The Black Hart

"How?"

John reluctantly pulled his fingers away from her warm embrace with a faintly heard, perhaps even imagined, wet sucking sound.

"Face me," he ordered.

She complied, her face focused.

"Spread your legs."

There was, again, the moment of hesitation before she obeyed, displaying her wet sex to him. Her gaze slipped away from his before she, again, dragged it back.

"Touch yourself," he stated.

Her bound hands slowly descended her body and she tentatively stroked herself.

"You've done *this* before," he said scornfully.

She blushed, embarrassed and angry at his invasion of her privacy, her self-intimacy. But focus saved her and she closed her eyes and found the familiar pathways of her pleasure.

"Open your eyes," he ordered.

She froze.

"Do it. They must believe they are a part of your desire. You must draw them in. Control them."

She exhaled and opened her eyes. His desire almost made her flinch. His eyes were fever bright with his lust and his hands trembled. His member, his cock seemed to be turning purple and twitched uncontrollably. A thin trail of clear fluid dangled from the tip. She had the sense that he was fighting for control of his body. And losing.

She stroked again, uncertainly, and saw approval in his eyes, his tongue faintly licking his lips. One hand raised to his face, fingers working. Those were the fingers he had inside me, she realized. He's smelling me upon them.

She had a sudden sense of confidence, of control. He'd exposed his lust to her as she had exposed her sex to him. His control was not absolute. She could manipulate him. As she'd set out to do. She nearly shouted in triumph but, instead, leaned back and pushed her hips forward, shamelessly presenting her... cunt. Fingers stroked boldly now, her eyes fixed on him. He was lost in her.

"Call me," he whispered. "Lure me. Draw me to my doom with a siren call," he begged.

"F-fuck me," she choked out. "Come fuck me. My h-hot cunt wants you. I need you."

John advanced upon her, his cock rampant and at the fore. His hand found her hip and his other her leg.

"Grab it," he husked.

It took her a moment to puzzle out his words and he repeated them before she could comply.

"Control," he clarified. "Put it in. Your cunt, not your asshole."

She drew him close, surprised at how hot his flesh was, placing the tip of him against her, in her. Looking up she found his eyes not on their joined genitals but on her face. She met his eyes and felt him slowly push into her. He stretched her in a way that was... pleasant. Different and entirely better than his fingers.

"Wrap your legs around me," he said.

"What?"

"Control. My inclination, the male inclination, is to thrust in and out." He moved his hips to match actions to words. "After enough that will hurt. You want to pull them in and hold them. Press your clitoris to them."

She lifted one leg, then the other, trapping him against her. Then she pressed against him, the difference was obvious.

"Writhe," he ordered.

"What?" The word was too refined for the circumstances, she couldn't process it.

"Move your hips," he clarified.

She responded, doubtfully at first, but with more confidence as her body rewarded her for the action. She felt the now familiar rise of pleasure within her and pursued it. He kept one hand on her ass, his grip so tight that she was sure he would bruise her and idly curious if the bruise would be shaped like his hand. His other pushed her hands up over her head so that his lips might bend to her breasts. His mouth and tongue were rough against her and she gasped in surprise as new sensations overlay the existing sensations. Then he was at her throat and she was tilting her head back to afford him better access, her belly grinding against his. And then he kissed her.

She shook her head, shocked by this intimacy in a way that she had not been by the others. But his hand was in her hair and his lips were against hers and her mouth was open and his tongue was teasing hers and she felt herself falling away on a wave of pleasure. And then she felt hot liquid inside her and she melted.

"Try not lose consciousness on the morrow," he said as her eyes blinked open.

"I... How long?" she asked, alarmed.

"A few moments," he said, tucking his wet cock back into his clothing and buttoning the flap. "There will be more pain and less pleasure tomorrow so I doubt this will be a problem for you."

She lay back on the bunk for a moment to just breathe. She was utterly spent. The thought made her chuckle.

"Am I missing the humor here?" he asked.

"I just had the thought that I was utterly spent," she explained. "The word seemed particularly appropriate at the moment."

John grinned. "Yes, I suppose so."

"Have you any other lessons for me?"

The grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "There are dozens of lessons I should like to teach you, but none that have applications in your ordeal tomorrow."

She sighed and sat up. "The food then?"

John picked up the plate and handed it to her. "The biscuit is soggy but that hardly hurts it."

