The Princess and The Pirate

The Silver Ogre’s Revenge ripped across the ocean’s calm surface. They were making good time en route to Paradiso. If the wind stayed with them, they’d be delivered by Poseidon himself within the week.

On deck, it was both somber and dark. A recovered pin coated in a thin slime was being examined. The captain was poisoned by God-knows-what. The first mate had his face blown apart. Atop all of that, the ship herself moaned loudly, a giant hole compromising the integrity of the hull. The entire vessel sounded as if she may just give up and take them all to Hell with her.

They needed to make haste to beat the devil, to put it kindly.

In the Captain’s quarters, Princess Jacqueline was silently attending to Donavan’s face. She had finished up trying to make the Captain comfortable in his own bed. Her collar laid in a mound on the floor, with the key still buried in the lock. In appreciation, she had placed a wet cloth on his face and said a soft prayer for his survival.

Surely if he died, she’d be next.

Now though, only equipped with tweezers and whisky, she was looming over the shrapnel-filled face of Donavan.

“O-ow,” he said, a bit slurred. Drinking long gulps of whisky between the removal of metal bits made it vaguely bearable.

“Stop adjusting your face. It’s difficult enough,” Jacqueline scorned, trying to maneuver a jagged sliver from his cheek. Some were removed more easily than others, but there was one large piece directly embedded in his left eye which she dare not touch. A runny, bloody, pink gooey mixture was constantly being wiped from his cheek, but he was handling the wound exceedingly well. Alcohol truly was magical.

Donavan took another drink and the Princess let out a frustrated huff. All the shrapnel in his face moved again.

“Honestly, I can’t get the angles needed if you keep this up!” Her nightgown was covered in blood, dirt, and filth. Furthermore, her hands were cut and sore from all the delicate plucking of the sharp metal. Though for all her efforts, she hadn’t maimed him any further.

He said nothing but dropped his arm, quickly scooped her butt against his forearm, and lifted her on top of his stomach. Jacqueline’s knees were planted on either side of him.

Donavan moved quite fast for a drunken man, or so it seemed. Straddling the pirate, the Princess was frozen. She really, really wished for pants and clamped the tweezers in her hand, staring at him, mortified.

“This,” he paused, sliding his hand against her thigh, clinging to her, perversely holding her flesh in his grasp, as if he needed an anchor, “Will give you the angle you need.”

Donavan took another swig of whisky while looking at her with his one good eye.

The Princess had never touched, let alone straddled, a strange, seafaring man before. She looked at him, still at a loss.

“Well? Shit ain’t gonna pluck itself,” he said, dropping his head back down with a thud.

Shifting her eyes left and right, Jacqueline leaned over his torso. Resting her breast on his chest, she began sheepishly pulling out the shrapnel. It was all so indecent.

Donavan patted her thigh in some type of agreement.

“The sight even makes it hurt less!” The stench of alcohol made Jacqueline hold her breath.

There was a groan from the other side of the cabin. The captain turned his covered head away from them, trying to find any comfort, anywhere.

Jacqueline removed a large chunk of musket barrel from Donavan’s face and the pain caused him to grab at her thigh, hard. She flinched at the manhandling and tried to escape.

She was going nowhere fast. Escaping certainly wasn’t her strong suite.

“Mr. Donavan,” Jacqueline hoarsely whispered at the wounded man’s grin, “That is quite enough.”

“Oh, come now.” Donavan let go of the whisky and grabbed her other thigh with his now free hand, keeping her pinned on top of him, “It’s just a little fun.”

His hand crept backward on her leg, his fingers following the edge of her thigh towards her backside.

“Listen,” Jacqueline said, pushing up against his chest, “You’re drunk and bleeding. All the excitement has gone to your head, now stop and let me finish your face.” Had she really gone from despising her pirate captors to vaguely reasoning with them?

Donavan had both his large hands firmly grasping the Princess’s ass. His touch was greedy, possessive, and merciless. His fingers weren’t simply pinching her fragile flesh, they were digging in!

