced with a simple puzzle. “I can assume you’re here for me...” She fingers your black top, the back of her hand grazing your boob in a decidedly un-accidental manner, as if to make sure it’s there. “Not with the guard though. No girls allowed... That makes you a bounty hunter... or an Agent?” You let nothing show, yet she sees the answer on you somehow. “Ahhh, I see. A little agent looking for the nobility’s justice...” A clear dig at you that you don’t rise towards; Agent haven’t served the nobility for a long time. She keeps musing, finger to her lips. “...and for the sizable payout that comes with such justice, of course...and my life...naturally.” She sounds the last word out, cracking each syllable like a bitter whip. “The guards have been rotated and questioned, the island searched; do you know what we found?” She watches you closely. “We found Sam.” Who’s Sam? “And no one else.”

You try to keep the confusion off your face, but after a steady inspection of your silent response, her shoulders seem to droop as her clairvoyance returns.

“But you don’t know who Sam is. And you knew we’d find no one... because you’re here alone.”

She’s right. How does she know? Did she really just puzzle it out? And who is Sam? She idly answers your unasked questions, adding to the air of a mind reader. “All that time between your capture and now and no one has come for you, or for me. You’re alone.” She strokes your face. “You’re all mine.”

Should you talk? This isn’t exactly going as planned.

“No, no, no, no.” She puts a finger to your lip, again, somehow reading your thoughts. Is it the look in your eyes? Some twitch of your face you don’t feel? What’s your tell!? “No talking now; you made your choice. We’re playing the no talking game, remember?” She looks at you, uncomfortably close all of a sudden, thinking with a smile on her face. “We’re playing a game, so here are the rules... You like rules don’t you?” It’s clearly not a question for you to answer. Still, it’s meant for you to hear, its mocking tone adding a careless cut to her words. “So, you’re not allowed to make any noise, only nod or shake your head as I ask my questions.” What is she on about? Is she serious? “Answer all my questions and I’ll let you go.” Ok, that sounds promising, if not exactly reassuring. “If you make any noise then... Oh, hold on.” She stops, shaken out of her delusions for a moment as she takes a step back. She looks about before she moves over to the wide round table and begins to drag it out to the middle of the room. The chairs underneath fall noisily or are left behind where they stood as the heavy looking furniture squeals its wooden legs across the wooden floor, stopping before you. “Lay her on here”

The captain’s idle tone animates the guards on each side of you, making them lift you up, turn you around, and slam you down onto your back on the table top. While the bun at the back of your head softens the blow upon it, the move still leaves you dizzy and airless, with the arms tied at your back bending your spine up uncomfortably beneath you.

“See that man beside you?” The voice comes from the captain, now bent low so her head is next to yours and her body lost somewhere behind and above you, hunched over the table edge. Her hand, close to the other side of your face, points from your eye at one of the men so there is no mistake. It’s the one that looks less brutish, with his clean and neat haircut and shaven face sporting features that, compared to his college, are not too unpleasant to look at.

Remembering her words and her ‘rule’, you play it safe and nod you head silently.

“That’s the spirit!” Childish joy fills her voice and her lips crackle in your ear as she smiles. “Well, he’ll fuck you if you make any noise.” His face lights up with a smile just as a cold shiver sinks your heart. The man stands near your legs, where they hang over the tables other end at the knee, and his eyes travel up you with renewed curiosity before travelling down with lustful intent. They eventually come to rest at the crotch of your trousers, gazing in a way that makes you bring your legs together with a suppressed whimper. Lust is not an attractive look on him, comparative or otherwise.

The captain continues, her voice too normal for her words, and her words laying out the rest of her ‘games’ instructions. “Make noise again, when he’s fucking you that is, and it’s your arsehole that gets it, and if you make noise while that’s happening... hmmm, let’s see... we’ll have to cut the tendon in your legs and break your hands before giving your body over to my crew.” She seems happy with her statement, but with a sudden lawyers flourish, she adds a final clarification. “Lie, or refuse to answer, and we’ll skip to that part, ok?”

Her words hit you like a coffins top, sealing your fate to a dark future. You know she can be cruel -her reputation is not one prone to flights of mercy- but that’s the kind of thing you’d expect from a far fouler breed of pirate.

