Smut by the Sea

by Lucy Felthouse

  “Oh, that was so good,” I managed eventually as the spasms ravishing me eased.

  “It was more than good,” he said, kissing up my neck and across my cheek. “That was amazing.”

  I smiled and pushed a clump of hair over his shoulder. He looked utterly beautiful, in a roguish, bad-boy way. His high cheek bones were flushed, his eyes glazed and his mouth bruised from our heated kisses.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  “What the…?” He leapt from the bed and lunged for his clothes.

  “Captain,” a deep voice called through the door. “Captain, Black Bellamy has just come into port.”

  “Get all hands on deck,” Roberto shouted, dragging on his leather trousers and shoving his feet into his boots.

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” There was the sound of fast, heavy footsteps.

  “Who is Black Bellamy?” I asked.

  He grabbed his bandana and fastened it around his head. “Not someone I want to see right now.”

  “Why?”

  He stepped up to me, cupped my cheek. “Don’t ask questions.”

  I swallowed tightly and drew my knees to my chest. The plug in my arse shifted and made me shiver.

  “I have to go,” he said, releasing me and striding to the door. “I have many enemies, Matilda, you would be wise to get yourself ashore for we are about to pull up anchor.”

  He was gone.

  I stared at the black feather, swinging from the door key. Get myself ashore. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay here, as Captain Roberto’s woman. What we’d just done had blown every other sexual experience I’d ever had out of the water. I couldn’t just go. Besides, I still had his plug, inside of me.

  Gingerly, I stood from the bed, adjusting to the new movements and how it shifted the plug. It felt tense and tight and rippled out the remaining waves of pleasure left over from our coupling.

  Suddenly the room lurched to the left. I grabbed the bedpost and hung on. Several items slid from the table and my shoes rattled toward the wall. A deafening bang roared through my ears.

  Canon fire.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” I gasped, scrabbling for my clothes. Perhaps it was a good idea to get off the ship after all.

  There were panicked shouts coming from above. Heavy boots shook the ceiling.

  The Magpie pitched forward.

  “Oh, my…” It seemed the anchor was already up and the sails were filling. I slipped on my shoes and straightened my dress. Ran to the door and pulled it open.

  There was no one in the corridor so I dashed the way Roberto had brought me earlier. It was hard to run, the ship was shifting, knocking me into the walls. Each step I took, each time my body made contact with the wooden panels, the plug in my arse lurched. It wasn’t unpleasant, in fact it was nice, but it did cause me to pause and catch my breath as waves of pleasure spread through me.

  I staggered up a set of steps, the shouts and footsteps getting louder. Perhaps I could jump into the water. Swim to shore. Though how I would manage in my dress? It would surely wrap around me and pull me under.

  But it was my only choice. I would have to take my chances.

  I reached the deck and stared at the chaotic scene - men running this way and that, ropes and booms swinging.

  Suddenly a calloused hand slapped over my mouth and my back made contact with a hard chest. “What ya doin’, lady?”

  I writhed and wriggled. Tried to ram my elbows into my captor. “Get off me,” I cried into his heavy palm. He smelt of ale, gunpowder and stale sweat.

  “Stop your struggling, my sweet,” he hissed, “for there is nothing you can do to stop me killing you for being on board The Magpie.” He laughed and began to drag me towards the bow of the ship.

  The sails were full now and we were heading towards the blackness of the night. The canon fire stopped and I twisted to look at the shoreline.

  A lone figure stood at the end of the pontoon. A man, broad shoulders, length of piping in his hand.

  Father!

  Did he know I was on board? Was he going to follow The Magpie? I wanted to shout for him to save me, but how could he? And if he tried he would come to the same tragic end I was about to.

  The man holding me shoved me into the side-rail and tipped me half over. The menacingly black water below splashed upwards, cold and hungry. We were too far from shore for me to make it back now.

  He grabbed a handful of my hair and twisted me to face him. He had sharp, blue irises and a deformed, battered nose.

