The Slave, the Snake, and the Sinner

"One cannot qualify as an Official Writer of Naughty Literature until one has written the requisite pirate tale."—me

NOTE: At least half of this little sizzler is true Non-con, rather than Dub-con. If you can't tolerate shackles and dungeon stuff, stop right now. If it sounds like your average Thursday night, enjoy!

PS: Since I assume most of you don't read Cyrillic—or speak Russian, Ukrainian, and Serb!!—I've written some words phonetically, as my characters might imagine them to be spelled. For example, the Serbian word for "kitten" is pronounced something like MAH-tsay, but I wrote it as macé, after deciding that Cassia's familiarity with French—rather than Slavic—would cause her to interpret it that way.

—:—:—:—:—:— I: The Slave —:—:—:—:—:—

He liked to watch her sleep.

Although there was nothing flashy about her—her brown hair was just plain brown and her eyes just plain hazel—neither dirt nor dark circles could cover her essential loveliness. She had that wholesome, girl-next-door prettiness he seldom noticed in girls of other nationalities, and unlike many upper-class American women, she'd chosen not to mar it with scalpels or saline balloons, the results of which he abhorred.

He stilled, closing his eyes momentarily to concentrate on sound rather than sight. He'd been extremely careful not to be caught watching her like this, as he was none too popular with the other men onboard, and she could be in danger if any of them realized how he felt. He planned to take her with him when he left, and he wasn't going to allow anyone to get in his way. So far the fiction of his cruel behavior toward her had gone unquestioned. And why wouldn't it? The Sultana seldom carried women, but when it did, he treated them all the same way he'd treated this one.

Deciding all was well, the man opened his eyes and went back to studying her, spending more time looking at her face than her body, despite her nudity or the explicit pose in which she'd fallen asleep. He grimaced at the part he'd played in bringing her to this point. It was no excuse, but nearly everything he'd been led to believe about her cellmate was a lie. Now all he could do was watch, and wait for the end of the voyage. He'd have to do it fast, before anyone came to unload the prisoners, but he was confident he could get them both away. Then he'd take her home with him. He'd been saving money for a long time, and no one knew his real name, so she'd be safe, though he admitted that her safety wasn't his sole concern: he wanted her for himself.

A whisper from the darkness alerted him. Regret closed his throat. The girl whimpered as she woke, and the man closed his eyes again, turning his face away.

—:—:—:—:—:—

"Chowtime, Tiger!"

Cassia's lips were twisting even as she woke, the snarl they formed mimicking her feline namesake. Her hand darted out to grab the shallow tin bowl from the hand of her enemy, her eyes searching the gloom for another who lurked nearby, while her dirty, ragged fingers shovelled food into her mouth.

Food. Ten days ago she wouldn't have gifted the nasty concoction with so lofty a name. Compost, maybe. Even the refuge camps she'd visited with her Aunt Joni had better food than what she got here. Nonetheless, in just a few minutes she'd emptied her bowl, licked it, and begun hunting down the few errant grains of rice she'd lost in her hurry. No, ten days ago she wouldn't have called it food, but ten days ago she'd been sitting at an eloquent captain's table, wearing a beautifully-crafted Alabama Chanin, toasting their first full day at sea with a lovely 1986 Grande Dame. Now she was nude and filthy, huddled in the noisy bowels of a broken-down Ukrainian cargo carrier, where she was lucky to get a cup of clean, fresh water twice a day. So she was told every time her captor delivered it. He lurked there now, outside the bars of her cage, grinning down at her, she was sure, though she refused to glance up and acknowledge his presence.

As she sucked the last bits of mush from her fingertips, the muddy black shadows shifted. The greys and browns of darkness parted, and Cassia froze, her eyes straining to see beyond the pale shaft of light piercing the center of the cell. A monster emerged from the gloom.

Lurching, it moved toward her, and crablike, she scurried backward, though she knew she couldn't escape. She was already familiar with the monster and knew well what was about to happen. Eighteen inches and a few fruitless kicks later, she was trapped in the corner, panting in fear.

"Whatsamata, Kitten?" The hissed question barely penetrated her anguish, though her head twitched slightly toward the voice near her ear. "The Snake too much for you?"

