“Oh, oh yes,” she croaked.
He pumped into her slick depth, setting a steady rhythm, which felt so good. Her body responded, undulating, matching his powerful moves.
She cried out, her body ignited, clenched and released around his rock-hard length. Consumed by the astonishing, exquisite pleasure, more powerful than those she’d experienced previously in the bath, Florence was overwhelmed.
“Spend, sweetheart,” he ordered gruffly.
“Spend?” she queried, gasping the word.
“Yes. Relax and let the bliss ride you.”
Florence inhaled the intoxicating scent of his clean, male musk. She ran her palms over his powerful flexing muscles, enjoying the rampant length of him embedded within her. The pleasure his pounding cock brought her was a revelation. When it hit her, the powerful ecstasy rocked her world. Florence screamed, entwining her hands in his long, dark hair. She tugged, holding on for dear life as the momentous maelstrom shook her to the very centre of her being.
He swelled inside her and reached culmination with a primeval shout of pleasure. His orgasm held him frozen, and he reared above her like some splendid Greek god she’d once seen depicted in a book. The sinews of his muscles corded, and his whole length shuddered. With a groan, he spilled himself deep inside her warmth.
Lying comatose on damp and twisted sheets, Florence did not for a moment feel discomforted by his weight after he’d collapsed atop her. Focus returned, and realisation dawned. Like a bucket of cold water dousing her, she remembered that through this act it was possible the pirate had impregnated her.
Chapter 7
He’d made love to her twice more after taking her virginity and was amazed by her responsiveness. The way she’d tasted, the overwhelming sense of omnipotence he’d felt when she came apart on his tongue, had been nothing short of miraculous. Watching her sleep, he marvelled at her beauty and sweetness.
Yet now she shut him out from her thoughts, and he did not like it. He missed her openness, the innate honesty she had portrayed during their first encounter. He was worried by her current withdrawal from him. He had thought that by gaining her permission to take her body, she would open to him, as a flower to the morning dew. Perhaps he should share his secret with her? After long deliberation, he decided against it. The time was not yet right for shared confidences. Flory had proved she was brave and passionate, but he knew she still retained her propensity for childish wilfulness. He had no intention of crushing her spirit, but he hoped to see some sign of her taking a moment to reflect before making hasty decisions. He wanted to vanquish her, yes, gaining her trust and obedience without subduing her natural joie de vivre.
After four days, her foot was healed sufficiently for her to walk upon it. He told her to dress because they were going outside. After she was clothed, he guided her up on deck where they stood together looking across the rise and fall of the ocean. He told her the name of his ship, The Sea Maiden. He explained the different terms for the areas of the ship, such as the head which the sailors used as a toilet.
From the crow’s nest above, a sailor shouted to the captain, pointing to a shoal of flying fish. They turned to see them, jumping like liquid silver from the sea, moving together in an arc of fluid movement. Florence laughed with joy at the sight, and he smiled indulgently at her. His grin fast faded to a grimace when lascivious glances were cast her way by his lusty crew. Florence seemed oblivious to the stir she caused amongst the men. She clapped with excitement at the shoal’s display of acrobatics.
An urgent shout came from the lookout set high above the rigging. The man alerted the ship’s crew to the presence of a shark. A dorsal fin glided darkly through the water which explained the frantic activity of the flying fish leaping desperately into the air in an attempt at escape.
Knowing where there was one shark there were likely be others, the captain scanned the sea. Sure enough, other fins cut through the water, herding the flying fish. The sharks had set a trap for them, surrounding the shoal. What had moments before been a beautiful spectacle, now resembled a bloodbath.
Florence shrieked. Quickly, he turned her by the shoulders and drew her away from the ship’s side. Her limping gait set the pace as he led them towards the hatch. He suggested they return to the cabin, but she argued bitterly, so he simply dipped his knee and threw her over his shoulder. Ribald shouts followed them while the sailors observed, delighted to witness their captain manhandle her below.
He cursed his men and carried her down the steep steps, ignoring her protests and squeals of dismay. He deposited her on her feet and guided her back to the cabin. Bewildered, he watched Florence rush inside, belying her need to limp. He winced as she reached for the first thing she came across on his desk, a solid glass-and-silver inkwell which she launched at his head. He ducked; the object hit the door behind him, landing heavily. It spilled ink in a streak across the planks of the floor, spattering him. Next, he dodged a flying ledger.
“Enough!” he roared.
She scuttled through into the sleeping quarters. He breathed a sigh of relief, which proved to be a sigh too soon, for she appeared in the doorway holding a pitcher of water and proceeded to throw the contents over him. It was the final straw. He’d come to the limit of his patience.
Beside the bed, he cornered her but swore heartily when she leapt up onto it, screeching ribald insults at him. It seemed to him that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. Well, he mused, as the saying went, every dog has its day, and hers was about to come to an end. Catching her by the wrist, he tugged her down onto the counterpane where he seated himself, and hauled her, shrieking, over his knee. He scooped up the hem of her dress, flinging the material over her back and secured her fast and, with an arm encircling her waist, he immediately landed a heavy hand on her churning rump.
