Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  Underneath him, she bucked her hips and hurled her body forward to meet his thrusts. The duet hardened his erection, and the heat of the blood seared. She had to be aware of the warmth coursing through his member; how could she not feel it! She thrashed her head from side to side, blatantly on the cusp of a climax. He wondered, pausing to allow her some respite from his pounding, whether she’d ever had the joy of one before. Encouraged by the thought she might not, he resumed his vigorous pummelling. Never had he taken a woman so hard and fast with the resolute determination to make her come on his cock. Every woman he’d bedded before Esme had toyed with him. They groaned or grunted, dabbled with their rough tongues and scratched his flesh with their talons, and then, he knew they made it a pretence; his great splash at the end was accompanied by screeches and voluminous congratulations, as if he’d won the biggest prize on the seas. The truth, he now realised, was that a woman was far more satisfying when she ceded control and simply enjoyed the pleasure of giving him their whole body. Every morsel of Esme was his, every inch of her flesh.

  Releasing her wrists, he rose above her. She opened her eyes and blinked, the question apparent on her face: Why had he stopped moving?

  “I thought I lost you. I could not bear the thought of losing you,” he said softly.

  “I know,” she said. “I would have rather died then let them touch me.”

  He kissed her lips tenderly. “This is just the beginning, you know that. Now that I have you, I’ll take you every day. The crew can be damned. They’ll have their fill at the next port.”

  He gyrated his hips, keeping her on the brink.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. “I have this strange feeling something is going to erupt inside me if you keep doing that.”

  Flynn grinned. “Then I better not stop until you have.” He cupped both of her arse cheeks with his hands and drew her upright, and then down until she was fully impaled and close to his balls. There, he held her against his chest with her legs still coiled around his waist. She lifted her hips, then descended.

  “Like so?”

  “Like so,” he agreed.

  Her breasts, no longer imprisoned, were free to perform a jig, and to his delight, they did so right before his eyes.

  “Don’t stop,” he groaned.

  He deferred to her choice of pace, knowing she was learning the art of a triumphant finale. He gifted her this, and she took it, crying out. He smothered her mouth with his hand. The gift given, he would take his turn, but not yet. He’d something else planned, a reminder that he was a pirate who plundered for treasure wherever he desired.

  A thunderous wave burst out of her, then as she cried out, the glorious crest cascaded into smaller waves before finally diminishing into ripples that reached her toes and fingertips. She’d had gentler experiences, but nothing as tumultuous or long-lasting as this stupendous one. She flopped forward and into his waiting arms. He stroked her back and kissed her cheek.

  “My pretty petal,” he murmured. He glanced over her shoulder to the window and frowned.

  Flynn extracted himself, pulled on his breeches, and unlocked the door. Esme burrowed under a quilt and poked her nose out.

  “Darius,” Flynn yelled.

  “Sir?” Darius appeared by the ajar door.

  “Are we still ahead?”

  “The boy in the nest has seen no sign of the frigate.”

  “Send up another pair of eyes. The more the better. A fog descends.” Flynn turned to face her. “Are you hungry, wench?”

  “No, sir.” Not for food, she wanted to say.

  Darius closed the door, and Flynn locked it.

  “You should have asked for another shirt,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t repair the other. Where are the buttons? They’ve scattered everywhere.” She wrapped the quilt around her and stuck her feet over the side of the cot. “And a clean pair of breeches would be nice.”

  “Would it now?” He leaned one shoulder against the door in a display of sublime relaxation. “I’ve decided you’ll stay in my cabin, and to ensure you’ll not think of wandering again, you’ll wear nothing but your skin.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Captain Flynn, you make a fine joke of my situation. I can make do with another man’s breeches.”

  He wasn’t smiling.

  “You’re serious.” She swallowed hard. “No, you can’t.”

  He strolled towards her, stopping by his sea chest. “I can. And I shall. No clothes for you, my pretty. Not until you’ve learnt to behave.”

