0 comments/ 40286 views/ 4 favorites Packard's Plunder By: Chainsaw Larry From all around her the sounds of a ship coming alive began. Hoarse shouts of bosun and petty officers rousing the crew from their slumber, water sloshing the decks and gun trucks squeaking as they were drawn forward to the readiness of dawn. She sat huddled in the corner of the tiny room she slept in. She had long ago lost track of just how many times she had heard this chorus. It always started long before any greyness showed itself in the tiny scuttle hatch that was her only window of daylight or darkness. She shifted on her blanket, hunger stirred in her again. At first she had wept every morning. The voices of the crew would wake her, and she’d realize anew that she remained a captive. She would awaken and neither softness nor warmth would surround her. No canopied bed nor feather mattress, no servants would greet her, all smiles and obedience. No, instead she would awaken on the hard wooden floor, naked and shivering. It had been an April morning when everything had come crashing down around her. Her husband, Lord Beck had booked her passage on an East India Company ship bound for Ceylon. A new and adventurous chapter of her life was about to open up. Her husband was the new governor of the colony, and she was traveling to be with him She would see to the household, and sample all that an English noblewoman could in the Far East. Silks, ivories and all manner of fine furniture would adorn her and her home. Everything that the exotic east could offer would be hers. The sail sighted on the horizon didn’t alarm her at first, but the behavior of the crew around her did. Before she knew it she had been bundled below decks with her servant. The two women had sat there in the darkness, huddled against the bulkhead in confusion and growing fear. They clung to one another as the shouts from above became more frantic and gunfire shattered the forenoon. After that everything had been a whirl of sound and fury. Splintering crashes of shot hitting home, the shuddering of the hull as the ship took blow after blow. Then silence, eerie silence enveloped the very fiber of the ship. It seemed like hours later that boots came slamming down on the ladder and two large, powder-blackened and wickedly grinning sailors saw the huddling women. Exploding in a whoop of glee one stepped forward and seized her servant by the hair. She was a girl of her early twenties; she screamed and fought like a cat as she was dragged up the stairs by the laughing villain. That left Lady Beck, wife of Lord Beck, governor of Ceylon face to face with the other sailor. He was large, muscular and grinned like a predator. He frankly surveyed her form, not leering, but appraising her as a jeweler might gauge the value of a gemstone. She crawled back against the bulkhead as he slowly advanced on her. She was gasping in terror, unable to scream. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this moment. Privilege and position had taught her that to have her way, all that was necessary was to speak. Her wish was another’s order. “Stay back... Keep your hands off me!” she gasped through a suddenly parched throat. Terror welled up inside her. Confusion wracked her when he continued walking toward her shaking form. Gathering her last reserve of dignity she scrambled to her feet and shouted at him “I AM LADY BECK, WIFE OF LORD BECK GOVERNOR OF CEYLON AND I ORDER YOU TO KEEP AWAY FROM ME!!” He stopped then, close under the deck head, smiled and removed his hat, wiped his forehead with a scrap of cloth and cast it aside. “Well, “Milady Beck,” he growled as if the words were coated in something bitter, “You ceased to be able to give orders when you and this ship came into the possession of Captain Packard, and the good ship “Harrier” All the way up the ladder from the hold, Lady Beck fought and struggled, The sailor who had seized her kept her wrists pinned in an iron grip, bruising them with his uncompromising hold. When it was necessary he grabbed hold of her hair to subdue her. She was swung across to the larger, black-flagged vessel like the rest of the cargo and spoils. When she landed on the deck she had been taken by a large blond sailor and wordlessly thrown into the little room inside the great cabin, really not much more than a cupboard. This little room was to become her cell. For quite awhile nothing happened, for hours all manner of mysterious sounds came into her room, shouted orders, the screams of the wounded and thumping of looted cargo. For a time she pounded on the door and screamed in fury. Eventually though, exhausted, fearful, Lady Beck fell into a fitful sleep there in the corner of that tiny space. She was brutally awakened by the door being flung open. The sailor who had originally taken her from the hold stood