THE PIRATE

       She stood in the tiny cabin, looking out the windows, towards the horizon, towards the smoking, sinking wreck of a ship.  Then she moved her head, looking about the tiny cabin, noticing his bed hanging from ropes, swinging slowly back and forth.  She noticed his desk, the single chair.  She noticed a carpet, frayed and worn, upon the deck.  She looked again out of the windows at the smoking sinking wreck of the ship.  Once she sat at the captains’ table.  Once she strolled on his quarterdeck.  Now she stood in a strange cabin, her hands tied tightly behind her back.

       She knew her fate.  Every woman knew her fate when captured by pirates.  Mary fought against the fear gripping her throat, like the hand of a pirate, choking her.

       She wondered about him, what he looked like, how he might behave.  She saw his men, smelled his men.  They were ugly men, dressed in ragged clothes, holding smoking pistols and bloody cutlasses.  They captured her, bound her.

       She saw the smoke of the ship as a smudge against the horizon.

       Someone opened the cabin door behind her.  She turned her head, looked at him.

       He stood about six feet in height, his hair just brushing the beams above his head.  His blue eyes burned with passionate intensity.  His eyes did not look at her, but deeply inside of her.  She felt his eyes as a tangible force through her dress, her silken garments.  She felt his eyes touch her flesh, and her flesh shied from his touch.

       She felt her breathing stop.

       He closed the door behind himself, took two steps to his desk, sat.  He continued to study her.

       “Sir, I am a woman of title.  I assure you my uncle will pay greatly for my return.”

       A thin smile formed on his face.

       She noticed a scar running from his ear, down his cheek.

       She turned to face him.  “Provided I am returned to him intact.”

       He opened a drawer of his desk, without looking, keeping his blue eyes steadily upon her.  He pulled out a parchment, held it up.

       “Your Uncle, Duncan?  Duncan, fifth Lord of Shrewsberry?”

       She stared at him, confused at how he managed to know her uncles name.

       “The same Uncle who sent you to Jamaica, to wed a popinjay named Edward something.”

       “The same,” she stammered, confused, suddenly more afraid than before.

       “Edward the popinjay doesn’t exist, and your Uncle Duncan commissioned me to capture and destroy your ship, insuring your complete disappearance.  He paid me well, two hundred pounds.  He will pay me another eight hundred when proof of your ships loss is received.  I would say, Mary, I am being paid very well for you indeed.”

       Mary stood quite still, her breath coming in rapid pants, her breasts heaving beneath her tight whalebone corset.

       “Intact somehow failed to get mentioned in the contract.”  He glanced at the paper in his hand, smiled again.  “Indeed, Lord Shrewsberry suggested I might even earn an extra sum selling you to a brothel in Barbados.

       “This, this is a lie, a damnable lie.  My Uncle would never consider such an action.  It, it . .”  She found herself incapable of words.

       “Your father left you with a sizable estate, some eight hundred hectares, and a manor.  When you wed, your uncle will have no further control over those revenues.  And he has amassed some sizable gambling debts.  When you no longer exist, the estate passes naturally into his hands.  It adds considerably to his wealth.  I’m afraid you stood in the way of doubling his estates, and paying his debts.”

       “This can not be true.  I will not believe you.”

       “It doesn’t matter if you believe it or not.  It only matters if I believe it.  And I assure you, Mary, I believe it completely.”

       “What, what are your intentions with me?”

       “Barbados sounds attractive.”  He stood, placing the parchment on his desk.  Mary saw a dagger tucked in his belt.  He reached for the dagger, drawing it out.  Mary closed her eyes.  She heard his boots on the hard wooden deck and frayed carpet beneath her feet.

       She felt his hand against her cheek.

       Mary tried to pray.  Her rising feelings of terror confused her thoughts.  His touch crowded her thoughts, chasing prayers away.

       His hand wandered from her cheek to her neck.  She tried twisting away from his touch.

       He grabbed her hair, yanked back her head.