Cassandra took the plate, setting in on her lap, and extracted the biscuit from the cup. The hard-baked flour had barely had time to absorb much of the water and she still had to gnaw at it. She washed the bite down with some more water and wondered if, perhaps, she was not as hungry as she had thought.

"You said you couldn't take over the ship," she commented, carefully examining the plate. "Because deGruyt would kill you?"

John grunted. "Perhaps. He's a better sailor than I, but not so good with a blade. No, I think it likely I would win. But the crew would kill me as it's against the articles. There are specific times and reasons a crewman can challenge for leadership. After the raid is over or if the Captain has failed to act in the best interests of the crew."

Cassandra essayed another bite of the biscuit and gave it up as a lost cause. "If, perhaps, he failed to tell the crew about a treasure?"

John gave her a hard stare. She was clearly up to something and he suspected he knew her aim. "That would work, aye. You're thinking of Mazares and his payroll?"

"Yes."

"No. There's no way to linger off Goatsisle waiting for a ship. The invasion fleet is likely cargo vessels and such without much armament, but Mazares will be in a warship. We could never outfight him without surprise," he explained.

"What if capturing the treasure was not your true goal?" she asked.

"Ah. Lie to the crew and tell them we sail for treasure? Only our goal is simply to ensure it does not reach the fleet? We still couldn't do it. Not in a fight at sea against a Royal warship."

"And a fight at anchor?"

John had been in enough knife fights to know when someone had slipped past his defenses. "Sail into the harbor at Goatsisle and attack a Royal warship at anchor amidst an invasion fleet?" He gave the matter a moment of thought. Then a minute. Then five. Cassandra remained still, resentful even of her breathing and praying that it did not interrupt him.

"That could work. But it's suicide."

"But it could work," she breathed.

"But it's suicide," he repeated.

"Perhaps," she emphasized.

"Certainly," he snapped.

"I would rather die fighting than being raped to death," she replied. "Come to that I would rather throw myself overboard than be gang-raped."

"I was that horrible?" John blurted.

"Yes! No. I...." She paused and tried to focus. This was the moment. "I was surprised by the... pleasure. I know there would be little of that tomorrow. I was more surprised by the intimacy. I had thought I might divorce myself from that. I could not. And I fear that. I might physically survive the morrow but I fear my mind would not. I have determined that I would rather throw myself overboard than suffer such a fate."

John was taken aback. "I see."

"If you want to save my life, Gentleman, we need to take the ship. You need to take the ship."

John pondered this for a good five more minutes. "No."

"No?"

"No. I'm not doing this for Turos or the Howell family's devotion to the Kingdom. I'm saving your life because I owe Mordecai. If you're determined to kill yourself then there's nothing I can do," he stated.

Cassandra swallowed. "And if I added to the bargain?" she asked.

John shook his head. "Not doing this for money," he said.

"Not money, Gentleman. Me," Cassandra said softly.

John cocked his head.

"I'll be yours, Gentleman. Your obedient slave until we reach Southport. Don't tell me you don't want me." She rolled over onto her belly and pulled her legs up under her,she turned her face to look at John.

"My body for your exclusive use, Gentleman. And me your obedient student. Teach me how to please you, and only you," she purred.

He licked his lips and Cassandra saw the tremble in his hands and knew she'd won. She smiled at him. "Be a hero, Gentleman. The hero you've always wanted to be."

"Listening to my dick is what got me here," he sighed.

"You can't hear it if it's in my mouth, Gentleman. Or in my cunt."

John sighed.

*****************************

"It's come to this then, Gentleman?" deGruyt asked.

John made no response. He'd made his decision, he'd thrown Cassandra to the deck by the bulwark where she might grab a heavy piece of tackle and throw herself overboard if he lost, and he'd made his challenge and stated his reasons.

"Lies!" deGruyt proclaimed. "He wants the woman to himself and nothing more! There is no treasure! If there were then I would lead you to it and we would take it as we have taken every prize in these past five years!"

John had to admire the appeal to greed, the silent call for the crew to dismiss John's challenge out of hand. That would go poorly for John.

"The greatest treasure we have ever known of is slipping through our fingers because deGruyt lacks the courage to pursue it! You all know me! I have never wanted the Captaincy! I do not want it now! But I will take it and I will make us all rich beyond our wildest dreams!"

"Lies!" deGruyt repeated.