“Don’t look so worried; my would-be killer. Just answer the questions silently -with a nod or a shake of that pretty little head- and not even this one man gets a turn.”

You think fast. So, she asks questions and you answer by nodding or shaking your head? Without making any noise of course. Surely there’s more to it than that. If her words are supposed to be a threat -one meant to wring out the few truths she hasn’t already guessed with disturbing accuracy- then they are well suited to the task. The harsh punishment for not playing along springs to mind. Cut tendons and broken hands can never be fully recovered from, and that doesn’t even consider the ****, or even rapes, beyond. How many crewman does she have again? Around 300 on her ship alone? You don’t like to admit it, but it’s a threat guaranteed to get you talking. But then why the game? What is she playing at? Why not just threaten you, or **** you, or lock you up until you’re more co-operative? Why promise a way out? If it is a game, like she said, could you play on this sense of whimsy? Can you trust it?

After a seconds thought, you realise that, be it trick or whimsy, or the glint of her dark nature, the result is the same; trapped, bound and guarded, you either play along or suffer a fate worse than ****. You swallow as silently as you can, and resolve to give her no cause to escalate this grim situation.

“We’re going to have so much fun.”

You doubt that, but you don’t voice your concerns. You watch her as best you can instead, weary of the tricks she’s doubtless to pull. She moves from your head to your side, leaning over and resting her hands on you as though you were the table itself, one placed on the hip and the other on the shoulder. It’s not a moment later that she eases off, removing her weight and letting her hands glide across your body like some musician testing her instrument. “I already know, but did you come alone?”

If she already knows then that was a test question. You respond as you mean to go on, cowed into truth by her underlying threats. A clear, defined nod of assent comes from you; as unmistakable as you can make it considering your tense features.

“Of course you did. Not very smart. And you’re here to kill me I take it?”

You itch to shake your head, but what would a lie be worth here? Come to think of it, even if you weren’t here to kill her, the certainty in her voice as she asked her question would convince you to nod regardless. She’d never believe otherwise. You give another silent nod, looking her in the eye and catching her smile as you do so.

“Oh don’t worry sweetheart; we’ll become friends soon enough.” You keep your eyes from rolling in disbelief, but only just. Her hands crawl across your body like spiders, plucking at the dark material that holds them back from your skin. She takes a moment to watch them darting across your body, up and down and back and forth under her command. Thankfully, you’re not ticklish; not across your body anyway. Is that her aim? Make you laugh or something? You almost do so, if only at the childishness of it. She smiles as one of the scurrying little fiends suddenly darts under the hem of your trouser top, down the front and through the garden of hair beneath, the scurrying skidding to a sliding stop between your legs and down the face of a very private area.

The urge to laugh dies as you buck your body in shock, clamping your legs together at the sudden unexpected presence of feminine fingers. Everything tenses. Her hand has its warmth, and nothing on this warm summer night can be considered cold, but those fingers could be icicles for all their welcome. She looks at you -at your shocked disbelieving face- with a questioning expression, full of mock confusion. A middle finger slips in, pushing up through your inner resistance, driving to a knuckle.

‘What’s wrong?’ her expression beams at you with ridiculously fake sincerity, ‘Got something to say?’

You close your eyes for a moment, calming yourself and breathing a heavy sigh. You freeze as the breath blows noisily through your nostrils, but the captain doesn’t mind; she doesn’t seem to count breathing at noise enough to progress her little game.

The finger moves, rubbing your insides, feeling places that have never felt the touch of a digit. You press your lips together into a thin white line, trying to smother the invasive sensation radiating from your crotch with shear stubbornness.

“Huh. From what I’m feeling, a woman like you is definitely an Agent, hum?” How could she possibly know that from your...feel!? No, she guessed it before. She’s just trying to provoke you. Damn the certainty in her voice! And damn her finger! It worms inside you, probing away, slipping back and forth, up and down, moving with an ungodly insistence, demanding your attention.

“What’s your name?”

The question catches you off guard, but not enough. You glare at her silently; more so when she laughs.

“Well at least you’re not stupid!” The finger slips back to your entrance and runs across the pearl of your privates, gently pressing it before slipping free: the first flick of a musician’s fingers, eager for the chime of their first note. The smile slips from mirth to lust. “Well...not too stupid.”

The finger returns, red rises in your face, and your brow prickles with sweat as she works a fever into you. Your legs begin to squirm.

