4 comments/ 9838 views/ 1 favorites Mistress and Commander Ch. 01 By: estragon An Earth Day story--at sea. Thanks to Voluptuary Manque, 3113, findmeinnh, stephen55, Stella Omega, Zeb Carter, Dual Triode, vrosej10, and that incomparable author and technical adviser Penn Lady, my fellow hangers-out at AH! Salut! Mistress and Commander Ch. 01 "His clock is winding down, it seems. Jenny, are you in?" "No Mistress, you are all I ever want or need." "Jenny, my dear, you have the makings of a politician. You always surprise me, love. Double ration of Kotex for you, and a bottle of the best rum we can get here, which won't be much, I don't think. Now as for our pneumatic Romeo over here, Michelin's dream-come-true, I won't leave him to cut our throats or rob us blind when he recovers from his fuck with Spiderman. I'll tie him up--bear a hand there, Robin and Jenny--and in the morning return him to his native peat, wi' a glass of rum at his head and feet, eh what?" Morning came too soon. "Come on, slugbutts, get the Whaler hoisted out." Margarethe threw herself into the evolution, prodding and cursing. She lifted the Brazilian, now dressed, his bonds untied, his cock at last flaccid, but he still shaking off the effects of the night, in a fireman's lift and got him into the Boston Whaler. The engine started on the first shot, even though it had sat for more than two weeks unused. They let the man off at the beach where he pointed, and he splashed his way ashore, smiling and waving. "Good luck to you, laddie!" called Margarethe, "if you're ever in the old nabe, come by for a wee jar and some jiggy-jiggy! And bring your spider friend and his brother!" She turned the Whaler sharply about, and said, "All right, crew, you see how your Mistress takes care of you. Now to re-stock, a wee bit shore leave (even you, Robin boy, you did good for once, but don't presume on it) and a swim on these fabled fucking beaches of Recife; then a good dinner and a few capairiñhas (and none of these damned capiroskas, they roil my guts), and off to the end of the world." "Aye aye," they chorused, "Mistress and Commander." Mistress and Commander Ch. 02 Mistress and Commander -- Grey Seas Over Warning--This story may put you off your stroke. If you want a wanker, try elsewhere. I dedicate this story, with apologies, to Farley Mowat, founder of the Beaver Club of Amateur Naturalists, and like me, a writer (although a much better writer than I) who never let facts get in the way of truth. Pernambuco was a memory and Recife was long since pissed away with the last of the Kaiser draughts she had drunk on the beach. Margarethe Maria Ehrenreich von Schuldig, Mistress of the ship or vessel Dread Sovereign, watched the watery sun sink slowly into the grey cloudbank to port, and the blacker clouds loomed dead ahead. She did something she hated, but nevertheless succumbed to with barely a thought--she second-guessed herself. Should she have run for Montevideo when she had the chance? "Fucking goddamit no!" she thought, and took out her frustration on poor Robin at the helm. "Steer smaller than that, damn you!", she snapped. "Slopping all over the bloody ocean like some seldom-fed wharf lumper! Not on my ship, laddie!" And she flew out of the captain's chair and slapped his face, hard. "By God, if I say I'll teach someone the sea, I'll friggin' goddam teach him—or kill him. There's no third way, boyo!" She sat back in her captain's chair, anger spent. Her thoughts continued on at light speed. "Do I feel better now I hit him? Yes. Was I right? Hell no. Never beat someone who can't beat back, or doesn't want to (except sometimes). Will he learn the sea? Yes, he's improved since Carriacou, and he did well in Recife, even if he fucked my poor little Jenny Wren supposedly behind my back. I hope he enjoyed it, because if I catch him at her again I'll generously let him have some of my precious Worcester sauce when I feed him his genitals. But I was always a soft-hearted bitch." Her thoughts jumped again. Montevideo might be a "vibrant, eclectic place with a rich cultural life", according to the tourist bullshit, but the port is filthy and there are no decent berths for a beauty like Dread Sovereign. DS in a girl who likes her creature comforts. In Monte, the food and drink costs the earth, Diesel is no cheaper than anywhere else, but there's plenty of pilferage and theft to make up for it. Fuck Montevideo—the Ramblas might be nice in summer, but it's getting on for winter, and anyway, I'm the fucking Mistress of this ship or vessel, , under God of course, and it goes where I say. The ship's clock struck four bells. Dusk was gathering in. "Now comes the end of the first dog watch, and Robin should get his tea. Tea, forsooth! Why did I ever ship that oceangoing disaster? So I could have someone to abuse? Another ass to finger-fuck, like I needed that? Girl, you must have been bloody doolally! Christ, I could use a drink, but now I have the watch. Oh fuckin' yeah, ho for a life on the bounding main—I don't think." She stood again. She thought, "You damned liar, you phony virgin martyr saint, you love DS, you love the sea, the life, Jenny Wren, you even love that scrawny Robin. Stop whingeing and start acting like a Mistress and Commander." The sea was getting lumpy as Dread Sovereign thrust her 135 feet through the short waves, treading them under her forefoot. When Margarethe spoke, her voice was conversational, almost cordial, but not without the bite, so Robin would know she hadn't gone soft in the head. "Robin, you're relieved. Go below, get your tea, see if you can get a shower but the hot water's low and if you leave me with cold I'll boil your backside; and keep your paws and the rest of your filthy self away from my Jenny Wren. Remember, me young bucko, Cock Robin can be edited to plain Robin with a Bo 'sun's knife. Now get out of my wheelhouse!" Robin went, and she was suddenly lonely. She was conning Dread Sovereign almost mechanically, and, hating that, she turned to her first love with all her attention. "I don't like this sea," she thought, "this is a weather breeder, small thanks to it." She took out her iPhone and finger-flicked to the GOES satellite picture. Looking with one eye at the iPhone and the other at the sea, she ground her teeth, pursed her lips, let out a healthy fart, and reached a decision. "No way, "she thought, "will we make Port Stanley before this storm hits, and it's got thousands of miles of fetch to build on. Open ocean all the way from Nat Palmer Land to us. Still, there's time, maybe even enough. I'll let the crew get their tea, and have them make it substantial. The next two meals will have to be substantial too, if I've got the timing right, 'cause if I am right and the storm is on schedule, it'll be a long time before we have a full meal." She flicked the loud-hailer to intercom mode and set it to talk to the galley. "Robin, get yourself a decent tea. Have a couple of the sausage rolls and you can micro some of the chips as well. And take bar of the Cadbury's Nut and Raisin. But brush your teeth! If you get a toothache all I've got is pliers." "Yes, Mistress." "And get some sleep, boy." "Yes, Mistress." "Got to make my southing," she thought, putting Robin out of her mind. "If I don't make my southing now I'll have to buy it at bank-breaking prices later. I'll trade Diesel for distance, though it's a poor trade." She moved the throttles forward, and Dread Sovereign's motion quickened, the easy scend and dip now becoming a pitch-and-roll. Darker now it was, and the wind picked up. The needle on the anemometer telltale (I don't trust all-electrics, she thought, they get wonky just when you need them) showed more than the increased motion of the ship. We have a while, she thought, maybe twenty hours, maybe even twenty-four. Time enough to snug her down and secure her properly, if the slobs did their work well. That's unfair, she thought, they're shaping well at last. But the barograph was falling too quickly. Time on watch was never a problem for Margarethe. She could con Dread Sovereign for days, relaxed and mind-wandering. She thought of poor little Jenny Wren, her eight stone wrapped in her sheets below, how sweet she tasted both her mouth and pussy, how gentle her fingers felt tracing Margarethe's hymen. Margarethe was a vaginal virgin and intended to stay that way. Her ass and mouth and fingers were different stories. Credit a proper convent school upbringing in Germany and England for that. Now using Robin to take her mind from collective bad news from the sea, the anemometer and the barograph, she remembered the party at the Prospect of Whitby. Jenny introduced her friend. Turned out he was broke, desperate and fleeing a miserable abusive affair with an older drunken man. Margarethe felt sympathy but knew he'd make a poor sailor. Nevertheless, he was willing to do anything (and he meant anything), and she needed a full crew this voyage. Mistress and Commander, to the end of the world, she said, and he agreed. The clock struck eight bells, end of the second dog watch. Robin must be asleep, and she must call Jenny. She flicked the loud-hailer to intercom, set it to buzz at Jenny's bunk—she'd better be there, thought Margarethe, alone, or it's tie them up and lay about them with the cat. The sleepy little-girl voice answered "Yes, Mistress." "You're on watch, Jenny Wren. Should have woken you sooner. Rinse your mouth and come to the wheelhouse. Your Mistress will bring you your tea." "Yes, Mistress, coming