This is part 5 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below
Why is she not afraid? Is it the reassuring presence of Elijah Blackstone, the man who has vowed to come to her rescue should she ask for surcease? He leads her by bound wrists through dark wooden passageways to his cabin, the largest room on the ship. Her tread is sure, her back straight; at a glance her bowed head would appear a stance of resignation or of fear. But no, it hides a wicked exhilaration – flushed and wide-eyed, there is an exultant smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
How many will there be? Will they tear at her clothes, claw at her exposed skin? Pull her hair? These tendrils of wonder ease a ghostly hand between her legs, stroking with insubstantial yet powerful touch. She pictures herself naked, on her knees, bound at the wrists and ankles before the crew, and unconsciously quickens her stride.
Blackstone draws her into his cabin. There are five of them lolling idly on his desk, his couch, his bunk. Each is lean of limb and hard of muscle; there are no opportunities for indolence aboard a merchant vessel such as this. For them, at least. She has – until now – had no duties of her own. The prospect of servitude is a pleasing one.
“My brothers” he begins in ringing tones “we are indeed fortunate. For now that we are masters of our own destiny, we are men of property! This fine shop and her rich cargo are ours to harness for the betterment of our lives. And what finer way to celebrate than with the company of a beautiful woman?”
Snickers among the crew. Hopeful expressions tinged with lust turn upon her.
“This most splendid specimen of womanhood is the prize we have won by our strength and our comradeship!”
He tugs the rope to pull her forward.
“And this prize falls to you, the senior and most deserving of the crew. You may do with her as you wish, provided you refrain from causing her grave injury, for she is our valuable property.”
He winks at her as he turns to untie her wrists. She winks back – a vulgar expression which she would never previously have dreamed of adopting, but which in the face of her imminent ravaging by a troupe of low-born sailors, is hardly the least of her transgressions this day.
“My Lady. If you please. Remove your clothing”.
She hesitates over unlacing her corset. It would not do to seem to eager. Slowly, she shrugs out of her dress, sheds her petticoats, emerges shyly from the layers of silk and brocade that have been her prison. Unclothed she stands before them, her eyes fixed on the wooden boards beneath her while her nipples spring proudly forth as though entreating the hands and mouths of the men to fix upon them.
There is a hushed indrawing of breath from the crewmen as they behold in daylight her pale smooth skin, her heavy breasts. Their eyes move lower, contemplating the tangle of honey-blonde hair at the juncture of her thighs. Beneath its shadow she is plump and slick, filled with an aching, yearning need.
“Kneel” orders Blackstone.
The boards are warm against her knees. He comes to stand behind her, one hand releasing her hair from its pins, the other resting lightly on her shoulder. She has no need of reassurance but is grateful for it nonetheless.
“At your leisure” says the Captain, and moves aside to allow his crew to fall upon her.
They are hesitant at first, unable to believe their good fortune until the warmth of her flesh fills their hands, solid and undeniable. They touch, stroke, grasp her face and squeeze her breasts. The first to unbutton his trousers is a man she has glanced at many times above decks. Blond like herself, of a similar age, powerfully built – often she has wondered how it would feel to open herself to him.
He guides his swollen cock between her lips and groans as she moves her tongue against him. Her eyes are closed in ecstasy, here on her kneels with her mouth filled, her breasts cupped and pinched, her hair firmly grasped; she is consumed by desire.
His pulls away, is replaced by another man – one she does not recognise. Around her, the others are freeing themselves of their clothing, rubbing their proudly erect members against her face and hair. They do not speak, grunts and sighs of lust the only sounds in the room.
Blackstone watches with feigned aloofness as the woman is hauled to her feet, bent forward across his desk, legs spread. Hanson and Abel are pinning her arms at the wrist. Martins holds tightly to handfuls of her hair while Jones climbs up on the desk to lie sideways by her head, positioned to allow him to thrust lazily into her mouth as behind her, Wainwright plunges into her glistening cunt.
“She’s wet an’ slippery as the decks in a storm” he chortles and they all hear her moan with helpless arousal while he pounds himself into her.
“I think she likes it” observes Hanson, his eyes glazed with anticipation. He has watched her many times from his post, had never dreamed that her lush curves would be his for the taking. And with no murmur of protest, no struggle! This is the best day he has lived in twenty-one years.
They bring her to the floor, push her down on all fours. Seeing her ridden hard from front and rear, watching the heavy-lidded expression of pleasure on her face, Blackstone can barely contain his own urgent need. He waits, maintaining his posture of disinterested amusement as she is taken roughly by his shipfellows in their frenzy of lust.
It is not long however before they are spent, overcome by the titillation of feeling a flesh-and-blood woman after so many long weeks at sea. Their seed adorns her hair, her face, her breasts, seeps from her pink slit in lazy trails. She sits gasping and red-cheeked, thighs wide apart in the shadow of his desk.
“You all right missus?” ask Jones fearful that in their eagerness they have neglected to consider her comfort or will.
She nods. “Thank you” she whispers, so softly that Blackstone alone registers her words.
“And now, my Lady” he says, coming to his feet “I shall entertain you alone. Back to your posts, my brothers” he orders his crew “there will be time enough later for further appraisal of our bounty”. Laughing, they dress and depart in the easy swagger of men who have obtained the sweetest satisfaction that earthly pleasures can offer.
As the door closes behind them, Blackstone picks up the discarded rope.
“My turn” he tells her and observes with warmth the hunger that detonates anew in her eyes.