there with his hands on his hips. “Get up wench,” he said conversationally, as if he were giving an order to a dog. She sat there, glaring at him, his big form outlined in the lantern light from behind him. “Where is Captain Packard?” She said. “I DEMAND to speak to him!” The sting of his open hand striking her cheek drew the breath out of her. She reeled back, her hand on the burning flesh, her eyes huge in shock and terror. “You... demand... NOTHING!” he spat at her, his lips curling, his teeth bared. “You need to understand this my little bitch, and your life may become bearable. You are no longer a highborn lady of England; you are the possession of Captain Packard. He alone will decide if you live, die, become his plaything, or are thrown to the crew to serve every single one of their depraved and disgusting wishes. Do you understand?” She lowered her hand then, dismissing his last statement as far too outlandish to consider. She stood up, drew herself to her full height, which only just came to his chest. She looked him in the eye and said “Be that as it may sailor, I WILL see the captain, and you can be assured that I will make a full and complete report of your assault and threats. I am a lady, and will be treated...” The next thing she knew she was looking up from the deck at him, her cheek stinging like it was swarmed by hornets. The big sailor crouched down beside her and smiled like an amused tiger. He reached out and took hold of her long hair, brought her face close to his and said “Lady Patricia Beck no longer exists, only this little slave exists now. Your last free choice will be to either serve Captain Packard, or serve his crew.” With that he let her head go, turned, and closed the door to the cell. Outside she heard him exchange words with another crewman and a padlock snap shut. Later, how much later she had no idea. She had dozed, or slept, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was how hungry she was when she awoke. She sat on the wooden deck, hunger and thirst working their way into her consciousness. Outside the door boots thumped on the planks, the yellow glow of a lantern lit the break under the door. A key worked in the lock and the door opened again and there stood the big sailor. He put a hand on his hip and said in a bored voice “Get up” Slowly, half expecting another slap she stood up, trying to look defiantly into his eyes, but, in truth scared to. “I am hungry, and thirsty,” she said trying to sound like she was still in control of herself, when really she was shaking with growing fear of this big man and all he was capable of. “Come here” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. Then he turned and walked into the great cabin. She followed him hesitantly, wary of his violence. In the middle of the cabin he hung the lamp from the deck head beam and crossed his arms in front of his big chest. He looked her in the eye and said “Disrobe” “I BEG your pardon?” she said, shocked at the suggestion. “Take off your clothes” he repeated. “I’ve known high-born sluts like you to hide a knife or two in their bodices to drain the life out of honest businessmen like myself.” “I will NOT!” she stood, glaring, terrified at the turn this had taken. She had feared rape, of course, but she swore she would fight to her last breath, would die first, before submitting. “I’d rather DIE!” she declared. Before the last sound left her lips she had been taken by the hair once again and dragged off her feet, an arm was pinned behind her back and she was propelled through the door out onto the quarterdeck. The rail of the quarterdeck slammed her in the stomach and her shocked eyes focused on the sailors in the gun deck below. Filthy, leering men looked back up at her, jeering and hooting. They were calling up for her to come down and join them. “Cap’n Packard sir!!” cried out the big blonde fellow she had met before, “Has milady decided this fine band of lads appeals more than you?” This question was met with a general howl of animal lust. Bottles were raised and bronzed seaman’s skin glowed in the lamplight. All eyes turned to Lady Beck and the big sailor behind her. He drew her up, feeling the breath gasping in and out of her. “What’s the answer “Milady?” he whispered close to her ear “Learn to serve me? Or be tossed over this railing right now and serve each of them in every way tonight, and every night” Her head spun, sobs wracked her body in horror and revulsion. “Take me back there,” she whimpered. “I thought you’d rather die,” he sneered as his knife came to rest along her white, smooth throat. The coldness of the steel made her cringe. She stood stock still in horror and broke into loud sobs as she shook where she stood. “Take me back,” she whispered, choking. “PLEASE take me back SIR” he parroted in her ear. “PLEASE! Take