now." Jenny appeared in a clean jumper and long trousers. It was getting colder, and Margarethe didn't want to use Diesel for the VanDerBeeke generator to start the heating. The engine heat would do for now. "You've got the con, pussy" said Margarethe. "I'll get you your tea. Unless you want cocoa." "Mistress, thank you, I'd love cocoa." Margarethe went to the galley, bracing herself against Dread Sovereign's sharper movements. One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself doesn't hold here, she thought. Robin had actually washed, dried and secured his tea things—fuck me, will wonders never cease! Pot of cocoa, cup, two large sausage rolls with mustard, a handful of chips and a bar of Cadbury's dark, all quickly assembled, packed in the basket and carried to the wheelhouse. I'd make good crew, Margarethe thought. "Here y'are, Jenny Wren." "Oh thank you, Mistress, I was quite hungry." "Now say your prayers and eat, girl." Like a mother, so I am, thought Margarethe. The girl prayed quickly, and Margarethe went on "You can leave the basket with your things in it and take it down and wash up when Robin relieves you. And don't let that little bugger oversleep, he loves to try it on. Just secure the basket, it will get rougher. And standing orders—call me at any time, I'll be in my bunk." "Aye aye, Mistress." Margarethe found Robin had left her almost seven minutes of hot water, more than enough. She was asleep when her head touched the pillow. She remembered Stubb, mate of the Pequod: "Think not, is my eleventh commandment; and sleep when you can, is my twelfth." Well, she thought as her eyes closed, one out of two isn't so bad, now is it? Margarethe heard the two bells clearly. One o'clock? No, not possible, she'd had too much sleep. Five o'clock then. She looked at her iPhone. Yes, five o'clock. Why hadn't she been called at four? She had the cold watch, four a.m. to eight. Bloody hell! She raced up to the wheelhouse to see what Robin had done to the ship, and whether little Jenny Wren had made it right. Jenny had the wheel, and Dread Sovereign was doing what she did best, shouldering the seas aside impatiently, stepping into the crests. The pitch-and-roll had increased. "Jenny Wren, why wasn't I called an hour ago? It was my watch. I'll have no damned heroics on my ship. I need my crew rested and ready, and fucking up the watch bill is not the way to do it." She took hold of Jenny's short brown hair and pulled it hard. "Do I have your attention, Miss? Answer me." She slapped Jenny's ass hard. "Yes, Mistress. We looked in and you were sleeping so soundly we didn't wasn't to wake you...." "First I'm not a goddam invalid and second the watch rota is there for a reason and third we have to snug Dread Sovereign down hard today, and I won't have the crew deciding how to run this ship. Is Robin asleep?" "Yes, Mistress." "Well, if he went off watch at four he can have another couple of hours. You go below and have a shower. There might be five minutes of hot water left, then the water heater goes off because I can't spare the fuel, so move." Jenny left the wheel to Margarethe. Margarethe pulled the laminated pages of the storm preparation checklist from its place beneath the binnacle, and read it over for the fiftieth time. Crew readiness: sleep, clean body, clean clothes, plenty of food, no sickness, good morale, foul weather gear, emergency lights and torches. Then securing the ship: lifelines and handholds, emergency lighting and power, communication internal and external, first aid supplies, abandon ship articles, removals from top hamper and topside, securing all remaining topside articles, ship's interior, deadlights, spray dodger, interior handholds, securing stores and equipment, securing personal effects of crew while keeping most necessary articles close alongside--plenty to do today. Jenny returned to the wheelhouse and stood by the wheel, but Margarethe waved her away. "We're in for a blow, Jenny Wren, and not the kind we like. There's a storm coming, a big one, and it's headed directly for us. We have nowhere to run or hide, so we're in for a bit of a pasting. We must be ready in all respects by sundown. As soon as it's light outside, wake Robin and get breakfast for all of us, a good one, batty cakes with lacy edges in syrup, rashers, pineapple juice, green tea for me and rich cocoa for you and Robin. We'll only have one meal after that before the storm hits us, so we had better eat well. If this storm is what I think it is, no one will be hungry." The red sunrise slowly gave way to a yellow, purple and black nightmare of a dawn. "Bring my breakfast to me here, after you and Robin have eaten." Margarethe ate her breakfast slowly. It was still hot when Jenny brought it to her, and she savored it, as Dread Sovereign kept her stride through the waves now breaking before her. Still time to secure, but less than Margarethe had hoped. Still and all, she thought, we should get through all shipshape and Bristol-fashion. Nothing like an old cliché. Breakfast done, galley and crockery cleaned and secured, emergency food distributed where needed. Now to the life raft, life jackets, wetsuits and survival gear. Check the commo, ELTs, radio, iPhone in its waterproof case with spare batteries and transformer. On deck now. Let's move. Secure, tie down, lash, check and check again. Strike below what can't stay on deck. Be methodical, it's just a job, but be sure. Heavy deck furniture and the Whaler, be sure and again be sure; that dunnage will make great unguided missiles if they get loose. Margarethe remembered Victor Hugo's classic, A Fight With a Cannon. It gave rise to what was now a cliché, the "loose cannon "; it also gave rise to a childhood nightmare, being chased by an implacable monster in a towering storm, seeking her out, crushing her, beating her to death; in Hugo's words, "It is matter set free; one might say, this eternal slave was avenging itself; it seems as if the total depravity concealed in what we call inanimate things has escaped, and burst forth all of a sudden; it appears to lose patience, and to take a strange mysterious revenge; nothing more relentless than this wrath of the inanimate." "There'll be no bloody "wrath of the inanimate" on my ship," she said between clenched teeth. It was one bell, half past four, when the work was done, to Margarethe's grudging satisfaction. "Not so good, but could be worse," she told Robin and Jenny, sweating as hard as they were though the air grew chillier by the minute. "Something hot, crew, eh? Jenny, a big grub-up, even if it must be cold food. We can still heat some cocoa or sweet hot tea. Eat well, because we won't have time for much eating very soon." Another meal, the communion of the sea, staying together because they need each other, watchful, not anxious or frightened but alert. The sea is still building, and Dread Sovereign is starting to take green water over the bow. "Just make sure the props don't leave the water. Look at the transmission heat gauge--before it gets to the red line we could lose our engines. Meantime, let's keep heading south." "Yes, Mistress." "Aye aye, Mistress." To Robin, to Jenny, the thought of Margarethe was home and safety, being a child and being safe. Margarethe sensed that, that she was their stay and comfort. She smiled for a tiny second, then stood to the wheel. It grew dark quickly. The inclinometer showed more roll, the pitching became heavier, Dread Sovereign now had to force her way, no more shouldering aside the waves but punching into them, battering and fighting. The air beyond the wheelhouse windscreen was riven with spray now, and the revolving screen was working full out and barely keeping pace. And the wind was moaning in a growing agony. Margarethe heard two bells strike, nine p.m. She throttled back the Diesels, and Dread Sovereign barely moved beyond the next wave, almost tackled by a big one. "Jenny, lie down on the settee and get what rest you can. Robin, rig a canvas leeboard to keep her from rolling off. You can find some space on the deck and try to be comfortable. We'll have to dodge till this goes past. I can't push Dread into this much longer without risking damage or something carrying away." "Dodging" means just keeping steerageway, heading into the sea, keeping from being swamped or overwhelmed until the storm goes by. Going about and running from the storm was impossibly risky; the ship would broach to and founder if she tried to turn, and would be pooped by a following sea even if she succeeded in such a daft maneuvre. Hour by hour, the storm grew, summoning up the ice devils of the Antarctic and the white waterwitches of the South Atlantic, making them dance in horrific fury, making them grasp and tear at Dread Sovereign, trying to beat her, blind her, rape her into submission. Margarethe joined with her ship in their agony, at one with steel and teak and Lexan, with oil and grease and fancywork, with her love, her ship. Margarethe handed the wheel to Jenny. "You see what I have done. Now do it." The trust her Mistress gave her washed over Jenny. Her thin hands grasped the wheel, the tendons standing out. "Aye aye, Mistress," in the little-girl voice, but her eyes were those of a mariner, "I have the con." She had never said that before. Margarethe lay down on the deck, wedging herself against the settee. The pitching and rolling made sleep impossible, her inner ear furious at the unending motion, but she got a little rest. Robin was wide awake, staring without seeing. Robin relieved Jenny at the wheel. They were standing no ordered watches, but spelling each other as the need was, making sure none stood longer than he or she could bear, always mindful of the safety of Dread Sovereign, whose call to them was as a lover in pain, fighting through the spasms and breathing as they breathed. The wind rose to an unending howl, the waves not individual assaults but one constant merciless battering. Margarethe had just taken the wheel from Jenny when a violent pounding noise rang out, then stopped, then rang out again. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" shouted Margarethe, using a phrase she had not spoken in many years, and added incongruously, "what the fucking hell was that?" But she knew; a bolt, a padeye, or a lashing had given way on deck, and her nightmare had begun. The motherfucking Whaler, she thought, that bastard bitch of the devil, why I didn't strangle the fucking salesman who sold me that when I should have bought the fucking Zodiac--fuck it, too late. She called to Robin and he jumped to the wheel. She pulled out her wetsuit, got out of her jumper and trousers and managed, Jesus, Mary and Joseph collectively only knew how, to put on the wetsuit as the ship was fishtailing and jumping and squirming like a colicky child. Her clothes went flying, as she reached for the wheelhouse door. "No Mistress," screamed Jenny, waking from her doze and struggling with the leeboard that held her to the settee, "it's death out there." Margarethe didn't answer, but pulled on the safety harness, exited the wheelhouse and blindly clipped on to the lifeline. By luck or whatever she caught the lifeline leading after to the Whaler. She fought her way against the water, which was no longer wave but air and sky and sea and air again, mixed together, ripping her lungs out, blinding her eyes, screaming filth in her ears. The comfortable deck of Dread Sovereign, her home and consolation, had become a bed of nails, a cross of torture, no longer her home but stolen from her, invaded. The lashing on the port side of the Whaler, nearest her ("thank God," she choked; if it had been on the starboard side she would have had no chance of securing it), flew free. With each surge and fall, the Whaler lifted free and slammed into the deck. Long enough and hard enough, and the deck would fracture and the sea rush in. Then the long struggle, with death at the end for ship and crew. Margarethe seized the lashing one-handed, the rope cutting her hand as it writhed. One hand for the ship and one hand for yourself? Never here. She groped blindly for the padeye. Found it, drew what remained of the lashing toward it, but the rope was too short. It had failed, severed, chafed through. Fingering it, she knew why: the three-eighth inch nylon she specified was quarter-inch, mislabeled. "That bastard Ferreira!" she cursed, the chandler in Recife had cheated her. "I should have inspected everything, but there was so much to do...." And she had also wanted some time to fuck Jenny's ass and Jenny's cunt, and have Jenny fuck her ass and lick her clit, and then she could pinch Robin's balls and slap him around for fun--and now it wouldn't matter, they were all dead anyway. Mistress and Commander Ch. 02 Margarethe reached into her wet suit pocket. By some unimaginable grace she had the remains of a three-eighth inch bit of stuff. Now to hold on and splice blindly. The pitching and rolling were more than she had ever faced. Blindly knotting the stuff to the quarter-inch garbage, she groped for the padeye. Another wave almost washed her away. She couldn't breathe or think, then her hand found the padeye. She rove the stuff through, hauled hard, praying her lubberly knotting (no seafarer would dignify the thing by calling it a splice) would hold, and tied it down. The Whaler stopped fucking her deck; that was something anyway. Then came the wave. It roared up, driven by the insane fury that ruled their world, near kin to the wave that almost killed Barton and O'Riordan so many years before in Vertue XXXV, sibling to the Hell-born bastards that killed many a little ship. The wind was like all the devils in Hell let loose in all the Bedlams that ever were, screaming, sobbing, crying, gibbering, tearing, strangling till one could bear it no longer and surrendered, body and soul, to the Hell that was the South Atlantic in storm. Remembering a childhood long gone, as the wave swept her to the rail, Margarethe whispered, "In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritu meam...." A hand grabbed her arm, a pull too weak to stop her fall yet strong enough for her to seize the lifeline. "Robin!" Together they groped blindly along the lifeline, she on her knees, he crawling too. They reached the wheelhouse door. Jenny was still at the wheel. She had pleaded with Robin not to leave her. Alone at the wheel, she shook with the terror that they were both gone, Robin and Mistress, and she, all alone, was doomed, damned, to take the ghost ship to the harbor in Hell that awaited her. When the door opened and Robin and Mistress collapsed on the deck, Jenny's hands almost fell from the wheel as she screamed. "Darling Jenny Wren, it's all right, all hands safe, see to the Sovereign," Margarethe was near hysteria. Her tears ran down her face, mingling with the salt of the waves. "See to my beautiful Dread Sovereign, dear Jenny Wren, keep my ship safe." Jenny turned back to the wheel. She could not take her hands from the wheel to wipe her eyes. Robin was still gasping as he lay on the deck. "I abused you, gave you Hell, treated you like shit, but you came back for me," said Margarethe. "You are my Mistress," said Robin. "Robin, rest a while. Jenny Wren, I can relieve you in five minutes." The watch changed. Margarethe took the wheel. Jenny and Robin lay on the deck, flung by the ship's wallowing like rag dolls thrown away by a careless child. The Wren and the Robin, thought Margarethe, my little nestlings, and I am Mother Bird. By morning the rain had come, the wind had backed round to the east by northeast, and the swell was rocking Dread Sovereign was hard but not brutal. Fair weather coming, or as fair as winter South Atlantic could make it, thought Margarethe. Picnic weather for penguins. It took two days to clean up Dread Sovereign, another day to restore her Mistress and crew to a semblance of humanity, washed, fed, dressed and groomed. And one more day to see them all well fucked and orgasmed, thought Margarethe. Robin could have Jenny Wren--de Laborde's words came back to her: "Amour à la plus belle, Honneur au plus vaillant." Robin made the most of it. Jenny's thin little cunt was licked, sucked, worshiped; her clitoris was bathed in Robin's mouth. He fucked her gently, like a virgin, like a lover. Her response was as gentle as the nestling Margarethe called her. Margarethe did them both, fellating Robin, sucking Jenny. Indeed, "Amour à la plus belle, Honneur au plus vaillant." At last, the Love Boat Dread Sovereign, Queen of the Storms, made her landfall at Port Stanley, Falkland Islands. Going ashore to clear, saluting HMS York as she rode to anchor nearby, Margarethe Maria Ehrenreich von Schuldig, loyal subject of her Dread Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth II, broke into smiling tears as she stood again on British soil. "Mistress and Commander," she thought, "Mistress and Commander. I earned that--and Robin gifted it to me. To the end of the world. Mistress and Commander Ch. 03 Mistress and Commander - Make and Mend Both Dread Sovereign and her crew took a good pasting in a recent storm. And they all, the ship and her crew, need some shore leave. So this is an intermezzo in Mistress and Commander-To the End of the World. Again, strokers, this is not your kind of story. The thin dawn rising on Port Stanley at the edge of winter kept the damp chill of the night close, as if afraid to lose both the cold damp and its own grey light to the sun. The sun was struggling to rise above the sealine. It was in for a fight against the thin dawn and the damp chill, thought Margarethe, as she pulled her robe close around her. But sun or grey dawn, there was work ahead, and not a little of that. Then maybe shore leave. It would be a tired Mistress and crew to go ashore then. She went to the wheelhouse barefooted and looked about. Was all in order? Robin, trying it on as usual, had taken station in the sacred captain's chair, and obviously planned to un-ass the sacred chair as soon as he heard Mistress' approach. He would then jump up and look as if he had literally stood the whole dawn watch. He hadn't reckoned on the chill making him sleepy, the almost imperceptible swell in the harbor rocking him deeper asleep as he sat. His thin snore and dangling legs gave the game completely away. "On your feet you damned lazy slob!" Margarethe screamed (yes, screamed, she was that furious). She grabbed Robin's wrist and hurled him to the deck. "As you saved my life you might get to sit in my chair for a minute or two if you grovel appropriately, but by Christ Jesus and His Blessed Mother you will never sleep on watch!" She dragged the shuddering man, blinking and stunned as he was, to the teak grating on the wheelhouse floor. Holding him with one powerful hand, she half-lifted him from the deck and drove the other, fist clenched and powered with rage, into his solar plexus. He gasped, spasmed and fell back to the deck, clutching his guts. Margarethe unhurriedly got the three-eighths inch