“Are you a virgin?” You shake your head as the fingers flick. Why is she doing this? Why ask that? “Oh? Marred are you?” Another shake, your head pivoting on your bun. She switches to circles, stirring you with the lightest touch. “Ooooo. How scandalous.” She leans on your shoulder with her free arm, eager for your truth like it’s some kind of gossip. “Did you enjoy your first time?” You shake your head. The men are watching. You imagine what they can see: the shape of knuckles moving under material, the flustered look on your face, perhaps a flash of dark hair reaching for your bellybutton. The captain commiserates. “No, me neither. ****, was it?” Your first nod. She nods as well, and takes on a tone of understanding. It sounds utterly absurdly natural, divorced from the finger that returns to quest your insides. “Ahhh. Gang ****, by chance?” She asks it as though chatting over a cup of tea. You picture them all -the men and the alley- but thankfully the past takes its rightful place: washed out, buried, and blurred to a buzzing gnat beneath time and the loudness of your situation. Whether it counts or not, you nod again, answering her in the affirmative. What was done to you then was worse than her efforts now; they made you powerless and bloodied away your maiden’s innocence. You survived it. Survived it with tears running down your face and a hand muffling your screams; with your life’s path changed happiness to hunting criminals in the mud; but you survived it. She takes the tone of a mother consoling a child with a skimmed knee. “Oh, always hard when that happens, dear.” She sniffs, the dismissive gestures somewhere between real and fake. “Still, can’t have been too bad. The memory of its left you pretty flush down here.”

The light of mocking sympathy sets, dawning the return of mocking joviality. She leans harder into your shoulder, careful not to ease the **** below. “Unless you fancy the touch of a woman?” Your head shakes a hard negative. Her lone finger slips out, before returning with a friend, causing your body to jump with sudden shivers, and your uneven breathing to spike just shy of noise. You close your eyes tight, the sweat poring off you as you hold your lips closed. “First lie so far, but I’ll forgive it, since it’s a lie you believe.” The fingers, now double the size of her previous presence, work in tandem inside you, probing as her knuckles rustle your shorthairs. For the first time, you see her game, revealed as the feeling below begins to push you towards an abyss: towards cries of a release that you did not think yourself capable of. Her target was not one a sane mind would ever consider. The beads of sweat turn to rivers as you contemplate this and find no known defence; no experience to draw on, except... discipline? That’s all you can think to defend yourself. It’ll be enough; it’s your body after all. As soon as you think those words, doubts begin to creep. You fell her fingers rub your discipline away. You’d whimper if you could.

You feel her breath on your face as she leans in close, rushing past you as she whispers in your direction while looking in another. “After all, would you rather Symon have a turn?”

Your eyes open to glare at her with all the silent hate you can muster. It may as well have been the rays of the morning sun for all she’s concerned. She leans back in mock shock.

“No? See, what hot blooded woman wouldn’t want a piece of a handsome man like that?” She glances at him with a smile. “Save those who know him, of course.”

You close your eyes to focus on your breathing, which had grown ragged under her unceasing ministrations. In and out. Back and forth. Air fills your lungs as you empty your mind, blotting out the feeling below, but thoughts and images rush in to fill the void. Your treacherous mind’s eye flashes you the absurd image of the man, your good looking guard, partaking in your first sounds prize between your spread legs. You banish the image, only for the captain’s form to take his thrusting place. It takes a second longer to stamp out the strange imagining, writing it off as a fevered delusion, conjured by her misuse of you. You open your mouth to stop the sawing noise coming from your nose, letting the sound of your wet breath spill forth in a way that further reddens your burning face.

“Not that I’m saying you aren’t hot blooded...”

Her other hand swings low; forearm brushing your breast as her elbow digs into your shoulder. Her spidery fingers begin to dance again, pulling up the bottom of your black top. “I know this may seem a strange question, considering the last, but have you ever been kissed?” Her tone is delicate, and her other fingers follow suit, switching from a grand dance to an insistent nuzzle against some new discovered weakness. Your breath doesn’t ease under the treatment; if anything, it gets harder to think as your lungs struggle to keep up. “I’m not talking about whatever a man **** you to do with your mouth. Or some peck on the cheek. I mean kissed; _sensuously _kissed.” It’s all you can do to shake your head. “Do you want to be?”