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Cassia bit back a whimper. Ruthlessly, she suppressed her fear, her tears, her pleas, and her few remaining hopes. Knowing what she risked, she turned her head. Ignoring the monster, she met the gleaming eyes of the loathsome creature squatting beyond the bars, instead, and spit directly in his face. "Fuck you, Ghengis," she snarled.

—:—:—:—:—:—

She didn't regret it. Her action didn't result in the merciful death she'd been seeking, and a day and a half later, she still could barely swallow, but she didn't regret it. The pain in her throat—and elsewhere—faded whenever she recalled the look of absolute shock on the swarthy, scarred face of the man she hated more than anyone on earth. For one glorious moment, his smug sneer had been washed away by the spittle of a woman who refused to bend to his command. She only wished his pals had been there to see it.

Of course she paid for her pride and the small, useless rebellion. Quick as a snake, quicker than the Snake who inhabited her cell, a wiry arm darted into the cage, and Ghan's fingers fastened around her throat. With a jerk that smashed her head against two bars, he'd pulled her ear to his hissing, twisted lips. He ignored Cassia's fingers clawing at his arm. As the Snake's long fingers took control of her ankles, Cassia's consciousness faded, but she heard Ghanbar's gleeful retribution: "Too bad, cuva. I was gonna grease you up again."

When she came to, the monster was raping her again.

—:—:—:—:—:—

The cruise was a twentieth-anniversary present from her step-brother to their parents, and it was supposed to be a family vacation. At the last minute, her father had come down with bronchitis and their parents had cancelled, insisting "the kids" go on without them. Kenneth was twenty-four and supposedly looking out for Cassandra, who was just nineteen, but he'd cooked up a scheme to get his hands on her father's money—Cassia gathered that she and her parents were supposed to die in the attack, leaving Kenneth a broken-hearted sole survivor.

It hadn't worked out that way. The pre-scheduled piracy had gone off without a hitch: the passengers jewelry, cash, and cards were stolen, along with a bunch of the cruise line's fancy cameras and computer equipment, but Cassia—by far the youngest female onboard—had been kidnapped instead of killed outright. And Kenneth—the moron—objected to donning a life-vest and parking his snotty ass in a lifeboat while the ship was scuttled, thereby convincing the pirates he was too much trouble to be left behind.

God only knew what he'd told them, but Cassia had been questioned at length about her father's business and financial affairs. The captain of the pirate vessel was a foreboding brute, a dark-skinned caucasian, 6'4" if he was an inch, who spoke French with a perfect Parisian accent and English with none at all. The mostly-Ukrainian crew called him a name with too many consonants for Cassia to pronounce, which they said translated to "the sinner," and he conversed with his men in both Russian and Ukrainian, she gathered. His first mate seemed to be the only one with whom he didn't share a language, but—unfortunately for Cassia—the chestnut-skinned sailor also spoke English quite well. Sinner asked her a few questions, but seemed largely uninterested in the interrogation taking place only a meter from his battered metal desk.

The first mate—who'd plucked her from the cruise ship—was a dark, evil bastard named Ghanbar. At first Cassia thought it was "Khan-bar" and, when she grew tired, and tired of his endless questions, she called him Ghengis. Formerly a rude, arrogant prick of a man, the solidly-built sailor went completely insane. Before Cassia could blink, he'd torn her gorgeous dress apart and slung her shackles around a fitting on the pipes overhead. She caught a glimpse of the captain's face—looking annoyed and slightly alarmed—before her own was slammed against the metal door, and her punishment began. Cassia had never been whipped before, and it wasn't long before she fainted.

—:—:—:—:—:—

When she woke, she was still a captive, but she'd been freed from the hook and was lying face-down on a scratchy blanket, covered with another. The pounding of the ship's diesel engines, far aft of where she lay, reverberated through tons of steel, and Cassia fancied that the very air around her vibrated with the power they produced. Her thoughts were fuzzy until she tried to move, when the torn skin of her upper back screeched into agonizing life. With her palms flat on the mattress, she moaned and forced herself to rise.

"Ah, you're still alive."

Cassia froze, memories snapping into place even as the blanket slid from her hips, leaving her kneeling naked on the captain's bunk, utterly exposed to his visual examination. Her head hung forward, her brown hair obscuring her flushed face from him. Without opening her eyes, Cassia could sense his gaze upon her, stroking her body like a lover. Yeah, the worst fucking lover ever, she thought, and she should know. She'd only had three, but they'd all been bad.