nylon stuff from her deck jacket, carefully hangared as it always was next the wheelhouse door, and tied his wrists to the grating. "A dozen of the best for me fine sleepy bucko of a watchkeeper," she snarled. "Count them--if you can." She pulled his shirt out of the way, loosened his trousers and slid them and his underpants off in a single motion, taking care not to tear them as she bared his buttocks. "Carefully, I paid for his fucking clothes," she thought. She stroked his bare ass gently once, to warn him. Margarethe had studied flogging as her schoolmates studied languages, or science, or mathematics, or the fine arts of finding and securing a wealthy husband and a favorable ante-nuptial agreement. Navigation, meteorology, naval architecture and ship-handling filled out her curriculum, but flogging held pride of place. The cat, black and supple, each of its leather lashes a good half-inch thick of top-grade cowhide left unfinished, would take the skin off back and buttocks and legs; in the wrong hands (or worse, in irresponsible, unskilled hands), it would leave the muscles showing white against the dripping blood and mangled tissue. That barbarism Margarethe would never allow; no blood, no torn tissue, no muscles white and distended. Just enough pain to make a wiser and better man or woman of her subject, and just enough sobbing and twitching by the subject to wet Margarethe's cunt and warm her breasts, to keep her in practice. The cat sang out and tore from Robin the cry "One! Thank you Mistress!" Again and again the cat sang, ripping the response from Robin's chest. At the tenth blow, Jenny, fully dressed in jumper and trousers and with her heavy wool sweater in her hands, came into the wheelhouse. It was her watch, and she came without being called. She'd thought it strange Robin hadn't given her the ten-minute warning bump on the intercom; they'd made a pact, and Jenny had saved Robin's ass from Mistress' anger and her efficient lash enough times for him to honor it. Her mind on autopilot, she had wakened, washed hurriedly, and made a timely relief. Margarethe delivered blow eleven. This was the reminding blow. Instead of landing crosswise on Robin's thoroughly welted back or butt or thighs, this was delivered head-to-butt lengthwise, so that the lashes caught not only Robin's buttocks, but the tips hit his scrotum as well. "Now that's artistry", thought Margarethe, as Robin's almost voiceless scream was lost in his retching and gasping, "most of those jumped up whores who call themselves "mistress" or "domme" would have torn his balls apart with that shot, or missed entirely and opened his prostate, or maybe a semi-skillful apprentice might have had him puking up his guts. But I can hit so the pain half-kills him, but he doesn't puke on my deck, and he can still jerk himself off by the time he next goes on watch. Damn me, no-- fuck my virgin cunt if I'm not the best!" Now for the twelfth. Jenny knew better than to interrupt Mistress, despite her pity for the tormented Robin, who had shared her bed and tried to comfort her when Mistress was angry with her. She would only suffer the same fate if she interfered. She twisted the sweater in her hands and winced as the blow landed. Robin pressed his head to the floor in agony, his lips bloodied with his biting of them. Whizzzzz! Craa-ckkkk! Robin screamed and screamed again. It was a mind-fuck. The cat whistled like a Force Eight gust and landed right next Robin's head, missing his face by a scant two inches, the rush of air making him blink, but no lash touched him. He screamed again, and lay still. "Ah, there you are, dear little Jenny Wren," said Margarethe. "Our Romeo of the watch was sleeping in my chair. He thinks he's a fucking Goldilocks, don't you, boyo? Well, right now he's Redback O'RedAss of the Aching Balls, aren't you, sweetcheeks? Jenny, I'll stand watch, I'm a better watchkeeper nude in a bathrobe than this oaf would be in BDU and full body armor. Now you clean up Robin RedBalls here as best you can. And give us a good fry-up for breakfast, there's a love, we'll be re-stocking today, so don't spare the calories. And pray try to get this half-dead wharf rat in some condition to work." It was a busy day Margarethe had planned. Having arrived on the Thursday battered by a near-hurricane, the Friday was the day to set in train repairs to Dread Sovereign, maybe even a scratch job of a re-fit if Margarethe could trust the Port Stanley yard with her precious love. And if the chandlers had the spares; Margarethe had all kinds of necessary tools in abundance (pun intended), and would work alongside the artificers, but though she stocked the spares lockers well, not everything needed was to hand. So first breakfast, a duly chastened Robin proclaiming in hushed tones his Franciscan repentance, devotion and humility ("and I'll believe that when I see cast iron backstroking past Rotherhithe at low tide," Margarethe thought, "though he did save my life. I guess that makes him a worthy bastard, rather than a worthless one"). Then bring on the scones, the Devonshire butter, the Cambridge jam, the eggs, rashers of bacon, pineapple juice, and pots of sweet strong Keemun black tea (all this was the last of the Ferreira re-stocking from Recife--give the devil his due, the bastard swindled her on the cordage, but he did provide good food). "Time for a quick piss, and off to the yards," said Margarethe. "Robin, you're coming, so hobble off, piss if you can feel your cock, brush your teeth even if you can't, grab your peacoat and follow me. Jenny Wren, you're on watch, keep the phone handy and call my iPhone if I'm needed. Anchor watch orders in force. Let's go." First to the Falkland Islands Company, Ltd. Margarethe made a certain stir, but hardly equal to the Argentine Amphibious Commando Group in 1982. The Company surveyor accompanied her back to Dread Sovereign, carefully keeping his countenance as Margarethe named her ship, marched him all over her precious vessel, and described her crew. "How novel," said Mr. Peeke, "but I'm sure we can accommodate your requirements, captain." "That's Mistress," said Margarethe. "Of course, Mistress." "The old bludger will probably throw a hundred quid onto the bill for that," thought Margarethe, "but whit the fook, whitever the Hell is money for if not to enjoy what it buys you? If it's not that, it's just something to fight over with fookin' Inland Revenue." With waiting on air freight from Hong Kong, and fortunately Poon Lim was willing to forgo Saturday golf and tiffin at the old Royal (mustn't call it that nowadays, just the Hong Kong Golf Club) to get the spares shipment on the first flight out to London, on to Punta Arenas and then to Mount Pleasant, Dread Sovereign and her crew could be spending a week in Stanley just waiting for the spares. The survey finished; the work order prepared and signed; Poon Lim off to the airport and his cocktails at the club in lieu of his abandoned golf and tiffin; it was time to re-stock food and fuel, Margarethe's banker at Honkers and Shankers Peter Port having established a credit facility at the local Standard Chartered Bank to pay for all this. Now she called Jenny to ready the ship to receive food and fuel. Fueling was a dirty job, and Margarethe kept herself and her crew busy swabbing up Diesel drips and leaks, then cleaning themselves, eating a scratch dinner and collapsing into bed, too tired to talk, much less fuck. Margarethe just nestled next to Jenny, kissed her sleepily, and passed out for the night. Robin stayed awake and on his feet for the first watch. Jenny slipped softly out of Margarethe's sleeping grasp to relieve him, but obeyed Margarethe's standing orders to call her for the cold watch, the four to eight a.m. Then it was back to the Company in the next grey dawn, with only tea and toast to eat, to break an important rule by going food shopping when hungry. They kept pushing shopping baskets full of food to the registers, Margarethe zipping her credit card through again and again, as the cashiers looked amazed. "Daddy," piped up a little girl, "they must have many children at home." Her dad answered with a broad smile, "Yes, Penny, but they should really leave some food for t'other folk." Margarethe laughed, smiled at father and daughter, and led the convoy of vans back to Dread Sovereign. The artificers were already at work on the repairs. As Robin and Jenny directed the Company men where to put the food, Margarethe was inspecting the repairs. "Bitch has got eyes in her arse," muttered a worker, as Margarethe found fault with a new deck fitting. "I heard that, mate, and you're too bloody right. I'm paying for good work and I'll bloody get it!" With a modicum of slave-driving, tempered by a few cans of Foster's she'd been saving, Margarethe got enough preliminary work out of the artificers before they quit for the weekend, so that when the workers returned on the Monday, they could have all in readiness for the arrival of the spares on the Tuesday, if the flight came in. Now it was Friday night, time for a big meal and maybe some fun. The dream meal was ready for the cooking of it. Margarethe and her crew joined together, all the friction and tension of the last voyage put behind them, cooking and eating. There were the broiled pork chops, stewed apples and red cabbage, and foaming steins of Australian beer. "Bananas Frisby again," thought Margarethe, "I almost forgot what it tastes like". She dug into the tub of ice cream alongside and slathered