“No. I have a better idea on how you can make the pain go away. This is your fault after all. You should take care of me.”

“Am I not?” Jacqueline questioned, but before she could argue any further, he dragged her backside downwards, to position her whole center just atop his aroused waist.

If ever there was a time, if no other time ever in her entire life up until this point, for her to unleash some unbridled violence, it was now. Donavan’s blunt vulgarity made Jacqueline’s back rigid, finding her new seat hard and uncomfortable.

She let out a curt, frightened shout. As she went to pull away, he grabbed her wrists with one large hand, holding both of them and tethering her body to his.

“Release me!” Jacqueline cried as Donavan yanked her arms forward, stringing her struggling body back atop of his. His other hand pressed against her lower back, merely grunting at her struggle.

Jacqueline ripped one of her hands away and jabbed the tweezers into the soft, spongy flesh of his neck. Their sharp tips fit conveniently in the space under his jawbone.

“Careful, little girl,” Donavan warned although his voice suggested he found her threat amusing, “I want to be kind to you, but I do have it in me to be cruel.”

She very much believed that. But, as she felt his hand slip against the elastic of her panties, it was time to act.

It all happened exceedingly quickly. Instead of goring him with the tiny tweezers, Jacqueline discarded them. With as much momentum as she could muster, the Princess gave the wounded pirate a hard, open handed slap right to his maimed face.

That did the trick nicely. Donavan flung her off, catapulting Jacqueline right into the air. Searing agony sobered him right into a blind rage. “You little insignificant bratty whelp!” he shouted, rolling himself from the cot.

Jacqueline landed on the ship’s floor hard, smacking the back of her head against the unforgiving planks. While lying there, dazed, she groaned, trying to shoo the spots from her eyes.

From the corner of her sensory periphery, Jacqueline could sense rustling, shouting, and general discord.

“Donavan …what are you doing?!” said the Captain, who had since thrown himself from his comfy bed at all the sudden chaos. The nausea was still very apparent in his voice.

“I’m going to teach this royal some proper respect,” his first mate replied while undoing the front clasp of his belt. A few lashings would teach her.

Captain Kyle Chatillon, woozy from whatever toxin was coursing through his system, paled by sickness, gave Donavan a gauntly, haunting stare. He himself looked like death. “That will improve nothing.”

They don’t call alcohol “liquid courage” for nothing. With his belt off, Donavan quickly looped it in his hand and cocked his large arm back. All the brats of the world were trying to control him. Children, all of them simple, fucking children!

At the sight of being struck like a slave, the Princess’s heart gave out and she simply fainted on the spot, completely useless.

Kyle rushed towards her, stepping on Jacqueline’s stomach with his bare foot, to catch the belt strike on his forearm. She was his charge until this kidnapping situation resolved itself, so he owned her and was responsible for his property. A beating would only antagonize the situation.

The leather belt snapped loudly in the cabin as it wrapped around his arm and coiled back. It didn’t particularly hurt but the poison made the Captain uneasy on his sea legs.

“Get out. You’ve obviously healed enough to work,” he snapped darkly, forcing his entire composure into his veins and muscles to stand firm.

Donavan threw the belt to his left, beyond angry. The item knocked into a glass lamp, smashing the clear bulb case. The glass and leather extinguished the flame within, casting the room into a quiet, eerie darkness.

The first mate left without saying a single word.

Kyle glared at him, only following the man with his eyes.

Once he and the Princess were alone, the wave of weakness and illness came back. It washed over him, rising and falling with his heartbeat. It put the state of vomit back in his dry throat. Sidestepping off the Princess, he couldn’t make it back to the bed. The captain simply collapsed to the floor, beside her, content on lying here, focusing on breathing.

His gaunt, pale face lay in the Princess’s golden red hair. It was soft and pleasant smelling, like a mixture of potpourri and sea salt. The sweet, rich scent curtailed the rampant sickness in his blood, offering him the comfort he had longed for throughout the night.