  “What if one of those blaggards out there comes in and finds me?” The ship was cramped enough already, and Flynn wouldn’t be with her all the time.

  “Aye, they might risk it. But I’ve told them they’ll be flogged if they do. Trust me, they won’t dare.”

  “I… I’ll be cold.” She hugged the quilt to her bosom.

  “In this heat? The natives of these islands need little to keep warm. And at night, my petal, you’ll have me for warmth.”

  She blushed. “Every night?”

  He nodded. “You’ll find out what a pirate’s wickedness truly means.”

  “Shiver me timbers!” She giggled. But still no smile in reply.

  “As for your bare flesh, I find it most pleasing, except it lacks completeness.”

  She tensed. “Oh?”

  He opened the chest and removed a pair of clippers. He placed them on the table next to the candles. “A small act of faith on your part will go some way to reducing your sentence.”

  She stuttered, unsure if he meant to cut her hair or… “What…what are those for?”

  “Lie upon the table, and I’ll demonstrate. Naturally, you’ll need to be very still.” Now there was a crooked smile on his face. He picked up a candle, wedged it into a holder, and lit the wick with a flint.

  The flame mesmerised her; she was drawn to it and him, like the moth does to fire. Slowly, a trickle of liquid beeswax dribbled down the side.

  “No…” She shook her head.

  “Aye, you’ll do this for me, Esme. Hurry now. The waters are calm, but maybe not for long. And I need a steady hand.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  He fingered his belt buckle. The message was clear.

  “You’ll be careful?” She slipped off the cot.

  “I’d not want to damage my prize.” Flynn tapped the table. “On ye back, legs smartly apart. One candle for light. One for warmth.” The smile broadened into a grin. “And if you scream, the men will think it a fitting punishment.”

  “Shouldn’t you be punished for deceiving them?” She touched the oak table—smooth and cool.

  “I’m the captain. Nobody lays a finger on me. A pirate captain is the fiercest man on the seas; I’ve a reputation to maintain.”

  “Have you hanged a man, sent him to his death for mutiny?” she asked.

  The smile fractured. No, he hadn’t, but that wasn’t why she’d asked the question.

  He performed a nonchalant shrug. “I prefer to put them aloft on the yardarms when there’s a hurricane. If they fall…”

  “Then, Captain Bartoc, I trust you’ll treat me kindly.” She loosened the quilt, and it dropped onto the floor by her feet. Lifting her bottom, she perched on the table, then slowly stretched out and lay down.

  “Leg’s apart,” he ordered, and the clipped tone of his voice brought about an immediate response from her. She spread her legs and showed him what he wanted to see.

  He lit the other candle. The smoke rose, and the wax melted. He picked up clippers, which seemed to her as big as shears, and slid the tip of the blades through her untamed hairs. The cold touched her pubis and she flinched.

  “Don’t move,” he said softly. “Lie still.”

  Slowly, he opened the blades and snipped off the longest ends. From groin to groin, he trimmed her bush. She held her breath, not daring to move her ribs for fear they might cause another part of her body to twitch. He shifted the clippers lower
, between her thighs.

  “Please, that’s too close.” She covered her face.

  “Aye,” he said, then continued to snip.

  She peeped between her fingers. Flynn’s head was low, between her legs, and he carried out his task with steady hands and a look of focused concentration. The candles illuminated his eyes; they sparkled, a vivid display of his intense expression. He licked his lips, circling his mouth several times. Again, she shivered—a trembling that was naught to do with the cold table beneath her.

  “That’s better.” He rose and put the clippers down.

  She propped herself up onto her elbows. Her bush was now a meadow of tiny hairs. “I’m naked.”

  “Aye, but I want you smooth just here.” He pointed at her mound. “This is where you’ll show your bareness. And I’ll use the wax.”

  “No, please, don’t. You’ll burn me!”

  He touched the candlestick and flicked off a piece of hardened wax. “Trust me. I’ll drip it from on high, and by the time it touches you, it’ll be cooler. Now lie back.”