me back SIR!” she wailed, unable to take her eyes off the men in the gun deck, nor move for fear of that wicked blade. She felt a surge of relief and gratitude as she was yanked back and propelled into the cabin again. The hoots and jeers of the crew followed her, the door not quite able to banish them completely. “Disrobe,” he repeated as she stood under the spiraling lantern there in the great cabin. This time she set to undoing her green satin dress. Her hands were shaking in panic and shame, and in truth she really wasn’t sure how it came off. All she had ever done was stand and have her servant undo it. The tears were falling from her and she sniffled, whimpering in frustration as ties retreated out of reach, and buttons were stubborn. She cried out suddenly as his hand slipped into her field of view. This time though, she wasn’t struck, but the last of the fasteners of her dress was ripped away. It fell in folds around her ankles and she stepped out of it. She stood there uncertainly, her stockings and petticoats exposed. The sailor stared impassively and motioned her to continue. “You’re Captain Packard?” she questioned hesitantly as she untied her crinolines and hoops. “At your service milady,” he stated with a sarcastic flourish. The clothes piled up beneath her, and as every piece was removed she grew more and more agitated. Soon all that remained was her corset and stockings. She stopped, looking askance at him. “All of it,” he said. “Surely you can tell I’m not armed by now?” she flared and flinched suddenly as she anticipated a blow. She opened one eye to find him standing before her. “If you have a request milady. I expect you to make it with good manners; “Please” and “Thank you” are mandatory here. Now do you have a request you rude little bitch?” “Please...” she hesitated, the word unfamiliar on her lips, “Please may I keep the rest of my clothes on?” “No,” Captain Packard replied evenly and spun her around by the wrist, producing the dagger again from his boot. He slashed the cords on her corset in one move. Suddenly freed it fell off her body before she could catch it. He spun her back, now naked save for her stockings. She had never been naked before a man before, the coolness of the cabin air played over her skin. She was married, but her husband was much older than her, and any time they had been intimate it had been quite businesslike and impersonal. He wanted an heir, and so their lovemaking, if it was to be called that, was brief and unadorned by any kind of passion. This was something different. She stood in the flickering light and felt his eyes upon her. She flushed with embarrassment and shame, but she was confused as well, because there was a hint of a thrill too. It was like a voice in a dark house...whispering, hard to hear, but there nonetheless. Her nipples stiffened in the cool air, but as she looked at him appraising her frankly there in the cabin, she felt a surge of desire as well, unfamiliar and unwelcome. She rolled off her stockings then, having untied the garters and stood erect, completely naked finally. “Turn around,” Packard ordered and she swallowed, sobbed and did as she was told. She saw the open door of the little cell she had stayed in and feared it. “Good, now go back in there. I have work to do” “I’m hungry and I’m thirsty,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Well my dear,” the captain said, “When you learn to ask you might get fed.” With that she was pushed through the door and heard the padlock snap shut. She was wracked with sobs then, her body shook at the shock and indignity that she had been through, and with the fear of those leering faces on the gun deck below. She cried for how long, she had no idea. The thirst and hunger grew inside her. Finally, as if watching someone else do it, she crawled, sniffling to the door and knocked softly on it “May I please have some food and water?” she whispered. There was no reply. “PLEASE! Captain Packard! May I please have some food or water?” she called louder, plaintively. In the fullness of time the door opened and Captain Packard stood there, a tin plate in his hand with some bread and cheese. She reached for it reflexively and he pulled it just out of her reach. She stood up and reached for it again and he smacked her hand painfully with his big paw. “On your knees “Milady,” he growled, though he was smiling in that infuriatingly superior way of his. She couldn’t take her eyes off the plate of food. She had never been so hungry in her life. How long had it been, two days? Three? She had no way of knowing. She lowered herself to her knees then, looking at the deck and whispered, “May I please have some food?” “Sir,” he corrected her “May I please have some food sir,” she repeated. He held out a piece of bread to her, she reached for it and ate