the Sainsbury's Best Vanilla over the firm penis-like fruit, dripping warm chocolate sauce over the whole and liberally pouring on the Gosling's. "And enough left over to do Jenny Wren's pussy." Dinner over, crockery washed and dried, and her obligatory Uppman smoked down to the nub, Margarethe rose from the Great Cabin settee and said, "No watch before midnight, and Robin goes first. But until then--" Margarethe took Jenny's hand and led her into her stateroom. As they came to the door, she said, over her shoulder to Robin's dour face, "All right Robin, don't sulk, you can play too." The welts had calmed down, but Robin was still stiff from the day's work, stiff, that is, everywhere but where he wanted to be. "Jenny, you may help the boy out--or up." Jenny kissed Robin and took off his clothing gently. "Did you need more lotion?" she whispered, meaning the topical anesthetic she'd applied earlier. "No, just your lotion," he replied, barely moving his mouth. "I can't," she replied in kind, "Mistress wouldn't like that." "Too fucking right I wouldn't like it, lambchop! Dear Robin, your balls'll be for the nutcracker the morn, as they say in Gleesca. You may suck him off, Jenny, if you like, when I'm not looking, but if he tries to put his filthy meat in your pussy--but then again, he did save my life. And one good turn, y'know...." Margarethe took Robin's cock deep in her mouth. Tongue and lips working together, she radiated sex, even fully clothed as she was. Robin reached to pull her head closer, but she grabbed his arms and threw them down, working her mouth back to the tip of his cock. Working only on the knob, she brought Robin closer to his Moment of Truth. Then she deep-throated all of him (he wasn't that big, just an average six-inches-and-a- fraction), and as he finally sought and found release, she pulled her head back, seized the tip of his cock in her strong teeth, and bit him hard as he ejaculated, chewing his cock as the pain and the pleasure merged in his spasming, screaming orgasm. Robin was gasping, lying face down on the berth. "If you get your filthy pecker tracks all over my clean sheets and blankets, you'll launder them with your tongue," snapped Margarethe. "You were treated better than you deserve (but so were we all, she thought). Get up and clean up! You can use my bathroom, as a special dispensation. Any time you save my life I'll suck you off and make you free of the facilities." Mustering his waning strength, Robin went to the ensuite bathroom and washed himself, noting the toothmarks in his cock and marveling that she hadn't broken the skin. She was something else, he thought, Mistress, Commander and super-bitch. This was one motherfucking voyage, but who would believe him if he told it? Best to go to sleep, if he had the midnight to four watch. He'd need to stay awake and stay the Hell out of her bleeding chair. Jenny had watched Mistress pleasure Robin. She sat with folded hands, observing with apparently polite interest but with her mind miles away, as if being treated by an inconsequential acquaintance to a rather dull stroke-by-stroke account of a game of golf. Her turn soon. She was waiting for Mistress. Mistress knew what to do. Just wait, just wait, she thought, don't show any eagerness. Trust Mistress. Trust her. Margarethe stood up. She stretched vigorously. "Need to do my fangs, love, and have a wee wash. So do you. Go brush your teeth, but don't wash your pussy. I like it au jus. Be here in ten minutes, ready for whatever." "Yes, Mistress." Margarethe undressed. She ran a damp washcloth under her breasts, lifting each in turn to the cool air. Her nipples tightened. She admired herself in the full-length mirror behind the door, her muscles rippling, her firm thighs showing no wobble for all that she had passed forty years a wee while back. 'Take it easy on the beer and watch the Bananas Frisby, me old darlin', and you'll be just as hot at sixty," she thought--"some hopes"! Jenny Renfro (her real name at last!) walked into the stateroom. She carried her robe over her arm, the silver colored silk robe Mistress had given her. Naked of course, and waiting. She had used lipgloss on her nipples and clitoris. "Wherever did she get it?" thought Margarethe. "Must have found a place in Recife, but when had she any time, or a minute alone? Must be like a British sailor, who could find spirits and get drunk in any place on any occasion." "Strawberry," murmured Margarethe, lifting her head from Jenny's breast. She had taken the slender waif-like creature in her arms and placed her on the bed like a baby, then turned her and lay beside her, mouth on her breast. "Strawberry, you dear sweet child, how did you know?" But of course Jenny knew, this was just part of their love ritual, the well-trodden path so familiar, so comforting. And Margarethe knew full well that Jenny had drawn a few Reals from a cash machine in a bank in Recife, and vanished into a cement block store near the beach, ostensibly to buy a can of lemonade. Her crews' wages were deposited with Honkers in London, and they had ATM cards to draw cash if needed. "I have eyes in my arse, remember," she thought. "Now let's see what Jenny has in hers." And she turned Jenny on her stomach. She licked from pussy to anus, thoroughly. Using the new Purell sanitizer just purchased from the Company, she cleaned her fingers, took the Astroglide and lubricated them, and thrust firmly into Jenny's anus. Jenny gave a little whimpering moan, pain mixed with pleasure. Margarethe took her other hand and fucked Jenny's pussy hard. This was pure pleasure, and Jenny came, squirting all over Margarethe's hand. "Now rest, darling. You can do me if you want." "Oh yes, Mistress." Margarethe opened her legs to Jenny's questing tongue. Her little Jenny Wren knew how to please and pleasure. She was a good and a loving child (even though 22 years of age, Jenny was still a child to Margarethe). Margarethe had a gentle, relaxing, sensuous orgasm, sighing and breathing deeply. She kissed Jenny twice. "I love you, darling," she said. And she did, and meant it and believed or thought she meant it, for all that her mind, breaking away like a desperate convict escaping a warder, went back to Sharyn and the week in her house in Hampstead. Oh the crashing orgasms, like the breaking seas! Oh the lips and fingers and tongues, the hands pulling at each other, holding on as if drowning, finally drowning in each other. And the end, the rationalizations, the tears and ultimately, inevitably, the curses and recriminations. "I won't cry like that again," thought Margarethe, "not like that. Nothing will hurt like that." Jenny turned to sleep beside Margarethe, even though she knew she'd be soon called to the watch. "Goodnight, Mistress, God bless you." She prayed, like a child, in a child's sleepy voice, "Dear Jesus, bless Robin and Mistress, and forgive me my sins. And bring us safe home. Amen." She was soon asleep. Margarethe couldn't sleep. The memory was too fresh. Then she shook herself like a dog, pulled the blanket over her, and drifted into a troubled sleep. Saturday morning. Margarethe hadn't stirred when Robin came into the stateroom, gently awakened Jenny and exchanged a furtive kiss. Jenny went off to take up the anchor watch, and Robin stumbled off to sleep. Eyes in her arse, indeed. Saturday in Stanley. Back home it would be football, played on a patch of earth (no turf here), twisting and weaving, playing the ball, not the other side. But football was the great game. Margarethe, though built for Rugby, despised it. "Excuse for a booze-up and getting groped in the scrum by some ugly dykes," she said, when asked why she, with her five feet eleven and almost fourteen stone of muscle, didn't join the Ladies' Hampstead RFC. She thought, but if there's now some pretty dykes in the scrum, the case is altered, quoth Plowden, whoever the fuck he was. Still and all, it was Saturday in Stanley. They could keep standing watches, but there was nothing to watch for, no pilferers, no thieves, no bumboats fouling one's anchor cables or demanding one's anchorage on the flimsiest pretext, with a machete or a Glock for backup. The AK-74 tended to discourage those types. Mistress and Commander Ch. 03 Ok, no watches. No newspapers--oh, she could go ashore to get one, or send Robin, but it hardly seemed worth the petrol for the Whaler. She turned on the computer, found the usual nonsense, and shut it down. This was a perfect day for eating, doing nothing, adding flab. Fuck this! "Get your shore-going rig on, crew! We're going to take in the sights and attractions of Stanley, whatever the fuck they are, God help us!" They locked up Dread Sovereign, set the alarms and the silent alarms, hoisted out the Whaler, and fired it up. The Evinrude roared at the first shot; apparently the battering of the storm couldn't faze the Big E. They landed at Public Jetty, saw the Liberation Memorial, the Anglican Church (making note of the 8 a.m. time for Holy Communion the next day), Whalebone Arch, and stopped at the Brasserie for lunch and a few draught pints. That left the afternoon. Time to wander a bit, smoke one more Uppman perfecto, and go back to Dread Sovereign. Wonder if we're going to see the Navy, thought Margarethe. Might give our brave matelots a real treat, show them our appreciation. Could be fun. She didn't know, and couldn't guess, the treat (if it could be called a treat) that was waiting for her. Mistress and Commander Ch. 04 Mistress and Commander - Ch 