  “I can’t.” She squished her thighs together.

  “Do you want me to tie you down?”

  No, yes! She chewed her lip, unsure how to answer him. What if he did tie her to the table—would she be able to trust him? What if after years at sea, he’d lost all compassion and the violence he’d witnessed countless times had rendered him incapable of kindness?

  He leaned over her and lowered his face until the tip of his nose slid past hers. She quickly snatched a breath before he planted his firm lips on her dry mouth. The pressure he applied was just within her limits. Her heartbeats quickened, and the bud he’d exposed with his clippers leaped for joy. Now, she understood his purpose. That little organ of pleasure was unprotected and vulnerable, and the next time he lay his body on top of hers, ground his hips against hers, his firm member would cajole it with thrusts, and with luck, bring about that climax she wanted again with all of her heart.

  “Do it,” she whispered. “And bind my legs to the table.”

  His eyes widened with delight. “It is for my pleasure that you obey me, and later it will be for your pleasure that you did so with courage and passion.”

  The hemp he used wasn’t the kind rough sailors laid their hands upon. He kept the rope in his chest. Unravelling a length of it, he slipped a noose around her ankle, drew it tighter, but not so that it pinched, and knotted the other end around the table leg. The other ankle was bound and tied in place. To her relief, the tabletop wasn’t so wide that she was forced spread-eagled. Flynn stood for a moment, seemingly enraptured by her lack of mobility.

  The candle flickered, breaking his trance. He picked up the end of the stick, lifted it high above her lower belly and slowly he tipped it. Esme held her breath and watched the treacle-like substance fall. The melted beeswax, the colour of amber gold, landed where the finest shorn hairs remained tufted on her mound. As she waited for the wax to scold her, she failed to exhale; every muscle in her body had gone rigid. The firming liquid spread—Flynn smeared it with the tip of his finger—until it began to solidify. He tore strip of parchment from an old chart and pressed it into the sticky mess.

  “It’s warm!” she exclaimed. The heat penetrated her skin, but she sensed no burning or even the pain of fire.

  “The wax going on isn’t the issue, my sweet, it’s when it comes off—” He punctuated his sentence with a brisk flick of his wrist.

  A thousand tiny hairs, or so it seemed, were torn away in that one second. She screamed, a short, shrill cry, then fell silent. The intense inferno lasted as long as her screech, then it melted away into a throb, the like of which she could easily tolerate. Warily, she lifted her head off the table to inspect the damage. A bare patch of skin, as pink as her lips, had been exposed on top of her little mound.

  Flynn ran his finger over it, barely touching the surface. “So smooth, and hot.” He smiled. “Two more like so, to the left, and to the right, then you’ll be as perfect as I wish.”

  She sealed her lips—this time she’d not cry out like a baby. The pain was short-lived, no worse than the snap of his belt on her backside. She was supposed to be a brave pirate in training, or so she hoped if he held up his side of his promise.

  The candle wax dripped, and once more Flynn smeared it over her stubbly hairs, applied a strip of parchment, and ripped the layer of wax away. The discomfort was familiar and intense, but this time she expected it and assimilated the pain as she did with all heartaches and fears: she swallowed it into her belly and crushed it there.

  “Such a brave lass,” he said.

  He blew out the flames on both candles and put them to one side. Her bindings released—she’d hardly noticed them—she was free to inspect herself fully. Tentatively, she touched the pinked skin and was relieved to find it smooth as a baby’s bottom, and not rough nor broken. The rest of her privates were covered in soft, miniature curls, and among them, her unharmed folds. Slipping her fingers between them, she detected a perfuse amount of her natural dew. Only then did she realised that the sensations she felt down there were tantalisingly lewd in their origins—she wanted to know what it would feel like to have him lick and tease her pristine nakedness.

  He handed her the bottle of oil that he’d once used to prepare her. She stared at it, unsure of his intentions.

  “Why do you want—?”

