When The Wind Was Up

"No, I'm quite sure you don't want to be shared," he leered and ran his fingers up and down her slit, pressing his fingers between the labia and against the bud of her clitoris, until he determined that she was moist and ready for him. "Yes, I really am going to enjoy taking you, sweetheart."

Then he was on her: the wolf on the proverbial fold. She felt the weight of his hand on the small of her back, pressing her down until the cool bollard pressed against her naked belly. He ripped at her finery and tugged her skirts right up round her waist, before suddenly thrusting brutally into her sex, impaling her on his need.

She moaned as he fucked her hard, pushing into her vigorously. He used all his experience as a well-travelled corsair to make her feel the same humiliation as that recollected by many good ladies around the Free Ports after they were speared by his manhood.

As he used her, he talked of his recent travels, parodying the days when she had knelt at his feet, listening wide eyed to his yarns. He tugged her head back and pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in.

He told her, in lascivious detail, how the scent of her locks reminded him of how he had pleased a princess in the Fair Isles. He described how he had had the gall to ask for a tribute in gold from her father. The ransom came, even as he lay there in her bed and she pleasured him orally. Admittedly he had concealed the girl gallantly beneath the sheets while enjoying her ministrations, for he was not a total barbarian.

And that irony was certainly not lost on our heroine for, at the word "barbarian", he rammed his erect prick into her with extra vigour, biting her neck, scratching her shoulders and tearing at the remains of her clothing. He cupped, squeezed and mauled the newly discovered breasts. Then he told her how he had negotiated such a price for that princess on the block at Penringdon that he'd rested easy for a year.

He fucked in and out of her all the while, as he narrated tales of the various slave girls he had purchased and disposed of in his travels. They had resigned themselves to serving his need. So would she.

As he pulled out from her and switched from cunt to mouth, her young tits cupped in his hands, he continued to regale her with stories, just as he had done in the old days.

He told her in precise detail, as he thrust between her lips and looked piercingly into her glazed eyes, exactly how the captives and the family of a merchant in a caravan destined for the markets had been treated with equal incivility by his comrades, fucked side by side in the hot sands of the desert.

Just before he came down her throat, he let her know just how the whores of the lower reaches had served his violent needs thus far during this latest pilgrimage of disgrace; but all these experiences were as nothing to him, compared to this long dreamed of conquest.

And with that, he came with a groan, a final, brutal thrust and a munificent spurt, that left her lips semen-stained, her mouth filled with his viscous fluid and her mind emptied of all emotion.

Then, he buttoned himself up and walked away, having stolen the breath from her, along with the dreams, the memories and the hopes...

Talk to her now, as she rocks away the ruins of her life in the old cliff top house, her chair turned carefully away from the sea and towards the bare whitewashed wall until the mists come.

Only then, when the mists shroud her horizons, will you see a hint of her former passion and you will know that the sea mists have reclaimed their own.

Inevitably, she has rejected her previous aspirations, though you will find her a little more composed that when he abandoned her there on the quayside, sobbing for her loss, unkempt and bedraggled in the rain.

Talk to him, in whatever tavern or brothel you find him hawking diamond studs from his latest conquest, and you will quickly see behind the bravado, the same despair, the same emptiness and the same pain that he left her with all those years ago now.

It emerges slowly and clouds his vision, until he finds some other, more immediate drug or evanescent pleasure to dampen the anger that only he knows and only she will ever understand. I think he will carry it with him until he sails away into the sea mists without her.

Talk to either or both of them for as long as you like and you will surely find that they share only one memory now: how, a hundred years ago, when she was very young and very naive, she had asked him, made him promise solemnly, in fact, to sail away and take her..."

"That wasn't a very nice story, sir."

"Oh. Did you want a nice story?"

"Well. Yes."

"You don't always get what you wish for."

"Apparently, not"

"It's interesting how your deeds come back to haunt you in my immorality tales, isn't it, pet?"

"I'd rather have had him save her from the other corsairs and sail away together in a loving embrace, as she asked, before you twisted her words."

"Never mind," I smiled and ruffled your hair affectionately.

"I'll try not to."

"You can go to bed in a little while and try not to dream of fulfilled promises."

"Yes sir."

"You have permission to put a pillow under your belly. I will want to use you before you drift off."

"I'll look forward to that, sir."

"Good girl."

"Though if you find me snoring, sir, you'll know that it's because I wouldn't want to fulfil too many promises."

"We can play island women and corsairs if you like."

"Beast!"

"Would a bolster be a better bollard-substitute than a pillow though?"

"You know, sir, when you grin like that, I almost want to bite your cock."

"You get too much pleasure from it to want to do that," I smiled and pushed you back down, one night, late in the autumn, when you were kneeling on a cushion at my feet, your head in my lap, humming quietly to yourself.