"Let me help."

She didn't hear him cross the room, but somehow, the captain was at her side, offering a sinewy forearm for her to brace herself. Cassia didn't object. Her back was throbbing, every motion sending another stroke of fire shooting across her flesh. She didn't get far—merely settled her ass back down on the bed where she'd been lying. Self-conscious, she pulled the blanket over her breasts before she met the captain's eyes. "Thank you."

With his arms folded and his back to the lighter space of his office, the captain was only a brooding shadow in the doorway. She'd been kidnapped and whipped, but she wasn't particularly fearful in his presence, Cassia mused. Stupid. She should be.

The Sinner confirmed her opinion a second later. "You will tell us what you know of your father's business, or you will suffer," he said, no emotion marking the command.

Cassia lowered her eyes and stayed silent.

He growled, drawing her eyes and putting paid to "emotionless," too. He drew breath to continue, but a soft squeal from the other room ended their conversation. One hand going automatically to the handgun at his hip, the man spun faster than she would have thought possible.

His hand fell lazily from the weapon's grip as someone uttered the tangle of sounds which made up his name or title—Cassia hadn't quite deciphered which—and he stepped away from the doorway, out of her sight. Cassia couldn't hear their exchange, but she recognized the other voice and shivered.

" 'ullo, princeza," Ghanbar appeared in the doorway his boss had vacated. She recoiled. Grinning, he gestured grandly. "You ready to resume our little talk?"

Her belly felt warm and fluid, like she was about to pee herself, but Cassia pressed her lips together and stood, pulling the blanket with her. As steadily as she was able, she wound the rest of it around her lower body while Ghanbar leered at her from beneath a mop of hair as black and silky as the panties she wore. Cassia was back in the middle of the captain's office before she noticed the absence of her hand-cuffs. That minor freedom probably wouldn't help much, but it made her feel slightly safer. Ignoring Ghan's presence, she turned to face the captain . . . no . . . the Sinner . . . and how apt was that?

"Captain, whatever my idiot step-brother may have implied, I know nothing of my father's businesses." He was typing something on his laptop, apparently paying no attention to Cassia, who soldiered on. "However, I do know that he is insured against situations like this, and his policy would no doubt cover whatever ransom you demand."

The captain's hands stilled, hovering above the matte black keyboard. After an unbearable pause, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his ribcage and lifting his eyes to Cassia's face. The warmth in her belly froze before the icy hardness of his gaze. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his nostrils flared as he drew breath. Cassia could sense Ghanbar, waiting much more eagerly than she for the captain's reaction.

"You fucking Americans," he growled finally. Suddenly, he stood, and Cassia dropped back as he leaned forward, resting the weight of his massive torso on fists placed carefully alongside his expensive computer. "This isn't a restaurant, and I am not here to serve your petty desires, Pryntsesa Pendergast," he spat.

Trembles took over the region between her shoulder blades, but inanely, distantly, Cassia's brain pointed out the difference in the way he and Ghan pronounced "princess"—whatever language the captain was using added a T sound in the middle.

The Sinner's jaw flexed again, and air huffed from his nostrils as he fought to control his emotions. Straightening, he looked to his first mate, who stepped to Cassia's side. With a rumble and hardly a glance in her direction, the captain finished with Cassia. "You'll bring a good price at auction, with little risk involved."

Slowly, the Sinner reseated himself. Propping one huge boot atop the corner of his metal desk, his eyes returned to the Toughbook in his lap. "Grease her up, plug her snatch, and give her to the Snake," he ordered Ghan. "She'll learn to swallow and he won't stretch her enough for anyone to notice." There was a hint of laughter in the asshole's voice by the time he finished.

—:—:—:—:—:—

Three days later and thirty feet below, Cassia's eyes flickered open in the darkness. Moans and mumbles and the occasional scrape of an errant chain against the bulkhead didn't dent her feeling of alone-ness. At night it was utterly, completely dark, in a way Cassia had never known before Ghanbar dragged her over the railing of the "Vixen Vacation Queen" and into the fetid hold of the "Sultana." If she wished to orient herself in space, the only aid she could offer gravity would be pressing her head against the bars in the furthest corner of her cell. In that position, she'd be able to see the ubiquitous glowing-red EXIT sign far away in the darkness, at least until the prisoners in the next cell scrambled over and got their paws on her. She'd only seen the EXIT sign once, the same day she learned that lesson. Cassia still shuddered at the memory. The sweaty digits clawing at her breasts and burrowing toward her labia bothered her far more than the thought of Ghanbar's violent choke-hold.