“No-o!” she cried, struggling.
“Yes,” he replied grimly. Ruthlessly proceeding to lay his hard palm down in quick succession, he fast turned her pale backside to a deep cherry, only moments after the start of the spanking.
“You will never, I repeat, never throw anything at me again!” He punctuated each word with a hard slap.
Her cry of “Blaggard!” did nothing to help her situation. He decided she needed a goodly lesson to subdue the tantrum. Spanking her relentlessly until her insults ceased and the room filled with the sound of her choked weeping, determinedly he punished her, watching her undulating flesh turn from rouge to sunset red. His arm arced and fell in a pounding rhythm as he covered every available inch of her pert rear end.
Halting at last, he rested his palm on her seared behind. “What have you to say for yourself?”
“I. Hate. You!” she enunciated each word venomously.
He sighed and, resigned, raised his arm. This time he concentrated his efforts on the backs of her legs where the crease betwixt arse and thighs met. He could tell she was in a deal of discomfort. Her legs flailed, and she kicked out. In response, he lifted one leg and trapped both of hers. Now her weeping turned to wails, all abusive language halted.
Good.
It seemed he was getting through to her. When she slumped limply over his lap, her temper vanquished, he finished her spanking with a barrage of final slaps which covered her backside and legs.
“I ask once more, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I am sorry.”
His lip quirked with satisfaction upon hearing her contrite little voice float up from somewhere near the floor.
“And?” he prompted.
“I won’t throw anything at you again,” she promised meekly.
“That does not sound a very convincing promise,” he countered.
She took a shuddering breath. “You have my oath that I will not throw anything at you ever again,” she swore.
“Good. See that you abide by your word; otherwise, you will find yourself up on deck, tied over a gunwale while I blister your naked arse in front of my entire crew. Am I clear?”
; “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I am clear,” she replied.
He swatted her bottom. “SIR,” he barked.
“Sir,” she mumbled.
“Repeat the sentence, if you please,” he demanded, landing another sharp smack on her tender bottom.
“Ouch! Yes, I am very clear, SIR!” she cried instantly.
He lifted her and placed Florence carefully on her feet, ever mindful of her damaged foot. With his hands on her shoulders, he guided her to the corner of the cabin.
“You will remain here where you will think about your disrespectful behaviour,” he commanded.
Florence stared at the interlacing wooden planks that made up the cabin’s wall, and she berated herself. What happened to her plan to fool him into thinking she had given up all thought of escape and submitted to him? It had been idiotic of her to lose her temper, but she’d felt so tense and on edge, especially when she realised he’d told the truth about the sea monsters which had forestalled any future plans to escape via the sea. His refusal to allow her to remain up in the fresh air where she could look about and learn the layout of the vessel, infuriated her; it was that which tipped the scales of her equilibrium. Frustration had boiled over, and she’d lost all self-control.
Standing quietly in the corner with a stinging backside should have made her grouchier still, yet to her surprise she felt much calmer. Florence acknowledged that she would not like to face a repeat of that spanking any time soon. However, it had relieved her of all anxiety and rage which had been building inside her over the past forty-eight hours.
Her feelings were conflicted. She should experience outrage and distrust of the man she called captain. Instead he befuddled her senses by appearing to care for her, even meeting her needs in a kindly fashion. She disliked herself for enjoying his lovemaking when she patently shouldn’t, resenting him for making her succumb so easily to his methods of arousal. In short, he made her feel like a prostitute, although in truth she was aware that in drawing that conclusion she had no idea how such a woman felt.
“What deep thoughts crease that pretty brow?”
She started at the rumble of his voice. She’d forgotten that he was still in the room.
“I never want a repeat of a spanking such as that one,” she answered. It was at least a half truth of her tumbling thoughts.
“Well then, learn to behave and obey me,” he replied sternly.
Now might be a good time to make him think he had subdued her, to lull him into a false sense of security. It was her best hope of escape.
“Yes, Captain. I am truly sorry, sir,” she replied, softening her tone with a regretful note.
“Good, I am pleased to hear it. Now come here to me. It is time that I teach you how to make reparation for your ill manners.”
She turned and crossed to stand where he was seated on the bed. He spread wide his thighs and bid her kneel between them. Bewildered, she sank to her knees as requested. She widened her eyes as he leant back and unbuttoned his fall. The thick muscle of his cock sprang exuberantly from the constriction of his pantaloons. The captain wrapped his fist around his member and tugged several times.
“Open wide. You will show your contrition by sucking my cock,” he commanded.
She looked up at him in utter disbelief.
He pursed his lips.
“Did I not pleasure you with my mouth?”
She nodded.
“Well then, I want the same gift from you.”
With her hair gathered in both hands, he lifted the skein and twisted it into a ponytail which he used to guide her head over his loins. She stared at his tumescent member, buoyantly bobbing before her face. Florence placed her hand around the thick base. She slid her thumb up the engorged shaft and marvelled at the silky feel, like velvet-covered wood.