hungrily, tearing at it and swallowing it in chunks. Gasping as she swallowed the last of it, he held out a piece of cheese. She reached for it and he pulled it back. “Hands behind your back,” he said calmly. “What?” she stammered incredulously. He shrugged and made to close the door. “I’m sorry!” she blurted, and surprising herself she reached both hands behind her back. She knelt there, naked before him. Her eyes were downcast to the deck as he held out the scrap of food to her. She stretched her neck up to his hand and took the cheese between her teeth, biting it and swallowing convulsively in her hunger. When she had finished he held out a pewter mug of brackish water. She reached her lips to it and he tipped a small measure into her mouth. She burst into sobs when he stopped the flow; such was her need. He smiled and said “You may take it in your hands “Milady.” She reached for it, but he pulled it back, his eyebrows raised questioningly. “Thank you,” she whispered. He raised his eyebrows again, and inclined his head in a “Continue” gesture. “Sir,” she choked out. She drank the water greedily, though it was stale and swilled from barrels in the hold, it tasted better than the finest of her wines ever had. The next day the door to her room opened and Captain Packard motioned her out. The sun shone through the skylight in the great cabin, bathing the room in the bright light. On the chart table was a bowl of hot water, soap and a small cloth. The Captain lowered his big frame into the chair and surveyed her once again. She stood before him. He stared at her silently for a full minute before she realized what he expected of her. She quickly knelt in front of him, the color rising to her cheeks in embarrassment and shame. “Better,” he said. “Do you wish to bathe yourself “milady?” he asked. “Dear God yes!” she said frantically, thinking how good being clean would feel. She was almost accustomed to her constant nudity, but being dirty was something she still couldn’t get used to. For a moment she forgot herself and reached for the soap and cloth, half rising in her haste. “You forget yourself,” the deceptively mild voice whispered, freezing her in place. She glanced over and saw the hooded eyes, locked on hers. A chill ran through her and she dropped to her knees again, lowering her eyes. “Forgive me sir,” she said, as if hearing a stranger’s voice coming from her mouth. “I couldn’t believe my good fortune.” He smiled at her then, baring his teeth in a wolfish stretch. There was silence for a few seconds, and she ventured “Sir... may I wash?” “Why certainly “milady” as you have asked in such a polite way you may,” he said half laughing. His approval confused her, there was a secret place inside her that liked it, wanted it though her submission to him still bothered her. She took up the basin of water and cloth, turning to retreat to her room he stopped her with a word. “Here,” he said. She turned and saw him pointing to a spot on the floor in front of him. Flushing with embarrassment she stood before him, bathing herself in the sumptuously warm water. She recognized the soap as having been looted from her luggage so long ago. She forgot any shred of modesty that remained as the hot water caressed her and the sweat and filth of the previous days was rinsed away. As she finished washing the last inches of herself and rinsed her bruised skin one last time she looked up and saw Packard appraising her once again. He reached into a leather bag beside him, and pulled a silver-chased hairbrush from it, tossed it to her saying nothing. “Thank you,” she gasped as she caught it. He leaned his head curiously to one side, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. ”Sir,” she quickly corrected herself. He waved her back to her room then. She rose and walked away with the brush in her hand, held like a talisman. She sat there for hours, the brush running luxuriously through her hair, She was confused, staring at the closed door. Why was she feeling gratitude toward this brute of a man, why was she trying to please him? Debasing herself, kneeling and begging for the simplest of things. Why... why were these tiny scraps of approval feeding her desire like the bread and cheese had fed her body? She could no longer deny the desire, though God knew she had tried. Once the light had fled, she was called out again. The great cabin now held three candles, bathing the dark oak beams in a yellow light. Packard stood before her once again, this time he indicated a spot on the floor with a black riding crop. Lady Beck stepped quickly to the spot and knelt, looking down, not wanting to gaze at him, his chest bared through an open loose shirt, the hair, dark and thick standing out even against the tanned skin. “Your hair has benefited from the brush,” he murmured as the leather