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