You wish she’d stop. What she did before was almost tolerable, but these gentle movements turn you into a raw nerve. Your legs still clamp together, their squirming rising them up defensively, crossing and turning and trying everything to keep her from you. You feel a noise coming: some unknown pressure bubbling up within you. Her words mean nothing to you, and you shake your head as if to throw off her intentions. The fingers relent, retreating to stroke over your soaked outer lips.

“Hmf, well...Symon, when you’re fucking her, don’t kiss her, aright?” Her words, no longer hot honey poured into your ears, feel almost refreshingly cool.

The gruff tones of the man waiting at your legs, waiting for his turn, sound in response. “Wouldn’t dream of it captain.” You’d almost forgotten they were there, watching it all, and that icy realisation helps you back to reality.

“Do you want to quit this little game?” You can’t nod your head fast enough. “Awww. Unfortunately, I don’t. Not just yet.” Her fingers rub at your entrance, rotating in circles to spread and mix the mess she made, but it’s almost idle; enough to hold you at the burning, breathless high, while not pushing you into the crackling fire itself. She moves her other arm, letting it rest between your breasts as she continues to finger the fabric of your top. “Are you trying to poke my eyes out?”

Her words make no sense. You open your eyes, almost asking ‘what?’ aloud before lurching back from that deadly precipice. She looks at you, smiling, but her gaze is not on your face. A look down your body shows two erect points on your gravity flattened chest, decorating your breasts and pushing the fabric of your top up quite noticeably.

“I thought we took your weapons away?” The captains tone is wry as her arm lets go of your top and slides up to one of the sudden conversation points. Her thumb flicks across your nipple before pressing it, grinding it as her rotation matches the fingers below. You feel your body tense. It’s just a nipple! How can she make it feel so much more than that!? She leans in close again, voice breathy as she whispers to you. “Both of these men are hard and ready for you. Does that excite you?” You shut your eyes tight, gritting your teeth and sucking air through them before shaking your head. The shake is lost as a twitch rocks through your body, the flesh around her steady motions getting wetter. “Never mind, you don’t have to answer that one.”

Relief comes, her fingers slipping away, withdrawing from yourself and sliding free of your sopping trousers. The digits -indeed, her whole hand- glistened as she hangs it in the air, displaying it to the men beyond. “You really don’t need to answer.” She mutters the words before flicking her wrist, showering the floor and table with sweat scented droplets. You pant, hard; catching your breath as best you can as she steps back. “Let’s give them a little look see.” Her words are quiet, and you don’t know if they are directed at you, the men, or herself. Once more, you suppress the noise of shock your body begs to make as she stands at your head and pulls up your top with both hands.

It takes a moment for her to pin the material at your back, wedged between your spine and tightly tied arms. You feel yourself being tugged up the table in the process. She leaves the reveal till last, and when she is as sure as possible that the material can go no further at the back, she pulls it up at the front, making sure to flick the hard points of your chest and jiggle the pancaked flesh they are attached too, leaving you exposed before the room.

“Well...I wasn’t expecting much.” She leans back, raising her hand to her chin in contemplation. It’s the same hand. The wet hand. She takes a deep breath. “What do you fellows think of our little assassins tits?” She turns to them; to the man she promised you too. “Symon?”

The man looks at you and the chest you bare, watching your breasts as they rise and fall with laboured breaths. “I’ve seen kids with bigger captain, and I er, prefer them bigger.” He smiles as he glances at hers, sure to direct to her the compliment born by his disgusting words.

She steps around the table, to his side and to your legs, still dangling off the edge of the table at the knees, and she drops the wet hand from her chin, ending her contemplation as she silently reaches out to the hem of your trousers. You know what’s coming. You know it from the way she grabs the material at each side of your hips and how she leans into your knees to stop you from being dragged off the table. Several jerking pulls rock you. The men’s eyes flick downward, to the newly shared privacy of your exposed skin. To wet hairs and flustered folds. The material passes your knees, falling to your ankles and binding them together at your black pumps. You stare up at the ceiling, limp and catching your breath, hardening your heart as she pushes your knees wide.

“And assassin pussy?”

He has to swallow before answering. “Looking forward to it captain.”