"The knife!" someone called. There was a moment of rumbling as the crew looked around and took the gauge of their comrades and then the call rose from hundreds of throats, "The knife! The knife!"

"I'm going to kill you, Gentleman," deGruyt promised. "And then I'm going to skin the bitch alive and send her flesh to her family and drag her body for the sharks."

John ignored the Captain and stripped off his clothing. deGruyt, glaring at him, followed suit. The two men walked to the center of the deck and faced each other. The bosun approached with two daggers, long fighting knives.

"To the death," he stated and tossed the daggers to opposite sides of the ship. John hurtled after his, sliding on the hard deck and skinning the length of his left leg. He came upright with the knife low and ready to gut. But deGruyt was not there. He'd recovered his dagger and kept running, throwing himself into the rigging and starting to clamber aloft.

"Come and get me, Gentleman!" he boomed.

John swore the most vile oaths he knew and turned and headed for the nearest rigging. deGruyt was a clever bastard.

Cassandra watched apprehensively, her fate in the hands of a pair of rapists. She'd been warned not to interfere, that such would result in his immediate death and her eventual death. That made sense. She saw no purpose to stripping the men down and, since the Gentleman hadn't mentioned that detail, she hadn't had the opportunity to ask. She kept very still, as instructed, trying not to attract the attention of any of the crew. There was a box of iron shot nearby and she planned to take one of those to the water with her if the plan failed.

Above the deck the two men were inching along a yardarm toward each other. The Captain was clearly more adept and Cassandra was beginning to wonder if she'd chosen to seduce the wrong man. Around her the crew was cheering. She risked a glance at them and determined that they seemed to have no favorite in the fight. A few of them appeared to be cheering for one man or another, but most seemed content to simply see someone killed. She glanced at the iron shot again, confident in her decision.

The fight 'raged' for several minutes. deGruyt was the superior sailor but appeared reluctant to close with John, preferring to lead him a chase about the rigging in the expectation that John would kill himself in a fall. He seemed to sense a certain loss of enthusiasm in his supporters.

"Come on then, Gentleman. Aren't you sailor enough to catch me?" he taunted.

"Oh you're a better sailor, deGruyt, but I'm a better killer," John responded.

Laughter followed the exchange and deGruyt's face reddened. He altered his course, swinging across to another mast. It took Cassandra a moment to understand that he was descending to the deck. It took her another moment to understand why. She looked around for an escape route but found none.

John understood deGruyt's intention shortly after Cassandra did and cursed. He looked around for a quick descent and found.... Oh shit.

deGruyt dropped the last ten feet to the deck and charged at Cassandra, knife in front of him. From above there came a ripping sound and then John dropped to the deck in front of deGruyt. The two collided in a tangle of limbs and blades and rolled to the deck. The crew swarmed forward and Cassandra lost sight of the men.

There was a cheer and Cassandra was edging back towards the side of the ship, trying to see what was happening. A man next to her grabbed her arm and she tried to shake him off. Another came from behind her and grabbed her hair. Then another took her other arm.

"No!" she screamed, but they ignored her, forcing her through the crowd and throwing her into the circle. She looked into deGruyt's eyes and scuttled back a good three feet before she registered the Gentleman rising carefully to his feet.

"Take her to my cabin," he ordered. "And toss this," he gave deGruyt's corpse a kick, "over the side. Officers will meet in my cabin in twenty minutes. Sailing Master, make course for Goatsisle. Quartermaster, get that sail repaired," he ordered, gesturing at the slit in the mainsail where his dagger had slowed his descent.

Rough hands grabbed Cassandra and hurried her not to the glorified broom closet she'd expected, but the Captain's cabin.

*****************************

The cabin was several times the size of the Gentleman's and far more lush. Where his had lacked any sign of his character this room reeked of the personality of the previous owner. And a foul personality it had been. The room had apparently been grand when it was built and the furnishings had been opulent. Now they were faded and worn and the room personified neglect. The desk was a mess, the large bed was unmade, the carpet was dusty, the curtains were threadbare and the room smelt of dust, tobacco, and mold. More ominous were the iron rings set about the room. On the floor. The walls, The beams of the ceiling. The bed.

The Gentleman walked into the room shortly after. He was bleeding freely from his leg and, she noted, from his right side. He scanned the room briefly as he made his way to the bed, throwing the bundle of his clothing on it and crossing the room to a cabinet. The cabinet turned out to be a cabinet of curiosities. Much of the contents she could see were metal or leather or silk. He ignored those, searching for something. At length his hand emerged holding a small basket.