  He cut off her concerns with a caress of his hand along her cheek and jaw. “Polish your skin and soothe it with this oil. The sheen will lessen the soreness. Go ahead, and I will watch.” He stepped away from her and chose to sit on his sea chest.

  Remaining on the table with her legs stretched out before her, she hesitated. She was to do what exactly?

  “Pour it on, go on,” he said.

  She uncorked the bottle and tipped an amount of clear oil onto her palm. With her gaze upon his face, she turned her hand over and cupped her scorched skin and slowly made circles around her nub with the heel of her palm. The oil slithered down between her folds. She inhaled sharply, not in pain, but with delight at the coolness. She tipped more of the oil onto her bare mound, put the bottle to one side, and with an eagerness, she coated her sex with the slick.

  “Slowly,” he said, softly. “For my pleasure as much as yours.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, until she realised that once again this was an act of preparation. She slid her fingers inside her opening, then retreated to the smooth pubis and teased her little organ out of its shell. It rose, hot and bothered, desperate for her attention. She panted, suddenly aware of how close she was to a climatic finish.

  Flynn reached out and secured her jittery hand. He grasped her wrist, then used it to guide her off the table. Suddenly, and with no warning, he spun her around, pushed her over the table, and pinned her shoulders down. The need in him was as urgent as her own. She offered not a jot of resist to his rough preamble and she cared not that with her bottom up and her legs knocked apart by his booted feet, he had deftly arranged her into a position of total vulnerability, and at the same time, opened his breeches.

  “Wider, wider,” he urged, and she obliged him by spreading her feet to each of the table legs that he’d bound her to earlier.

  The thrust was awesome. Quite breathtaking. He plunged to the hilt of his manhood. She might feel taut and unyielding, but he’d met no resistance, not the slightest friction. Her slippery interior was well lubricated. He withdrew, sighed with a delicious longing, and rammed into her channel once again. He purloined her sex for his pleasure, using it rampantly, and without pausing for breath. He panted with each stroke of his erection, and she freely suffered the roughness of his spearing. Flattened onto the table, her breasts squished and trapped, she had no means to push back as he kept a good grasp of her waist with one hand and her shoulder with the other. The smacks of his body against her bottom served to augment her excitement—such a glorious sound, and it no doubt travelled out of the cabin along with her squeals and his
groans.

  He pounded her with a rhythmic bounce, an energy that endured long after she would have collapsed in a heap—he was catching up on where they’d left off on the bed with her legs knotted around him. This time she was both prostrate and keeled over. She gripped the table edge for support and hooked her toes on the table legs. Having it bolted to the floor was a blessing, given that his powerful thrusts might otherwise have tipped the table over. Her nipples grazed the woodgrain, hardening them further, while her hips rose and fell in time with his thrusts.

  “Yes, yes,” he growled.

  “No, no,” she replied. He’d breached her too many times, and she could no longer stop the orgasm.

  He juddered, spurting his seed with a moan, then in the midst of her strongest contraction, he favoured her with one last stab of his cock—it signalled the end of his bombardment. A peace descended, like the calming of rough waves, and she drifted into a kind of slumber, barely aware of him picking her up and carrying her to the cot.

  The last thing she heard before falling asleep was Flynn muttering, “Curse this infernal fog.”

  The fog lingered on into the next day, then the next. Occasionally, the wind picked up and the mist billowed and shifted, creating patterns of grey fluffy cotton until the breeze dropped, and once more, the fog blanketed the sea. Esme remained in Flynn’s cabin in a constant state of readiness for him. He left her tasks—plotting the ship’s position on his charts and reading a crusty book on navigating, which she pored over, grateful for the basic tutelage her mother had given her. So many of her childhood peers were unable to read.

  At night, he stripped, providing her with the divine spectacle of his musculature and lithe sinews, and bedded her, using all of his body to dissolve any dark thoughts she might harbour about his intentions. With her warm and sleepy, he’d slip away and finish his respite on the hammock. When she woke in the morning, he’d be gone, leaving her breakfast on a platter with a mug of beer.