In the cargo hold

Part 3 of The Governor’s Wife tales – you can catch up with the other instalments at the links below

Part 1: The Governor’s Wife

Part 2: The Storm

Since the storm, the journey has settled back into hazy lassitude. Repairs were made to torn sails, rigging untangled, items which had been flung into corners by the violence of the waves, repositioned in their rightful places. She kept the rope, feigning unconvinced anxiety to the Captain’s blithe assurances of safety. The skies have cleared. There is no more danger. Still, she observes, better that she should have a means to secure herself to hand, rather than diverting the Captain from his important duties during such dangerous times. He shrugs and makes no further attempt to retrieve the rope. It has since provided her with many opportunities for self-discovery; a thick serpent tempting her closer to the tree of knowledge, an escape from the stifling Eden of her society’s expectations. She coils it about her bared flesh, writhes against it, brings the heavy end down hard onto her pale skin, admiring of the livid marks it leaves. The candle stands neglected beside her bed.

There have been no pirates.

She would not usually roam the ship after dark but this night she is restless and curious. The deck at night is too treacherous for such an inexperienced sailor as herself, but that still leaves the holds, the galley and the powder store as virgin territory. She will avoid the crew quarters for it would never do to provide gossip-fodder for the tavern-dwellers of her future home. Idle exploration of inanimate spaces could be laughed off as the whim of a bored noblewoman; not so an invitation as blatant as the penetration of the crew’s bedding-place.

She takes a candle, and holds it aloft as she steps gingerly on stockinged feet across floorboards and down ladders.

Down in the cargo hold she can hear the hull timbers creaking as the ship ploughs onwards. With the candle extinguished, the darkness is absolute. She moves carefully, not wanting her covert wanderings exposed by so ignominious a cause as a stubbed toe or headlong fall. Here is a crate. She sits and breathes in the scents of wood, tar, oilcloth, and the faintest traces of male sweat.

A sound startles her from contemplation – a rat, perhaps? She hopes not. The rats onboard are plump, vicious foragers; far better-adapted to life at sea than she. In a tussle, she fears she would not prevail and has no intention of falling victim to their filthy diseased teeth. She draws up her feet, hugs her knees.

It’s not a rat. It’s a man, descending the ladder with a light step. No, two men, the other following with the candle which he then sets at the base of the ladder.

Should she make herself known? There would be awkward questions, but she is a lady of rank and would not need to answer. Why should she not inspect her husband’s property? She debates silently with herself until the decision is taken from her hands.

The men are embracing. Stubbled jaws rasping together, strong calloused hands rubbing, their heavy breathing piercing the quiet. They kiss fervently, exploring each other’s mouths with a hunger she recognises as mirroring her own. Stealthily, she draws further into the shadows.

She may be innocent of body but less so of mind. She knows that there are men who take carnal pleasure in each other, has heard ringing denunciations of such perversions from the pulpit and the judicial bench. She is fascinated.

One of the men is tall, the other bulky. Both are swarthy with unshaven faces and salt-stiffened clothing. These are two who have never turned to watch her lean against the rails or elbowed their way to the doorway when she takes dinner. They have ignored her, and now she understands why.

The tall one sinks to his knees and begins to unbutton his companion’s trousers. She watches, transfixed, as he dips his head to take into his mouth the swelling cock before him. His movements are slow, deliberate and languid, hands caressing his lover’s thighs while his tongue flickers. The man’s endowments are more generous than those of her husband. She wonders how it would feel to fill her mouth with this man, press him to the back of her throat. She would never consider suggesting such a brazen act to her husband; he would be astounded and disgusted, interrogate her as to her morals, subject her to lengthy readings of bible verse for the redemption of her wanton soul.

She wants the heated intimacy she sees before her, to hear soft grunts of pleasure and feel coarse wiry hair at her tongue-tip. Silently, she reaches beneath her skirts.

Both men are standing. Kissing once more, one arm crossing the others’ as they each reach out to grasp and squeeze. They are hardened by arousal, shedding their remaining clothing, pressing their muscular work-hewn bodies together. She follows one hand as it strokes, cups, clenches, and disappears from view. Her own has crept of its own accord to her hot slick core, her fingers sliding and probing, her excitement manifest in slippery touch.

One – the bulky one – turns away. She bites her lip, disappointed but releases it as she sees that this is no parting. His companion is rubbing something along the length of his straining cock, something that gleams in the candlelight. And then he is stepping forward, reaching and fondling, pressing and pushing, delving within the dark shadow between the other’s buttocks to reveal and open the portal he seeks. As he sinks himself deep, both sigh with wordless pleasure. He moves slowly, tenderly, lingering then drawing himself back, then plunging once more. His head is thrown back, his nostrils flaring.

Her fingers press lightly at her own tight whorl, thumb already buried within her soft wetness. She has never before contemplated the act she sees before her, would never have imagined from a mere description, how sensual, how erotic it could be. She wants this for herself

They are moving faster now. Hips bucking, sweat rolling, harsh heavy breaths tear from them both. The bulky man is bracing himself against the ladderway, his other hand clasped tightly around the head of his cock so that every thrust from his lover drives him deeper into his fist. The tall one is shuddering, a long moan escaping him as he withdraws, slumps, drops to his knees, mouth open and head tilted upwards. In the candlelight, the larger man turns back to face him, his seed gleaming as it spills across lips and cheekbones, drips from an unshaven chin. They cling together in breathless silence.

She is holding her own breath, not trusting herself to remain undetected. Blood pounds in her ears and pulses against her fingers.

As they dress quickly and head back up the ladder exchanging whispers, she fills her lungs and parts her thighs. It is a risk, ministering to herself in this way outside her cabin but she cannot contain the desperate, urgent need that has arisen within her. She will have her relief, then retire to her quarters. Tomorrow night, she will return to this crate.

She might even bring the rope.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Part Four: Mutineers’ Bounty

16 thoughts on “In the cargo hold

  1. This is incredibly erotic, her watching them, them not knowing about her, and then her thought to return… with the ropes. I am breathlessly waiting for the next part!

    Rebel xox

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