  I shut my eyes. I didn’t want his ugly face to be the last thing I saw before I hit the sea.

  “Release her.” Roberto’s loud command rang through the night air.

  “I found this wench on deck, Captain. She’s a stowaway,” the man holding me said, relaxing his hold enough so I could straighten and turn.

  “Are you calling my woman a stowaway, Birdie?” Roberto asked, raising a gun to the man’s chest.

  “Your woman? Er, no, no of course not.” Birdie released me.

  “Come here, Matilda,” Roberto ordered.

  I rushed forward and allowed him to pull me into his embrace. His smell and the feel of his bare chest was comforting and familiar. He kept his gun aimed at Birdie.

  “I wouldn’t ’av thrown her overboard if I’d known she was yours, would I?” Birdie said, his voice catching on the wind and floating away.

  Roberto grunted and swung his gun over the now still and silent crowd of sailors. “Anyone else got a problem with my woman being on The Magpie?” His tone was hard and menacing. “If so, speak now so I can shoot you and get it over with.”

  All heads shook and there was mumble of, “No, Captain. Not at all, Captain.”

  “Good, now back to work. We have to make distance before morning. I have no intention of giving Bellamy back what I took when he foolishly left his ship undermanned in Lisboa.”

  The crowd dispersed and I looked back toward Southampton. My father was a tiny dot in the distance.

  “I thought you’d made it ashore,” Roberto said against my temple as he dropped the gun to his side.

  “No, I had to get dressed, and it was hard to run with the ship lurching, then he grabbed me. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me on The Magpie.”

  “I never said that.”

  “You did.”

  “I said I was not the man you thought I was. You would be better off with your father. For all his rough edges he cares for you.”

  “I know who and what you are and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” I swallowed. “And don’t you care for me too?”

  He sighed. “More than you realise, which is why I didn’t want you on board. It’s a dangerous life at sea and although I am a man of few morals, I don’t want you hurt.” He brushed his lips over mine. “But I can’t take you back now. It is too risky for my men. Black Bellamy will attack for sure. I have a duty to take the best course of action for my crew at all times.”

  I looked up at him, his eyes were flashing in the darkness. “I know you can’t take me back. But…”

  “But?”

  “But I want adventure and excitement, and I’m more than willing to be the Captain’s woman.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And a fine Captain’s woman you are too.” He tipped his head, narrowed his eyes. “Is it still in?”

  “Is what still in?” I knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “The plug.”

  A tingle of lust caused my arse to clench. “Yes, yes it is.”

  “Oh, Matilda.” He smiled. “Until I deliver you back home in a few months, we are going to have so much fun and so many adventures both in and out of the bedroom.”

  I pressed my lips to his, happiness swelling my heart. This was where I belonged, on The Magpie, with all of its lovely sparkly things, and Captain Roberto.

  A life at sea was the life for me, and everyone would just have to get used to it, for perhaps I too, was a woman of few morals.

 
; A Proper British Seaside Holiday

  By Victoria Blisse

  I was going to do my seaside holiday properly, rain be dammed. I had one weekend and it was my treat to myself. I work. You don’t need to know what or why, I’m not here to tell you about the boring part of my life. I work a lot, and I’d had a very long and intense six months. I made myself ill and the doctor signed me off and I had to stop.

  Stopping meant I had way too much time to think and to stare at four boring walls in my tiny London flat. I had to go somewhere because I knew if I didn’t escape my sanity was at risk.

  It sounds dramatic but it was true, I was seriously coming unhinged and realised I had no real friends to turn to. Nobody to ease my distress.

  So I packed a bag and jumped on a Tube to Euston. I was determined just to go somewhere, anywhere, but as I stared at banks of flickering destinations I remembered something and my mind was made up for me.

  It was as if I’d been transported back to my childhood. My beloved blue teddy clutched to my chest and my backpack tightly cinched over my shoulders. I remember mum and dad chattering and pointing at the screen and one word, one word that filled my little heart with so much joy it was almost too much.