Evidently, the Snake, her cell-mate and the beneficiary of her presence, felt the same way. After freeing her from their neighbors' grasp, he'd kept his hold on one of them, systematically breaking every finger in the man's right hand before moving up to the bones of his forearm. Snake was reaching for the man's shoulder when the guards finally responded to his agonized screams, dragging the sobbing man roughly from his cell. Only then did Cassia realize that it was her step-brother, Kenneth. There was no way to be certain, down in the stink and squalor of the hold, but she was sure he'd been tossed overboard, done away with in the bleak waters of the broad Atlantic. After all, a damaged slave was good for nothing. Cassia hadn't lost any sleep over his death. At the very least, she knew her father and step-mother would be safe from Kenneth's machinations, even in her absence.

Her permanent absence.

Cassia blinked the thought away whenever it occurred. She simply didn't have the strength to imagine anyone else's pain.

—:—:—:—:—:— II: The Snake —:—:—:—:—:—

When she woke in the Stygian darkness, she lay motionless until she located the raspy snuffle of her cellmate's breathing. He was far enough away for her to risk turning over. Slowly, one muscle group at a time, she tightened her abdomen, lifting her feet from the floor in tiny, silent increments, rolling the weight of her lower body off her buttocks and onto her lumbar spine before beginning to turn. She'd learned that minimizing the amount of contact between her body and the gritty floor reduced the chance of making a noise which would wake her cellmate. When the side of her left leg was resting fully on the aged boards, and her right hand tucked beneath her cheek, Cassia finally relaxed, taking stock of her injuries.

Her throat, of course, but that was old news now, and the pounding headache from Ghanbar slamming her head against the bars had receded, too—though the lumps were still tender. Her breasts still hurt from the first couple of rapes, but since Ghanbar and his goons had removed her collar and chains, Snake had been taking her from behind, so her thighs and hips were worse, bruised and burned from the wrenching strength of his grip. And the straps, of course . . . . Her hands and feet were free, but her pussy was still occupied by the pink tube Ghan had inserted to protect her non-existent virtue, and the straps were killing her, figuratively speaking. What she could see of the skin beneath the straps was a fiery scarlet. Cassia was convinced all that raw chafing would soon become a creepy, skin-eating bacterial infection, which would hopefully kill her in the literal sense before they reached land.

Not only did she have no desire to spend a short, traumatic lifetime as a drugged-up sex slave, she didn't want the Sinner or his crew to make a dime from her presence. If she died during the voyage, she would actually have COST him money. Not much money, considering the quality of the food, but still, it gave her something to daydream about. Cassia didn't really want to die, but not even in her daydreams did she manage to escape.

She wasn't as naïve as other girls her age, anyway, and she knew perfectly well how cruel people could be, even before Ghanbar took her to the hold. The iron cages down there were welded to the bulkhead, the joins themselves were rusted, and the thin metal cups and bowls she'd been given were dented and dulled by use. These guys had been doing this for a long time. The guards had met her eyes, but the only emotion she'd found there was avarice—no sympathy, no surprise, no horror—and no hope for her. They'd seen it all, and they'd seen it here, on board this ship.

Cassia didn't believe in fairy tales. Since her mother's death, she'd spent summers with her her Aunt Joni, who volunteered to go wherever her surgical skills were needed. Cass had seen more than enough to know how insignificant she was in the grand scheme of things. She was an anonymous speck of flotsam—swiftly sold and just as swiftly forgotten, and she didn't expect to be rescued by her parents, her country, or anyone else.

The removal of her shackles had done little to improve her odds. Everyone onboard was armed and, as far as she could tell, never without a weapon or ten. Cassia considered luring one of her guards close enough to steal a handgun, but Ghanbar was the only one who carried keys, and he was too smart and too dangerous to tempt. Besides, where would she go if she got out? She wasn't convinced that being back upstairs—or whatever they called it on a ship—above, maybe? Anyway, Cassia wasn't convinced being up there with the Sinner would be any safer than being down here with the Snake.