fob on the riding crop slid along the long tress hanging beside her face. Lady Beck saw it hover there, inches from her eye. She shuddered as it slid ever so lightly along her shoulder. Its stroke was hypnotic. She followed it as it traced her flesh like the flicking tongue of a snake, touching, whispering its promise of pain or pleasure. It caressed her, its touch gliding over her, making every nerve-ending tingle. Anticipation welled in her, would he strike? Where? When? The leather trailed over her cheek, her eyes closed as its cool smooth surface slid along and down her throat. As it traveled to her cleavage she inhaled deeply and arched her back toward it. As if someone else she suddenly craved its touch, and pressed herself toward it, whimpering as it wandered as if of itself along her erect nipple. Packard's Plunder When it touched her hip she almost cried out. The sensations were so strong then, and her desire so great the gentle touch of the leather was almost painful. She flinched, whimpered as it slid down to her knee. Her breath was gasping, panting as it inched, ever so slowly up her inner thigh. Her eyes were closed tightly; every shred of her concentration was focused on that tiny kiss of the leather exploring velvet skin. It crept higher, little by little. Her wetness slicked her thighs, anticipation drove her to the brink of insanity, wanting, aching, screaming for the touch of that crop on her most secret places, her need making her moan aloud. Her gasping breath reached a crescendo; her body shook as the whip slipped almost to the very center of her being. Then it disappeared, suddenly, without warning. She writhed about, searching for it, fearful, she opened her eyes and saw Captain Packard leaning against the bulkhead, a nasty grin on his face, twirling the riding crop in his fingers. “So, the high-born lady proves she’s no better than a harlot...I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you,” he mused. “Off to your room now milady,” he said, dismissing her to the door once again. “Please,” she gasped, abandoning all pretence of respectability now in her abject need. Her desire for release overpowered every shred of conditioning she had been raised with and she knelt before him and begged in whimpers for him to finish. No man had ever made her feel a fraction of what she had just felt; she knew now that no other man ever could. He pointed to the door with the riding crop. She turned and crawled toward it sobbing uncontrollably now, unable to trust her legs to carry her. “Stop,” he said. Her heart leapt, hoping frantically that he would take pity on her. But it was not to be. When she stopped he walked over and quickly bound her hands behind her with one of her own silk scarves, plundered when she was captured. The crop then gave her a smack on her naked backside as he sent her to her room once again. After the door closed she realized why he had tied her hands. Her need was still intense, and she was unable to even bring herself any release. A scream of pained frustration escaped her then. Accompanied by a hearty laugh from the cabin. The next day the ship hove to, the rocking of the deck became more pronounced once the ship had lost way and drifted with the swells. Lady Beck was removed from her room by the big blonde sailor. Her hands were unbound and she was instructed to brush her hair and wash again. Once that was done, to the frank admiration of the crewman, her hands were manacled before her and unceremoniously tied to a hook in the deck head beam above her. She dangled there, her toes on the floor and her hands secured above her. She was naked, helpless and frightened. Had she displeased the Captain? Was he about to share her with the rest of the crew? Flog her? Rape her? Tears of fear welled in her eyes and she twisted in the manacles trying to avoid the gaze of the blonde sailor. Boots sounded outside the cabin then, and he turned and opened the door. Lady Beck hung there, unable to do anything but watch as the big frame of Captain Packard strolled into the cabin with an equally imposing companion. This newcomer was a dark and bearded Turk, wearing a fez and flowing pantaloons tucked into sea boots. He laughed delightedly at the sight of Packard’s captive. He walked around her hanging form and laughed some more. His delight frightened Lady Beck more than anything had yet. He was obviously planning his use of her already. He looked her in the eye and said “Angleesh?” His thick accent made her stare at him unable to comprehend. “You angleesh laddy?? Hah??” She looked from his leering face to Packard’s impassive stare. He looked back with the emotion of an alligator. The Turk spun on his heel then, facing Packard. “I geef you one t’ousand!” Packard shook his head, chuckling like it had been a joke. The Turk looked