  Scarborough.

  My mum and dad were working class folk and they scrimped and saved every year for one week away from their dreary existence. One week where I could eat ice cream after every meal, a week where we could just do whatever we wanted to.

  We used to reminisce so often about those days and I realised all the more how important those holidays were for my folks. It was the hope in their year that kept them plodding on.

  So I set out to Scarborough to revisit the joy of my childhood. Of course my memories were sun-bathed and glorious, but by the grace of the British weather it was throwing it down with rain when I pulled into the familiar white-frilled platform of my haven of sanity.

  And it wasn’t just a shower, it kept up raining as I walked around to find a hotel room. It was also the kind of rain with purpose that they get up north. I’d forgotten the biting chill of rainwater impacting forcefully on skin and the short amount of time it takes to get wet, properly wet.

  In London I leap from office to Tube to taxis and restaurants and back, I don’t have time to get more than damp. By the time I found a hotel with a vacancy, I was drenched to the skin but I was happy. I’d seen my first glimpse of the tumble-down castle and heard the cry of the seagulls. I smelt the tang of salt on the air and smiled.

  I sat in my room a while, it was gifted with a huge window and a view of the sea. As I dried out I watched the sea boil and break, churning white with ferocity and power. I tracked the familiar coast and picked out landmarks, absorbed the nostalgia and breathed. I was so relaxed, sat there in the comfort of my room with my wet jeans steaming on the radiator that my mind slipped to pleasure for the first time since forever. The soft velour chair stroked my thighs and made me feel decadent. I realised that I was sat by my hotel window half naked, thought about it a moment, then shrugged.

  I was high up and overlooking the sea but hidden from public view. Who would want to look anyway? I am just a chubby girl; no one ever glances at me twice. And I don’t mind, I’m too busy, then too exhausted for sex anyway. But there in that hotel room I felt stirrings I’d almost forgotten I could experience.

  I was hyper aware of my breathing, my bust rising and falling under the plain white t-shirt protecting them. I watched them heave out of the corner of my eye and gazed out at the rain and the sea and the squall. The undulation of the tide seemed to mimic the rise and fall of my chest and I found myself unable to resist reaching up and stroking across my breast. I felt tingles slip down between my cleavage, over the hillock of my stomach to the valley below.

  It was wet outside and I was wet on the inside. I could feel my juices clinging to my lips and sticking to the expensive satin of my knickers. I was aroused and it felt fucking good. I knew masturbation was pleasurable, it’s just I’d not done it for so long that it was almost a surprise. I had lost desire but hadn’t missed it until that moment; when I remembered how good it feels as the blood whooshes through you and everything aches and stretches towards orgasm.

  I savoured every twitch, every gasp as I rubbed my hands over my body, following the path of my need. I slouched down in the expensive chair and spread my thighs wide. Thinking back it would have made sense to move over onto the huge four poster bed I had paid extra for, but I was too lost in the moment to think straight.

  The damp crotch of my knickers slipped over my knuckles when I stroked over the coarse hair of my pussy. I idly thought about trimming it. I hadn’t paid it any attention for months, but I actually liked the wildness that I delved through to press my clit. It was a voyage of rediscovery and I remembered relatively quickly what button to press and which way to rub it. It came back to me exactly the pressure I needed to reach to make me mewl and pump my hips in pleasure. The shuddering orgasm hit and absorbed me, shaking through every cell, waking me from my trance. That is what it felt like anyway. I saw the world in a fresh light as I pulled myself up and grinned.

  I felt more like me. Like a human being, not a robot repeating the same thing over and over again. I felt hunger; actual real biting and twisting hunger that scrunched up and stamped in my stomach. I had eaten sheerly out of habit for so long that I’d forgotten how good it felt to really crave something to eat. I wandered down to the seafront that evening and found a restaurant. I enjoyed crispy battered cod, fluffy and satisfying chips accompanied by mushy peas and a view of the sunset over the darkening waters.