       She felt his lips pressing hard against her own.  She never felt a kiss before.  No man was ever allowed so close to her person.  Her Uncle kept her too carefully watched.  He denied her any suitor.

       She felt something, something more than the terror, vibrating in her soul.  She felt a feeling she had no means to describe.  She felt as though through his lips, her breath, her reason abandoned her.  Her head swam, spun, felt light.  Her legs felt weak beneath her.

       His hand strayed down her neck, to the soft flesh at the top of her bodice.

       His lips released her own.  He backed away from her.  She stood quite still, breathing quickly, deeply.

       “You are quite untouched.”

       “Yes.” She managed to stammer in reply.

       “By even so much as a kiss.”

       “Yes.” She whispered.

       “How great a waste.”

       She stood quite still, clenching her tiny hands behind her back, feeling the terror rising in her breast, delighting in the terror rising in her breast, for it was a strange feeling, an unknown feeling.  All her life she enjoyed control, control over the servants, control over her life.  Certainly she enjoyed more control over her life than most other women her age of sixteen years.  Now she had nothing.  All the control over her life vanished when the cannons of his ship thundered.  All control left when a rope tied her hands behind her back.

       He was a pirate.  He held no sense of honor, no sense of moral justice.  Not law, convention, morality, family, station in life, protected her.  Nothing whatever stood between his intentions and her virtue.  She felt her terror sap her strength.  She felt as though she might collapse upon the deck.

       She opened her eyes, to look at him again.

       She saw the dagger in his hand.  He stood looking at her, tapping the dagger lightly against his leg.

       He took a step towards her, walked around her.  She felt the dagger against the lacing of her dress.  She felt her lacings give way against the sharp blade.  Her dress hung loosely on her shoulders.  His hand came to her neck again, lightly.  His finger tips traced lines against her flesh.  Lightning bolts passes from the tips of his fingers, through her flesh, into her soul.  His fingertips slid across her naked shoulders, to the top of her dress, pushing her dress from her shoulders, baring her shoulders.

       His fingers left her shoulders.  She felt his dagger tug at her dress, cutting through the heavy silk.  She felt her dress fall from her body.  She felt the dagger slice the threads of her corset.  She felt it loosen on her body.  Her lungs expanded in a sudden intake of breath.  She looked down at her breasts, suddenly exposed.  She saw her nipples, hard, pointed.

       His hand reached around her, cupped her breasts.

       Mary cried out.  A sudden cry escaped her lips.  Her head fell backwards, against his shoulder.  Her shoulder blades pressed themselves together.  His fingers took her nipple, pinched it, rubbed it.  Mary found her eyes clouding with tears.

       Finally his hands left her breast.  They rubbed her body downwards, to her waist, to her hips.  They pushed against her few remaining garments, her petticoats.  Her petticoats slid down her hips, down her legs, to the deck atop the blue of her dress.

       Her clenched fists pressed against something hard beneath the fabric of his pants.

       Her body stood exposed to his gaze.  He walked around her, holding his dagger, tapping his dagger against his leg.  She felt his eyes study her body.

       “I beg you sir.” She paused, gasping for air.  “I beg you sir, I am a virgin.”

       His eyes continued to study her body.  She saw his eyes, saw them looking at her breasts, looking at the black triangle between her legs.  Her cheeks flushed hotly.

       “Please sir, I will comply with your desires, but do not hurt me.”

       “And if I treat you gently, what bounty have you left to offer?”

       “My willing consent.  I trade my consent for your consideration of my condition.”

       “You strike easy bargains with the devil.”

       “I have nothing remaining with which to bargain.”

       “Indeed.  You have not even that.  Do you think it matters to me if you are willing or not?  There is still Barbados.  If you are an unwilling wench, I’ll sell you for sixpence.  If you show some measure of, of delight, then perhaps I might spare you that particular disgrace.”

       Mary felt panic surge through her body.  Indeed, she had nothing remaining with which to bargain.  All control vanished suddenly from her grasp.

       “I am at your mercy.”

       “You always have been.”