4 Hard Her Service, Poor Her Payment Again, the voyage of Dread Sovereign, with love and heartbreak. No sex here, so strokers tune out. Sunday was Church day. As they stood no anchor watch the Saturday night (trusting that the law-abiding element controlled Stanley and its harbor), Margarethe and her crew exhibited little bleariness as they belted out the hymns and walked to the altar rail at the 8 a.m. Communion service. Finding an open restaurant, they had breakfast ashore. As they walked back toward the Jetty, they saw a liberty boat coming from HMS York. "Hope the town is ready for them," said Margarethe. Having nothing else to do, they watched the boat approach the jetty and round-to smartly. Their boat secure, the liberty party disembarked. "A fine body of men," Margarethe remarked ironically, to no one in particular. "But soft you now, if it isn't the fair Ophelia and her girlfriends." Several young women emerged, their neat caps and pinned-up hair contrasting with the close-cropped hair of the men. One of the women, a sturdy looking blonde with a round, happy face, was looking about her with what could only be described as smiling Irish eyes. "Nice," said Margarethe, "what do you think, Jenny Wren?" "Beautiful, Mistress--but not as beautiful as you." "Flattery will get you everywhere, child." Turning away as the shore leave party's momentary diversion ended, Margarethe stopped, her heart contracting in her chest and her breath deserting her. "Oh, God, no! No! Not her, not here, not now!" Margarethe was unaware she had spoke aloud. The woman, clearly an officer, walked toward her. Her face was grim, her pace as measured as if on parade. Her clean-featured face was set, thin lips pursed, eyes clear as if scanning a far horizon. Her English-schoolgirl skin showed wrinkles only at the eyes, from long concentration on screens and dials and read-outs. As tall as Mistress, but slender, agile, high-breasted. Their recognition was mutual, as if a single spark arced between them in a glance. They stood a foot apart. "Sharyn." "Greta." "We shouldn't shake hands." "No, I can't touch you." "Nor I you. How are you?" "Well as can be. And you?" "The same." "We can't talk here." "Should we even be talking at all?" "I'd sooner not but I can't walk off saying nothing." "No more can I." "Of all the gin joints in all the world she had to pick mine." "You always liked Bogart." "He liked the sea. You love the sea." "As do you." "This is my crew, Jenny Renfro dit Jenny Wren, and Robin Cockbourn dit Cock Robin." "Cock?" "His thing, not mine." "I didn't think so. What are you doing here?" "Cruising to the end of the world, as Mistress and Commander of Dread Sovereign over there." She gestured. "And you?" "Spending your hard-earned tax quids on Yorkie over there." "Still an IT type?" "Yes, it's my department." "You got your step! Congratulations, Lieutenant-Commander Arkroyd!" Margarethe saluted crisply. She was good at that. "You've got a very trim ship, Commander von Schuldig." "Come on board and have a drink, if you can." "So you can take advantage of me?" Her taut, serious face showed the merest hint of a smile. "Please don't. You'll make me cry if you smile." Jenny felt her heart break, the pain in her chest welling up through her throat to her eyes, driving out the tears in a silent stream. Don't sob or whimper, she thought. But this is the one, the woman Mistress calls to in her sleep, the one she loves, that one, not me. Her mouth on me, her tongue, fingers, her strapping on Schwarz Max and fucking me, it's all a substitute, and I'm just a bucket, a thing. It's a lie, and I wish I could die right now. Robin was beside her, holding her hand, pressing so hard against her side, trying to draw her pain into his own body. Mistress ignored them, her attention welded to the other. Arkroyd spoke. "Then I won't smile. I thought I would never smile again after that Sunday, whenever it was, nor cry either. I was cried out. I lost track of years after that, but it doesn't matter any more. Now I've plenty to smile about, and I hope and pray you do too, you deserve it, but I won't smile if you don't wish me to." OK, Margarethe thought, Sharyn found someone else; why was that a shock? What have I been doing, fucking with Jenny and Robin and the others? But it wasn't the same, and she knew it. Stop fucking lying, she thought, you still love her. And if she has someone else, you can be jealous and hurt and angry and sorrowful, and take it out on Jenny and Robin--my sweet Christ, Jenny is right here and I've treated her like she wasn't here, or hearing, or-- She hugged Jenny to her. "Oh baby, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, this wasn't for your ears...." "Nor apparently for mine," said Arkroyd. "Look, let's have a drink, all of us. This is a Hell of a situation, but pretending nothing happened and being civilized and talking like motherfucking characters in a cheap play is bullshit and we all know it. Let's go away, our Whaler is there." And she gestured toward it. "I can't just now," said Arkroyd. "I promised someone I'd meet them, but not here, not in public." "Then we'll wait here. Go find your someone, clue them in and walk separately to the jetty. We'll wander to the Whaler when we see you." Arkroyd walked briskly away. Jenny said, "It's the girl with the Irish eyes. I know it's the girl with the smiling Irish eyes. That's who. Oh, Mistress," and she fell sobbing against Margarethe. Margarethe looked down. She folded her arms around Jenny. "My poor little Jenny Wren, I can't control my feelings. But I can control my actions. I never cheated on you and I never will. You are my girl forever, if you want, and I will cherish you, and care for you--" "But you'll never ever love me like you love her!" "Don't say that, Jenny, don't lash what we have to the deadweight of 'never'! Trust me Jenny, I love you now and will love you more. I never wanted to hurt you and I curse myself and curse this day that ever I came to Stanley! If Dread Sovereign were ready for sea, we'd go right now and never look back. Damn me, I'd go this minute in the fuckin' Whaler." Robin turned from Jenny's side and said to Margarethe, "Here's someone, Mistress." Jenny was right; the blonde girl with the smiling eyes and the neat rating's dress uniform was walking toward the Whaler. She acknowledged the three of them with a nod of her head, graceful and cheerful, then carried on as naturally as if walking to a strange boat was an everyday matter. Margarethe said dismissively, "We might as well get there ourselves, before she steals my damn boat." She stole my love, the fucking bitch, she thought, who the fuck knows what else she might steal? As they climbed into the Whaler, Arkroyd strode up to the gunwale and asked "Permission to come aboard?" "Granted," said Margarethe, "welcome aboard, Commander." The run out to Dread Sovereign was short and the occupants of the Whaler silent. Securing alongside Dread Sovereign, Robin and Jenny made fast the Whaler, glad to have the mechanical tasks to divert them, as Margarethe had been glad of the distraction of conning the Whaler from the jetty to her ship. They filed into the Great Cabin. They stood awkwardly, none willing to move, much less talk. Robin broke the silence. "Doesn't anyone need a drink, or need to use the head, or anything?" If Margarethe could loosen her jaw, that she clamped shut with all her strength, if it could have dropped, it would have done. The fury in her face guaranteed Robin punishments incomprehensible; if she had not needed another watchkeeper, however inept, Robin would have been dismissed the ship on the spot, with fifty lashes to his backside and a tourist class ticket home; the last would be his only because English law required it. "I do," said the smiling Irishwoman, but her accent was Northern, hard. Margarethe pointed toward the crews' head, forward. The Irishwoman turned and walked to the head, ignoring Margarethe's rudeness. Sharyn Arkroyd said, "Might I impose? I had to abandon the pint I wanted when I met you. Can you fetch me one?" Margarethe snapped at Robin, "You started this, so get the Lieutenant Commander a pint. She can have the Boddington's I'd been saving, I know she likes it." "Yes, Mistress," and he scurried off to the galley, returning to the silent Great Cabin with Mistress' sacred stein filled with Mistress' untouchable beer. "Lieutenant Commander?" he said humbly. Arkroyd took the stein, said, "Thank you. And thank you, Greta. Here's kindness," and she drank. Margarethe could not control the tears. I dreamt of her, she thought, I saw her alive in my dreams, drinking the beer, saying that silly toast, and I woke up praying God to let me die because I couldn't bear it.... "I'm sorry, Greta," said Arkroyd, seeing her pain, "I didn't think it would still hurt so much...." Margarethe's face grew cold, hard, denying her feelings, telling another lie, but her heart and mouth couldn't lie. Talking through her tears, "It will hurt so much until they dump my carcass in the sea. I loved you--no that's another lie, I love you and I always will. Please let's not go on. Just drink your beer and leave, please, I beg you, Sharyn." "Greta, you know I didn't want to. You know I loved you. I would have given you anything, but I couldn't give myself. If I loved you your way there wouldn't be me, there would be Greta's doll, Greta's toy, Greta's trophy. You swallow the ones you love. You strangle them. I can't live that way." "You didn't. You left. You took