Chapter Two

       Though the Captain hesitated at his host’s call to strip the girl bare—and he took some pride in authority that his trusted First Officer held back, too—a dozen of his men lunged forward hungrily to tear the corset stays and the skirt and hoops from the wench’s beautiful white flesh. They were commoners, the ones who leapt at her first, and if such a thing had occurred before today, the Captain would have had them lashed within an inch of their lives with knotted steer hide laid on strong. Yet now their response seemed to the Captain’s slowly changing mind no offense, instead merely a reaction no less natural—and no more blameworthy—than breathing. He could not fault the poor souls.

       The girl had worn no other underclothes, and in but a moment those hungry male hands had denuded her utterly before them. She was naked and gleaming, wildly available as a dozen sets of hands pawed her supple white flesh. They could smell the excitement of her moist womanhood.

       “Please, noble Captain,” urged Gallance urbanely, “I beg of you, do not deny yourself.” He gestured solicitously at the silent wench. Sailors crowded about and fondled her pale nakedness, yet still she contrived to remain as haughty and unnoticing as a statue. “Beautiful, fresh young cunt, monsieur. Smell it, lick it, suck it! Rub it, fist it, fuck it! Whatever may suit you. Never let it be said that I am not the most obliging of hosts.”

       The Captain hesitated, his face a study of agony. He had been at sea so terribly long, weeks and weeks wherein secret fluids daily dripped down into glands that now seemed full to bursting. He had tried to ignore his desires, tried to be staunch. Yet many were the nights when behind his closed eyelids had danced shapely phantasms, impossible dream-girls who capered and smirked, who with wicked eyes begged him to do such things as he could not even name. How many salt-scented, starlit nights had he tossed and turned, erect and quivering within his nightclothes, helplessly longing?

       The Captain’s passions raged now in his hungry flesh. Inbred conscience shrieked in accusation. He tried to tell himself that this was wrong, debasing to his manly rationality. He tried to tell himself that the poor girl deserved so much more than this—something spiritual and transcendent, not merely acts beastly and shameful. But his natural desires roared their urgent demands.

       And there she stood, silent and serene, the dark nipples of her bare little breasts upright in her undeniable arousal. Hairy male hands groped her smooth white flesh all over, grasping and possessive. Yet through it all her gaze was turned to the Captain, her sly dark eyes regarding him appraisingly from beneath half-lowered lids. Her mocking red lips dared him.

       The Captain stared unblinking at her gleaming white flesh, so young and rounded and smooth. He licked his dry lips. Despite his attempted reluctance, there really could be no contest between the opposing impulses. Finally he could not help stepping forward and joining in, and as he did so the other sailors parted deferentially to make room for their leader.

       Slowly the Captain ran his palms over the girl, hesitantly—yet soon with growing abandon. Emboldened, he moved his hands caressingly over her supple hips and the downy-soft black thatch between her tender thighs. As he reached across the swelling curves of her haunches and her taut youthful belly, he marveled at those fine soft hairs, so tender and girlish and yet so dark and luxuriant. How alluringly virginal seemed that sweet pussy—yet how promisingly whorish it must be! Surely, surely it could deny these desperate men nothing. His blood pounded happily at the thought.

       Shuddering in his need, the Captain pressed himself against her slender young body, grasping helplessly at her springy little breasts. Ah, how high they were, squeezable and pert and silken-smooth! For a long moment he reveled in her available youth, exciting himself powerfully with the feel of her petite, upstanding handfuls. He kissed, too, at her soft rounded shoulders, her exposed throat, her fuzzy, fragrant nape, her blood-warmed ears. When at last he dared to slip a fingertip into the top of the moist crease beneath her softly furred lower belly, he observed, to his almost unbearable delight, that she made no response—except to smirk back at him. Eyes wide, he prodded her there, and watched as the naughtily teasing thing’s breath caught in her throat. Staring into the fathomless depths of her mocking dark eyes, he fingered her pouting nether lips joyfully.

       The Marquis rose. “Come, sailors!” he exclaimed. “Heave to!” At his instigation, nearly thirty sets of hands grabbed eage