       He stepped to her, taking her in his arms, pressing his body tightly against her own.  She felt again the hardness beneath his trousers.

       He picked her up, placed her on his bed, naked, bound, upon his bed.

       Then he undressed.

       Mary never saw a man undress his body before.  She lay upon her side, looking at him, her mouth open her eyes wide.  She looked at his naked chest.  She did not know men had hair upon their chest.  She did not know men had nipples upon their chests as did women.

       Then he untied the sash around his trousers.  Her mind could not believe he would bare his body completely before her.  She wanted to close her eyes.  She wanted to take her eyes from his body.  She could not.  She could not.

       He sat in the chair, removed his boots.  Mary took a moments comfort watching him remove his boots.  Then he stood again.  His hands came to the waist of his paints.  He pulled them down, reveling the most intimate secrets of his body.

       The room became smaller.  Her vision narrowed.  She looked at him, and saw one thing only.

       A new fear captured her soul.

       She knew what men possessed, through conversations with her nurse.  She knew men possessed a weapon, a sword, between their legs, as women possessed a scabbard for them to sheath it in.  Never had she thought the weapon of a man to be so large.  It appeared as a lance, bluntly tipped, raised in salute to her nakedness.

       He came to his bed.  With expert grace he placed his body in the bed, pushing his flesh against her flesh, his lance against her body.  His hand came to her cheek, turning her face to his.  Then he kissed her, gently, upon the lips.

       Mary lost all sense of time, of space, of self.

       His touch inflamed her.

       His fingertips burned through her flesh.

       She rolled on the bed, offering more of her body to his touch, to his lips.  He kissed her lips, her cheek, her neck.  His hand gently cupped her breasts.  She pulled back her head, exposing her neck, and felt his kisses travel down her neck, to her breasts, to her pointed nipples.  She let out a tiny whisper of fear, of delight, as his lips closed about her nipple, as his tongue played with her nipple.  His hand traveled down her body, to the black curls guarding her most intimate place.  His hand gently pressed against the flesh of her leg, and without her willing it, her legs parted easily to his touch.

       And he touched her.

       Cannons thundered in her brain.

       Broadsides of feeling overtook her defenses.

       Her bulwarks gave way to his touch.  The fires of his passion invaded her.  She announced her complete surrender with a whimper of pleasure, a sudden cry of pain, a tear announcing the incredible feelings overtaking her body, her person, her very soul.  Her hands clutched the sheets of the bed beneath her back, tightly clutched the sheets, as though if she let go, she might fall to some unknown and dangerous place, might lose herself entirely in the feelings of his touch, in the pleasure she found in his body. . .

       

       Mary stood on the quarterdeck of his ship, gazing at islands drifting past upon the horizon.  She stood dressed in a loose shirt, opened widely at the top.  A cool breeze lifted the hem of the shirt, exposing her legs.  She looked over her shoulder, at him, standing against the helm of the ship.  His eyes strayed to her, a smile crept across his face.  She turned back to looking at the islands on the horizon.  Perhaps, if he wanted, he might demand that she again return to his cabin.  A thin contented smile pressed the corners of her lips.

       Her mind drifted as the clouds above her.  She thought of the things he might do.  He might demand of her the shirt she wore, exposing her body to the crew of his ship.  Or he might come up behind her and take her violently, there, upon the quarterdeck of his ship.  Or he might take her by the hair and drag her to his cabin, and roughly, demandingly, force his will upon her.

       She smiled again.  Perhaps, in time, with only a little training, he might learn to do all of these things.  “Yes.” She thought to herself as she looked at the islands drifting past upon the horizon, “Yes. He might be trained.  He might learn how to excite me even more, use me even more completely.”

       She smiled broadly.  She felt a song surface to her lips.  Control of her life seemed not so far distant, not so far as the islands upon the horizon.  With but a little teaching, he would learn.  There, there hid her control.

       She heard herself laugh.  She looked down at her breasts easily seen through the lose top of her shirt.  She laughed that now, captured by a pirate, it seemed so simple to capture him.