He walked over to the desk and placed the basket upon it. He crossed the room to the chamberpot, inspected it, and then brought it over to the desk and sat roughly in the chair. She frowned, puzzled by his actions, but when she opened her mouth he held up a shaking finger. She watched, first in curiosity and then concern, as his body shook ever more violently. He avoided her eyes, looking anywhere she was not. Cassandra recognized the reaction. She'd been taught about it. Had even experienced it. But not to this degree. He vomited into the chamberpot and she found herself rising to her feet and walking over to the door to the cabin.

"Safe," she said. "No one's here. I've got my eye on the door."

He heaved and shook for several more minutes before he began to subside. She made no attempt to touch him and only reassured him that no one was present and that she was guarding the door.

"Has he... is there any water for bathing?" he asked.

Cassandra walked over to a table and found a basin and jug in secure mounts.

"A full jug," she replied.

He tried to stand up and failed, falling back into his chair.

"Stay there," she ordered. "I'll bring it to you."

She filled the basin half-full and found the cleanest rag on the table and carefully brought them over to where he sat. She put them on the floor and then knelt next to him.

"Your side first," she said. "How bad is it?"

"Not so very. He didn't get it into me," he replied.

Cassandra pried his hand away from the wound and drew in a breath. deGruyt hadn't managed a good stab, but he'd managed a bad gash. It was at least half an inch deep and just below his lowest rib.

"This will need stitching," she predicted.

"I thought that the case. Well enough. The blue bottle in the basket. Pure alcohol. Let's clean it out."

Cassandra held up her bound wrists and he sighed.

"I don't imagine you've any real need to kill me just yet but if the mood takes you I pray you take me quickly," he said as he undid the cord.

Cassandra massaged her wrists for a moment before unstoppering the bottle. She paused. "Better if you're on your side," she told him.

He nodded, stood, and went over to lay down on the bed. She stood next to him and carefully poured the alcohol over the wound to clean out any debris.

"Fuck! Fuck!! FUCK!!" he screamed.

"Don't act like a child," she chided him.

He glared at her but made no response.

"And now?" she asked.

"The green bottle. The salve. Use a clean rag, from the basket and don't get any on your hands. It's got opium in it," he replied.

Cassandra unstoppered the green bottle and the smell hit her like a wave. Whatever else was in the mixture, it contained garlic. The Gentleman bucked when she applied the first dab of it.

"Stop that!" she ordered. She climbed up onto the bed and straddled him, pinning his legs down with her own weight. Then she applied the oily substance liberally to his wound. He didn't buck, but his body tensed and twitched beneath her and she found the sensation applied to her sex, pleasant.

"And now?" she asked when the wound was nearly filled.

"There's a needle and gut in the alcohol in the red jar," he replied. "Can you sew it?"

"Can you?" she countered.

"Not well," he admitted.

"Then I'll make do," she told him.

"Bide awhile," he said. "Give the opium a fair chance."

She climbed off him and investigated the red jar. There were, in fact, several needles already threaded with gut and all of it soaking in what smelled like rum. She selected one of the curved needles and walked back over and straddled...

"What do I call you?" she asked.

"Are you my obedient slave?" he replied.

Cassandra glared at him. "I am."

"Then you call me master."

"Yes, master."

"I like the sound of that."

Cassandra reached down and pinched one end of his wound together. John winced, and then uttered a little gasp as she used the needle to pierce his skin.

"You don't owe Mordecai anything," she said.

"What?" John gasped. "What are you talking about?" he ground out as she continued to sew.

Cassandra kept her attention focused on the wound and making careful, neat stitches in his flesh.

"Genevieve d'Allencourt. The woman you raped. Her father was at court, probably still is, and advises Turos. He's a bigot. When his daughter came to join him at court for the season he was trying to marry her off and she was determined to have great adventures. We needed leverage with her father. She was a rake hell but we needed more. So when she began inquiring about the range of sexual entertainments available our agents put you forward. Which is why she came to you. I don't know why she changed her mind. I would suggest you remove your clothing earlier in the proceedings next time. You're really quite the attractive man. In any case, you weren't supposed to be caught, you weren't supposed to be tried, you weren't supposed to be branded, and you weren't supposed to be hung."