your precious self off for whatever. So do it again. Go. And take the Belfast beauty rose in there with you." "That was the worst thing I ever heard from you," said Robin. "Dismiss me, throw me out, but I won't have that. You're hurt, the great Mistress and Commander was disobeyed, you're not the goddam sovereign of the seas. You hurt Jenny, you hurt Sharyn, you're hitting like a drunk in a bar fight, and damn it, you're better than that, so fucking stop it! Now!" Margarethe spun at him, her fists raised, and threw the punch without seeing through the red haze that covered her eyes. Jenny caught the punch, stepping in front of Robin as the blow caught her forehead and dropped her to the deck. Robin threw himself over Jenny, as Margarethe drew back her foot to kick. Robin yelled, "Are you proud? Are you happy, Mistress?" He spat the word. Disgust in his voice, "Go ahead and kick, it'll make you feel better." "Oh my God what did I do?" Margarethe was shuddering, her body out of control. "Oh my Jenny Wren, my baby, I never meant to--I never--never-mm-m-meant-t-t-t t-to h-h-hurt-t-t m-m-my-y-y ba-a-by" and she broke, completely. Robin stood, lifting Jenny and moved her to the settee. He took Margarethe's hand and moved her to the bench across the Great Cabin. She sat, crushed, shaking, as the tears came and the sobs rose to hysteria. The young woman came into the Great Cabin. "I didn't want to come in," she said. Sharyn Arkroyd said, "We've got to go, sweetness." "No, don't," said Margarethe, trying to recover, "not like this. We broke up once with filthy words and pain. Not again." "I hardly think we're going to kiss and make tender speeches." "No, but we can try to do something better." She got up and walked to Jenny. "Baby Jenny Wren, please forgive me. I was crazy, I never hurt so much. Please Jenny Wren." Jenny struggled and stood up. She raised her arms to embrace Margarethe, wincing as she raised her head, a red bruise starting where Margarethe had struck her. They held each other. Margarethe said, "When I was little, when they hit me, when I was sent to bed without supper or blankets, I had a little toy kitten I hid from them, and I hugged it and it took the pain away. I don't have it now, and I want to hug it to take away the pain--" Jenny hugged her. Arkroyd said, "We really should go." "You haven't introduced us to your friend." "True. This is Leading Weapons Specialist Molly Mulligan." "How can I say hello? It sounds like a stupid movie." Margarethe walked to Molly and kissed her. "Make her happy. She is so worth it." "I know. I will." "You're a rating, Sharyn's an officer. It must be hard." Sharyn said, "It's bloody impossible. Oh, the Navy is very careful not to be outraged. As between officers and gentlemen, or officers and ladies, Lord Nelson's blind eye is alive and well, thank you very much. And as long as no one pulls rank to get fucked, everyone studiously looks the other way when the lower deck gets frisky as well. There are plenty of birth control pills and patches and condoms for those so inclined. But officer and enlistee, straight or us, that's on the no-fly list. I've a sympathetic XO on Yorkie, an old shipmate, and the Skipper takes care to know only what affects the ship's efficiency. Mollie isn't in my department, I don't influence her promotion, we don't even see or talk to each other in an official way. But we have to meet as if we were criminals, we can't show what we feel, or we'll be dismissed the Service. And I gave you up, Greta, because I love the Service. And now I must give up Mollie, unless she gives up the Service. If she does, we can marry when we get back to England. And then we can walk together and be together and love together in the sunlight, not in a dark corner in a storeroom." "So?" asked Margarethe. "Molly, tell her." Molly said, "The Service means to me what it means to Sharyn. There's nothing for me at home in Derry. I left my family, my religion, my so-called "country" to serve my real country, and my Queen. My family said I was dead when I joined up; but I was never more alive, I thought. I could be who I am, a subject of my Queen, a lesbian, a Royal Navy sailor serving proudly. And then I met Sharyn. Who needs Heaven, I have Sharyn and the life I love. But I can't have both." Molly stood beside Sharyn. The spoke as if they'd rehearsed what they said. They held their hands clasped, and said together, "I cannot bear the burden of my responsibilities, and discharge my duties as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love. But I won't run away." Margarethe said, "I suppose you haven't much time now." "Until tomorrow, said Sharyn Arkroyd. "We have 24 hours. I thought I might find an hotel...." "You can have my last Boddington's, Sharyn, and I promise I won't cry when you toast us. Molly can have a drink if she wants, with my blessing. Then you both have my stateroom until morning. Jenny, can you forgive me?" "Yes, Mistress, I'm your kitten, hold me and I'll take the pain away." "It's getting late," said Robin, "shall I cook us all some dinner?" Margarethe looked at him with something approaching respect. "First you save my life, then you save my soul. I might just keep you after all, Cock Robin. You are now rated Able-Bodied Seaman, and you can spare us the dirty jokes. Make it so--dinner for all hands and guests." "Aye aye--Mistress--and Commander." Mistress and Commander Ch. 05 Chapter 5 Down To the Sea Again The voyage of Dread Sovereign continues, to the end of the world. Some sex (not much), some love, much sorrow. Strokers, this one isn't for you. "Something special for dinner," said Margarethe, turning to Robin. "Can you do it, Robin? We should have plenty of stores." "Yes, Mistress," he said. "If Jenny will help, we can have dinner in an hour." "All right, then, Jenny, help out our Robin. Sharyn, Molly, the settee over there is the most comfortable seat we have. If we can't be jolly chums, perhaps we can make polite talk while we wait." Jenny made sure each of the three had a fresh pint, and went to help Robin. "If either of you needs anything for the night, you should find it in my cabin. We did a wash recently, so Robin can make up the bed fresh and neat. There's a good alarm clock, get you up in time to catch the drifter back to York. Plenty of hot water in the shower...." "All the mod. cons.," said Sharyn, with a grin. "Yes," answered Margarethe. And you can have my bed, my strap-on, my lube, and you can fuck your brains out with the Belfast beauty rose, and I wish I could die, but I can't, because I have to get my two little emotional cripples home, and I'm a fine fucking one to be talking about emotional cripples, I have as much shit in my head as any of you....Her thoughts stopped as she answered the question she barely heard. "Yes, we're going on to Nat Palmer Land, we have enough fuel to get there and back here, then refuel and start home, I expect." "Good Lord, why Nat Palmer Land?" asked Molly, "nothing there but penguins and ice." "Because, I suppose, it's there," said Margarethe. And because I have no other place to go. I have no home but this ship. I have no life but to go sailing on until...until.... Until I can die if I'm lucky. Changing the subject, Margarethe asked, "When do you get to go home?" Sharyn answered, "Only two months to go. Gloucester will be coming out, I expect, unless she's needed in the Middle East and we all get extended. Old York is due to be decommissioned, as new destroyers are being built if the country can afford it. She's almost thirty years old, and that's ancient as warships go nowadays. I expect they'll send me on a course to learn the latest IT going into the new girls of the Fleet. And Molly and I are due a month's leave...and oh! do I want to go home with you," she said to Molly, touching her hand but looking the question to Margarethe. "It's all right," said Margarethe, forcing a smile, "I'm all right." Sharyn leaned toward Molly and kissed her ear. Molly smiled, turned to Sharyn and kissed her, bringing their lips together as they clasped hands. Sharyn said, "Margarethe, thank you." "For what? This is nothing." "Very well, it's nothing, but thank you." The talk drifted into silence. They had nothing left to say. What Margarethe had had, she thought, was the only woman she ever loved, loved truly, forgetting herself, utterly lost in Sharyn. What Sharyn knew was that Margarethe never forgot Margarethe, that Margarethe would overwhelm her, that there would be no more Sharyn. What there would be was Margarethe's Sharyn, someone she could never be. With Molly there was Sharyn and Molly, two joined in one but still essentially two, each her own; and that was all Sharyn ever wanted. Margarethe got up and went to the head to piss away the beer. In fact, though, she went to avoid having to look at Sharyn looking at Molly. She tried to stop the tears. It was useless. The pain was just the same. Now she's going and going for good. And I can abuse Jenny and pretend I love her and hurt her to take away my pain, and go round the same damn mulberry bush forever, but it won't end the pain because nothing ends the pain.... Robin saw Margarethe go into the head, saw her face with the tears starting to run. He didn't want Jenny to see it, so he gave her a little task to help prepare the Yorkshire pudding. How he managed a roast of beef in an hour took some ingenuity and some very high heat in the electric oven (they'd have to get some more Diesel for the VanDerBeeke generator), but he was ready to