She gives a small ‘hum’, his input deemed acceptable, and presses down on you with both hands; fingers reaching to your stomach, palms on your hips and thighs, her thumbs facing inwards. Those thumbs begin to touch you, probe you, spread you; they rest at the lips of your freshly fingered womanhood and pull them apart to reveal the pink flesh of your insides to the air. The air, and the men.

“Davod? What do you think?”

The man -both men, in fact- look into your core; at a place that only you, on your most curious of bath nights, have looked upon. It feels like having a secret exposed to enemies dying to use it against you. After a moments contemplation, the gruff and brutal voice of the hook-nosed Davod answers.

“I’d see er right captain. Well, I think I’d break er; not that it wouldn’t be fun.”

The thumbs release, and your spread slit seals shut with elastic ease. As much as your body’s unwilling betrayal had weakened you, it’s morbidly gratifying to feel it still shy away from display.

Less gratifying is the return of one of the thumbs and the words of its owner. “You’d be surprised Davod...” It presses down against the exposed pearl of your entrance, sending a shiver up yours body. “...pussys can take quite the pounding.”

The men are treated to the full and uncovered sight of her **** as two of her fingers return to your depths. Her thumb keeps up the pressure, pinching you between inside and out, but the captains attentions turn elsewhere.

“What about her tits Davod? I’ve sometimes been envious of small tits.”

An ill timed twitch sends a ripple across their shallow surface. Her fingers! Gods, her fingers! Her eyes and talk may be upon your chest, but the attention down below is more insistent than ever, or simply seems so from the brief and now distant reprieve. You can’t breathe fast enough, and your legs practically dance as they squirm, kept low by her presence at the end of the table.

The muscle bound man responds to his captains question in a gruff and critical tone. “Suckin tits mam; got no grab, so you go for the nip.”

The captain leans in close, as if to examine the pink dais and its proffered nub, and the thumb of her duel onslaught comes away with her as she move a step back around the table. Your eyes briefly meet hers, wider for being rimmed in black lines of makeup, yet crinkled in knowing mirth.

“Is that so...”

Her eyes don’t turn, locked upon your own as her red ruby lips open wide. Her tongue, its tip leading the charge, slips across your sensitive right ring first, followed very shortly by her lips and mouth as she tries to devour your whole breast. You feel her nose stab upon you, her chin brushing your ribs, her breath upon your sweat slick skin hotter and more cooling than any fire or ice. The sheen brought forth by your ecstatic **** lets her lips glide across your chest, smearing you red as she gathers up your lacking bosom in an unyielding passionate suck. Her fingers, now bereft of their delicate play, plough you, fuck you, break you. The **** of the fire she stokes, comes crashing to bear. You feel it, roaring inside of you, tingling across every fibre; unknown and unknowable; you fear it, crave it, need it!

Sweat pours from wherever it can. Your slick valley churns with ecstasy and the movement of lightning infused fingers. Your breast, a source of no pleasure before today, feels alive as her kiss pulls its core between her lips. Your back arches. Your legs kick, bucking you as a deep shaking breath gives way to a long overdue-

It’s over.

She’s off you in a moment; only burning wet fire lingering upon your chest and empty want between your legs. The world whirls in confusion, like a dreams lost moments. Why? You’ve lost something, been denied something, but you don’t know what it was. Did you want it? You know the answer. It beats from primal places; places that ask without words a single confused question. Why? The answer comes to you through panting haze; the echo of the noise you made. In your memory, it sounds keening, ignorant, wanting. Primal. It didn’t sound like you at all.

Hungry disappointment is swept away and the sweaty stink of reason returns with a vengeance. You watch her as she steps aside, leavening you open. The man chosen so long ago to replace her steps forward, moving between your legs, hard and ready and eager. The game. The noise. He’s going to fuck you. Gods, you almost want him too!

They’re hooting and hollering; mocking you and commiserating with words you don’t hear. You feel his hands on your hips, wiping away your sweat as he pulls them towards him. The slick table below lets your buttocks glide the distance. You don’t want this! You don’t want him! Right?! You can’t take it! But the game goes on, and what can you do? Endure or forfeit; a silent **** or a bloody end. He’s grinning so wide and your body feels so hot; it’s hard to think, your mind bombarding you with unhelpful suggestions. He is attractive, isn’t he? What did she do to you!? He grips himself ready and your time for thought vanishes with the turning of his point.