She darted her tongue out and tasted his heat, enjoying the slight saltiness that beaded from the tiny mouth of his massive cock. Parting her lips, she drew him between her lips and slid her tongue along the veined ridge that ran beneath the underside of his member.
“Suck,” he demanded in a low, strangulated voice.
She glanced up to meet his glittering, lustful gaze. A sense of empowerment filled her at the realisation her actions were giving him pleasure. Florence determined to use this act as a way of regaining his trust. She sucked so hard her cheeks hollowed, and saliva oozed from the sides of her mouth. Her ministrations had him groaning, the sound reverberating deep inside his chest, his moans so husky she found herself becoming aroused.
Slickness smeared her thighs as she gripped and released her pelvic muscles in rhythm with her suckling. Almost frantically, she wrapped her tongue around his cock and dragged back, creating a powerful suction. The guttural noises he made spurred her on. Suddenly he pumped his hips, lunging deep into her throat, taking control of her motion and speed. She was overwhelmed by his girth; his length caused her to gag.
Without warning, her mouth flooded with sap. She coughed at the unexpected outcome. He growled with satisfaction, thrusting lustily, all the while giving rumbling gasps of pleasure.
“Woman, you are a born strumpet,” he told her huskily.
She leapt to her feet, livid. He threw back his head with a bark of laughter. To her chagrin, she realised he was baiting her, and forced a smile—better not to antagonise the man. She wanted him lulled into a false sense of security, so that as soon as they made land she could slip away. After all, the ship must dock at some point in order to take on fresh water and supplies. Until then, she would have to play the whore. The problem was, she’d begun to enjoy the role.
Chapter 8
It turned out it was not such a difficult part to play. Despite herself, every time he seduced her, she melted to his touch, responding to him as naturally as breathing. Her body hummed with delight as he caressed and teased her, taking her to heights of previously unimagined bliss. Florence tried not to worry about how easily he controlled her senses, pushing all disquieting thoughts to the back of her mind; she concluded it was important that he trusted her so that when the opportunity arose, she could disappear.
He pulled out a chess set one evening.
“Do you play?” he asked, placing the pieces on the board.
“No.”
He explained the rudiments of the game, and she leant in, eager to learn.
“What does the horse do?” she asked, impatient.
Pedantically, he went through each piece teaching her their moves.
“It is a called a knight, and it moves in a dog-leg fashion, like so.” He moved his knight accordingly.
“Why is there no knight sat atop the horse?” she enquired.
“Flory, if you persist with these ridiculous questions, I shall put the game away and tan your delectable backside, tie you to the bed and ravish you.”
Her breath caught in her throat. He must have read the excitement his words created in her eyes, because his own narrowed to glittering strips.
“I see the idea intrigues you,” he purred, his voice dangerously low.
Gulping, she forced herself to speak. She needed to change the direction of this conversation.
“Won’t you tell me your real name?”
“I told you, Captain, but you may call me sir.”
“That is not a name and you know it. What did your mother call you?” she pursued.
“Rapscallion,” he replied, waggling his eyebrows.
Florence laughed.
“That is no answer!” she berated. “Will you ever tell me something about yourself?”
With his hands steepled, he studied her. “I think I shall give you a chance to win that information.”
“How so?” she asked, intrigued.
“If you answer my question correctly, then I shall give you my true name.”
Florence’s heart fluttered. “Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“Simply tell me the origin of the game of chess.”
Her brow furrowed. “Is this a trick?”
“I assure you, I intend no deceit.”
“Hmm, I think perhaps you intend me to be thrown by your question and state another country and not England.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes, yes I say England.” She nodded decisively.
“Wrong. Chess originated in India,” he told her and picked up another piece. “Now concentrate; this is known as a bishop.”
“How do I know that to be the truth?” she persisted.
He sighed, fixing her with a quelling look. “I do not lie. Chess is thought to have travelled from the Orient into India. Now, enough questions, I shall tell you my name when I feel you are ready to know.”
Florence glared at him. “What if I fall with child in the meantime?” She hoped to shock him.
“Then I shall become a father. I always rather fancied myself dangling a babe on my knee.”
His trite reply incensed her. The fear that he would beget a babe with her had tormented her from the start. The casual way he accepted such a possibility roused her ire. She deliberately knocked the chessboard to the floor, the pieces scattering far and wide.
Barely having reached her feet, let alone escaped, she found herself caught in his grasp. She shrieked with rage but she was no match for him. He dragged her through the cabin to the bed.
“Mutiny is a capital punishment, one that would usually end with the fellow clapped in chains. In your case, I think some time spent restrained might be beneficial. I do so adore the way you constantly present me with new ways to play, my dear.”
His irritatingly jovial tone raised her ire. Retaliating, she spat foul curses at him. Despite her struggles, he soon had her face down on the bed with each of her limbs tied to the four corners. First her wrists, then each ankle in turn; no amount of kicking deterred him. In fact, her violence only earned her a volley of sharp smacks to her backside and the tender area of her inner thighs.
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 41