announce dinner when Margarethe came out of the head. "Ladies, the roast beef of old England...and Yorkshire pudding." Jenny beamed, Sharyn and Molly were smilingly appreciative, and Margarethe was grinning, like a small girl. Well, thought Robin, our virgin martyr has an appetite. Plus she actually went to the head. She'll live. And that means we get home. The prayer ritual was followed by the ceremonial bite by the guests and crew. Margarethe was still trying to follow Slim of Burma. Before dinner proper, the toast, "The Queen, God bless her." Roast beef followed, with Yorkshire pudding, mashed cauliflower, old-fashioned currant duff, one more pint of Boddington's (I thought we'd run out, must get another couple of cases before we sail, no it won't matter a damn, thought Margarethe), and a splash of Cognac. Margarethe kept the bottle. Robin noticed. Dinner over, Robin went to make up Mistress' stateroom for their guests. He seemed a long time about it, thought Margarethe, but maybe he was shirking the wash-up after having cooked dinner. Well, I might just let it go this time, but let him not make a habit of loading work onto Jenny--but it doesn't matter any more, does it?, she thought. The talk was strained. As it got nearer to the end of the evening, the old thoughts returned to Margarethe, and she grew silent. Neither Sharyn nor Molly wanted to make the effort to sustain a conversation that no one wanted to continue. Robin came out of the stateroom at last, carrying the AK-74 and the Walther PPK. "Where away with those, Robin?" Margarethe asked, rather more politely than she felt, but her first thought was not in front of strangers, what goes on with my crew is no one else's business. "I thought the bridge might be a safer place for these, Mistress." "You're not paid to think, you're paid to ask me first. But the bridge is a good place for now, in the locked shelf next the wheel. Just get them back to my stateroom in the morning." "Aye aye, Mistress," he said and moved quickly up the stairs to the wheelhouse. Just as quickly he returned and went to help Jenny finish the wash-up. "Well, I reckon you'll be wanting to get some sleep," said Molly. "Yes," said Margarethe, "we'll have plenty to do tomorrow, finishing repairs, do a final restocking, top up fuel, and get away south'ard. It's a long cold way to Nat Palmer Land." "Good night, then, Margarethe," said Sharyn. "Good night, and thanks to your crew. It was a fine dinner, so it was," said Molly, getting up and extending her hand to Sharyn. Sharyn took Molly's hand, stood, and they walked to the stateroom holding hands. Margarethe looked at the floor. "Good night," she muttered. ************************* Dark night of the soul, what a bloody cliché, thought Margarethe. But it was three o'clock in the morning. Margarethe tried to go back to sleep, but it was hopeless. Jenny was sleeping like a child, her hands folded and brought up to her face, her little body curled neatly, a good baby. Margarethe kissed her forehead, gently, so as not to waken her. Margarethe remembered, just before the second (or was it the third) Cognac took effect, how her earlier vision came true. Sharyn was always a screamer and a squirter. "Molleeeee, Molleeee, aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!" Sure enough, thought Margarethe, my ship, my stateroom, my new clean bedding, my strap-on and my lube, and my damn woman. Molly didn't scream, but the sound of body against body was clearly audible throughout the ship. Molly wasn't a squirter; her orgasm was a muffled grunting, animal, primitive. "Ungh ungh ungh ahhhhh!" Bloody hell, rinse and repeat, thought Margarethe. They did. This was what Sharyn and Molly had waited for, not the furtive fingering in a storage area, nor masturbating late at night, each thinking of the other; nor the quick glances or touchings when they were together for an instant. This was a chance to make love, really make love, to be what they wanted to be--lovers. I remember her tits, thought Margarethe. They were like pears, with small nipples like wild raspberries. And how sweet her skin tasted, and the squirts in my face when we....The tears formed again. When will I stop crying? When can I forget how free we were with each other? When can I forget how good it felt, how every day was exciting? How I could forget everything, being with her, loving her.... Now it was quiet. They were all asleep, the babies were in bed. Now she was all alone with the pain. They took my little stuffed kitten, the one I kept hidden from them, the one I held onto to take away the pain. They found it and tore it up in front of me. They sent me to bed that night, after another beating, with no blanket and no supper. I didn't care about that, but there was nothing to take away the pain, and I had to cry although I didn't want to, they made me cry. And now I won't cry, damn them, I'll take away the pain myself, damn them damn them. She got out of bed quickly, slipped out of Jenny's crew cabin, and went to the wheelhouse. And England's far, and honour a name" she thought, and I'll never see it again but there's no point in seeing anything.... She reached into the locked shelf. She found the key where it was hidden (Robin knew the place too, so let him get the ship home or to Hell), unlocked it and pulled out the pistol. Even in the darkness she slid back the bolt and saw the brass gleam of the cartridge case. The 90-grain slug would make a mess, but the pain would end. She put the muzzle in her mouth, pointed it upward toward the top of her head and pulled the trigger. Click. Stunned, shaking, she tried to slide out the magazine. No magazine. She pulled back the slide and the empty cartridge case flipped out and fell on the floor. No primer, no propellant, no 90 grains of death. She shrieked, "Robin you fucking bastard!" "You called, Mistress?" "You're fucking bloody right I called! What did you do, and thank God you did it!" "I suppose you are aware that you have to get us-- Jenny, you, me and Dread Sovereign-- to the end of the world and back again? And that quoting dead Field Marshals and trying to act like Captain Horatio Hornblower on steroids plus cocaine, while flogging and buggering your crew and incidentally having suicidal episodes because you hysterically overestimate the difference between one young woman and another, is really not the best way to do it? So kindly stop the fucking playacting, get your neuroses under some semblance of control, and fucking act like a Mistress and Commander even if you aren't one! To the end of the world!" "So you took the bullets out of the pistol?" "How ineffably clever of you to have noticed." Jenny walked into the wheelhouse, sleepy-eyed, more like a little girl than ever. "Oh, Mistress," she said, "Please come back to bed." Margarethe sank to her knees, pulled Jenny to her, and cried big gulping sobs. "Aye weel," said Robin, "this'll no pey the rint, as we say at sea. Perhaps we can get Juliet and Juliet back to their destroyer, where they can brighten the holds and storerooms with their canoodling, and get this floating soap opera out to Nat Palmer (whoever the fuck he was) and his damned land. Onywye, I'se gangin' back tae me kip, eh fucking what? Good bloody fucking night, or morning, or whatever the Hell it is." Margarethe rose quickly. "That's the second time you saved my life and my soul." "You don't pay me to think, remember," he replied. "I reckon I had better do, then," she said quietly. "You consider that, Mistress," he said, "now I am going back to sleep." And he did. ****************************** Morning. Large cups of hot sweet tea. "You'll get breakfast on your ship?" Margarethe asked. "There'll be something the catering fellas'll have waiting for the liberty lasses, so they will," said Molly. Sharyn said, "I suppose there'll be some egg-and-B in the wardroom, even on a Monday morning. This is good tea, thanks." "Finish up, use the head one last time, and I'll have Robin and Jenny get the Whaler ready." Sharyn said, "I don't know how to thank you...." Margarethe said, "Then don't," and kissed her cheek. Sharyn turned away. Molly returned from the head. "Yours, love, then we have to go." After, they all went on deck. Robin started the Evinrude, and they were off to the dock. Margarethe looked after them until they vanished in the early morning mist. "I told the Harbourmaster's man on the dock that we'd be fueling by 1400," said Robin when he returned. "When do you want to go to the stores?" "Now, let's get it done with. Have you the list?" "I do," said Jenny. "Good, then let's go now." Going into the store, they passed a young woman coming out with little girl. "Oh Mummy," in a little piping voice, "those are the people with all those children, that I told you about." "Hi Penny," said Jenny. "Hi. How are the children?" "We're all just fine, darling," said Jenny. *************************************** Stores stowed, fuel tanks filled, Whaler secured, the workers gone and their worked inspected and paid for. The anchor heaved in short, engines turning over. " Weigh anchor," said Margarethe, the loudhailer echoing. It was as if she had wakened after a long illness and could breathe freely again, and stand, and not shake or stumble. The anchor chain came in. "Anchor secured," she heard Robin reply. She turned the wheel and moved the throttles forward. Robin and Jenny entered the wheelhouse. Each placed their right hand on top of hers. "To the end of the world," she said, "and then home again."