displeased, but upped the ante’. Lady Beck hung there horrified with the realization that she was being bid on. At three thousand the Turk spat on the floor with Packard’s refusal and stomped out the door. Captain Packard raised an eyebrow at his outburst and followed him languidly out the open door of the cabin. Fifteen minutes later he returned and unhooked Lady Beck’s manacles from the beam, unlocked them without a word and hung them back on the wall. She fell to her knees at his feet immediately. “Please,” she whispered, her hands reaching for his boot. ”Please don’t sell me to him,” she whispered again, unable to look him in the eye. “Why not?” Packard asked, an amused tone to his voice. “I will do anything,” she choked, “Anything if you don’t sell me to that... that man.” He raised her chin with the toe of his boot. “My dear Lady Beck,” he said with a grin, you will do anything I please, no matter what.” “Yes… I will,” she said and realized that she meant it, perhaps more than she had meant anything in her life. “But I beg you sir. Please don’t sell me to that man.” He laughed again. “To your room milady,” he said, and pointed to the door. She wept as she crawled back into the dark little cupboard she had inhabited for so long now. All that night there was revelry and drink aboard the pirate ship. Shouts and snatches of songs echoed through the darkness. There was an occasional pistol shot and laughter. Screams of women made their way to her ears too, some of them in terror, and some in delight. She could understand either. She had no illusion anymore where she stood. She had no illusion anymore about what she was. She waited for the captain to return. She had dozed off, but the sound of his boots on the planks awoke her. He came in to the great cabin and she heard him sit heavily in the chair at the table. His pistol belt hit the deck, and his dagger soon followed. Lady Beck gathered what little shred of courage remained to her and opened the door of her room. It hadn’t been locked for a long time; the Captain knew she would no longer dare to disobey, so there was no need. Her heart pounding so that she feared he would hear it, she opened the door a crack and saw him sitting there in his chair, a candle burning, giving the sole light to the room. Never taking her eyes off him she crawled out, hands and knees on the floor like a cat. He looked up, seeing her moving toward him, and half smiled. “What’s this?? An escape?” he mused, looking into her eyes as she moved along the floor. She reached his foot and leaned down, kissing it, and tugged the boot from it. She moved to the other, and repeated the job, then slid her hands up his muscular legs, sliding along his inner thighs slowly, deliberately. Her heart still hammered in her chest, but the fear was gone. Now it was with excitement and desire. Everything she was doing seemed as if someone else was doing it. It felt as though she was a spectator to it all as she slowly unbuttoned his trousers. She slid her fingers gently and slowly along his stiffness. “Please sir...” she said. “Don’t sell me.” “He offered me three times what you’re worth,” he replied. Terror stabbed at her then. “Why would I not sell a high-born English Lady for so much gold?” “Please sir...” she whispered, her lips brushing his swollen member “Please...” she whispered again before slipping her tongue slowly up his shaft, a groan of pleasure rewarding her. Never, in her life had she imagined she would actually do this. She only knew about it because she had heard the stable boy talk of it once to a farm hand. The idea had fascinated her secretly though she feigned revulsion and had him beaten. “Please sir, I will be good,” she murmured as she took his head briefly in her mouth, drinking in the musky scent and the taste of his flesh. She felt his hand on her head, fingers intertwining in her hair. She gasped, knowing there was no turning back now, not that there ever had been. His hand pressed her insistently, forcing her to take him in her mouth. She did everything she could imagine to please him, and in turn her desire grew as well. The depravity of this overwhelmed her. The sheer wantonness of the act thrilled her in ways she never imagined possible. She took every inch of him into her mouth that she could, wanting him, whimpering as he thrust his hips to her, feeling his need growing, his hand in her hair forcing her to be the whore that she had often, in dark secret moments known only to herself, imagined herself to be. His climax when it came surprised her. The sudden flood of hot fluid in her mouth confused her and amazed her at the same time. His groan of ecstasy relieved her and encouraged her. She swallowed convulsively, the unaccustomed taste of his gift new and exciting to her. He lay back in the chair, gathering his breath. He played with her hair and gazed down at her beautiful face. His fingers then began to trace all of the places that the riding crop had, touching and thrilling her again, hypnotically once again, making her ache for him, making her gasp at the tingling that raced through her body like fire. His fingertips explored the curve of her breast. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her, whimpering at the callused palm squeezing possessively on her tender orb. His fingers explored her further; slipping up her inner thigh like the leather had the night before. Again she moaned and writhed, she begged him then, whispering words half known, filthy, gutter talk, begging him to take her and use her. The worse she spoke the greater her need. Her surrender to the base desires that dwelled inside her stoked the fires of her heat. His hands pinned her wrists above her head as he laid her back across the chart table, and she opened her thighs to him. She begged him then, pleaded not to be denied again, pleaded in screaming moans not to be left again like last time. “Oh GOD!!” she screamed as he teased her with his stiff member; slipping the head along her slick, wet lips. “PLEASE!! Oh god PLEASE!!” she begged him trying to wriggle her thighs lower to take more of him in. “Sir… I beg you... Your whore begs you to take her… oh god sir… your SLAVE begs you… please master... oh god please...” He slid himself fully into her then, and he was rewarded with her scream of satisfaction. The desire denied the night before; the ache left to grow inside her was tapped and satisfied then. He thrust into her, feeling her reaction, her hungry, desperate response to his invasion of her. Her surrender was sudden and complete. Her back arched, her gasping, moaning scream filling the cabin as her climax removed any remaining shred of the highborn lady that had been taken by this man, taken, stripped, broken, and owned. He smiled down at her then, lifting her eyes to his, she saw the look of satisfaction on his face. He never lost the mastery, the control of everything around him, but the anger was gone for the moment. Her fear was gone too. “To bed milady,” he chuckled then, and slapped her backside playfully. “Tomorrow will be hard work.” “Sir,” she said quietly, “am I to be sold?” “Milady Patricia,” he laughed, “If you were to be sold, I would have stopped bargaining when he reached twice your value, not insulted him by refusing three times. I was using you to bait him. You will not be sold...yet.” “Sir, one more thing if I may be so bold,” she hesitated, kneeling before him. “And that is?” “Sir, the nights are cold... might I please have a blanket to ward off the chill?” “To bed now wench,” he said, and pointed to the bunk. She climbed in ahead of him and wrapped the blankets close around her. These bedclothes smelled of him, the same musk, the same male scent that had filled her as she took him in her mouth. She curled up beside him, burrowing into his warm chest and fell asleep then, a sleep deeper and more restful than any she had known in longer than she cared to remember. The crash of gunfire slammed her awake. The howl of shot and snapping of rigging made her thrash about in confusion. Then, not knowing what else to do she huddled whimpering in the corner of the room while the cacophony swelled beyond the great cabin. She heard his voice rise above the shouts then, his voice barking helm orders, shouting to the gunners, his laughter and the guns crashing and crashing again. The last time she heard his voice was when he had shouted “Away Boarders!” just before the grinding of the hulls together. Hours later, after the screams and cries, after the clashing of steel on steel and the reports of pistol shots had come the silence. After that began the loading of plunder and the skylarking, the rum-sodden singing and the plaintive moans of the wounded. Long after dark the door of the cabin had opened and Captain Packard walked wearily in, sat at the table once again and removed his hat. She ran to him, kneeling beside him and laying her head on his lap crying. Her fear had been great, both for herself and for this man. Then she saw the rend in his forearm, the blood thick and dark from hours ago “You’re hurt!” she cried in shock. “Yes, a bit” he replied with a chuckle. “It seems the Turk was a touch more insulted than I thought, as our ships parted he bade us farewell with a broadside. Fortunately we taught him the folly of poor manners,” he said with a wink. He uncorked a bottle of brandy with his teeth as she set to bathing and dressing his wound, a nasty cut to his left forearm. After his arm was seen to she sat beside him, her head still in his lap. The slave to the master. Her place and his. His hand stroked her hair absently, as if it had always been thus. © Chainsaw Larry, 2003