  I slept that night better than I had slept in months. I only know this because I did not look at the clock every hour or so. It was still raining when I woke. The sky was grey, but my heart was bright so I just didn’t care. The first thing I did after enjoying a hearty breakfast was to go and buy myself a waterproof jacket. It was purple. It wasn’t sexy but it would keep me dry and that’s what mattered.

  I strolled down the long, shop-lined hill to the seafront, head held high. I paid no attention to the rivulets of water running down my hood. I honestly didn’t care about the gloomy day. I was in a good mood and I wasn’t going to waste it. After all it was the first one I’d had for a very, very long time.

  I realised something as I meandered along the seafront, listening to the calls of the seagulls and enjoying the seafood smells; the hot doughnuts and the candy floss. I had spent so long pursuing financial stability that I’d forgotten to enjoy life at all. I was happy as a kid, my parents loved me, and I had all I needed, if not all I wanted. When did I forget the balance?

  I sat beneath the Victorian awning of the park across from the beach, drank weak tea from a polystyrene cup and was content. I’ve eaten caviar, visited the classiest restaurants in old London town and never even really tasted the food because I’d always been too focused on saying the right things and sealing the deal. The fact I needed to get a better balance in my life became clearer with every scorching sip.

  My view over the bay was obscured by a bus with no roof. Giggling, I remembered how much I loved to ride the open-top bus in my youth. It was always the highlight of the holiday, sitting high and watching the scenery fly by.

  I looked up the road and saw a bus stop. Leaping up with great purpose I headed for it. I was going to ride the bus. It was the next step in revisiting my childhood and recapturing my joy.

  I jumped on the next one that came along, paid my fare and climbed upstairs. No one was up there. That wasn’t a surprise since it was still raining hard. I sat down near the back. I always wanted to sit at the back when I was little and my parents wouldn’t let me. It was fun to let my little rebel take over.

  The seat was damp and cold and the water seeped into my jeans. I’d have to go back to the hotel and change again once the trip was over, but then I could maybe enjoy the firm mattress of my bed while I waited for my clothes to dry. Apparently, once you reawaken a libido it doesn’t give you fiv
e minutes rest.

  It’s hard to appreciate the view when rain is slapping you in the face like an irate lover. So I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the harsh rush of wind against my cheeks and listened to the pitter-patter of the drops dancing over my coat. I felt the bus stop, so I opened my eyes. I was near the harbour, fishing boats sitting quietly in the water, huddling together before their next jaunt out to sea.

  I heard the clomp, clomp, clomp of shoes on the stairs and I wondered who on earth was as crazy as me to want to sit up in the elements. It turned out to be a very handsome man in a red raincoat similar to my own. He cracked a smile when he saw me, his head just peering over the top of the barrier as he continued up the stairs.

  “I thought I’d be the only one crazy enough to sit up here in this weather.” His voice was earthy and deep with a hint of the local accent. I wanted to hear more of it.

  “No, no. I’m afraid you’ve not got the monopoly on crazy today.”

  “So,” he said, covering the distance from the front of the bus to the back in a few long strides. He was very tall and did I mention handsome? I was sure the wetness seeping between my thighs wasn’t simply the rain. This tall, dark man was whispering to my most feminine desires. “What brings you up here on such an inclement day?”

  “Appreciation of life.” I replied with a smirk.

  “Ah, that.” He nodded, “do you mind if I sit with you?”

  “Not at all, as long as you don’t mind getting a wet arse.” I chuckled uneasily. I shouldn’t have mentioned his bum, I hardly knew him!

  “I’m already wet everywhere else, what’s another body part in the grand scale of things?” He sat down and offered me his hand. “Hello, I’m Daniel. You’re not from round here, are you?”

  “I’m Abby. I’m from Manchester but I live in London right now.”