On the great deck of a grand wooden ship from the golden age of sail, the sky behind the great mast and foredeck—where the bo’sun barked an order to a crewman who had Dutch, Spanish, English, and French colors looped over his arm as well as the black with its bleached bones—is straight with clouds reflecting the golds, pinks, and reds of a setting sun, the deck littered with a bilge bucket full of water, coils of rope, and a deckhand fast About his duties swabbing the deck and avoiding looking at his captain—who is also hard about his work—and those the captain is working upon.
To one side, three women knee in a line connected by thick rope stained with pitch and black to iron shackles that circle their wrists. By their dress, they are nobly bred women, their gowns flawlessly made, though the journey to their present place did cause some distress to the clothes in the form of tears and smudges, and sponsor in blue, yellow, and virginal white—though the attribution to its wearer is up for debate—all trimmed with brocade containing gold and silver thread, which alone speaks of their wealth—at least of their fathers—and falls of carefully crafted lace at wrist and ankle.
The women themselves were as different as their gowns. The first looked away from the site at the tall main mast, her raven locks tumbled down in front of her face, leaving only a mouth, rouged and round, parted in what was either revulsion or rapture, but indiscernible without sight of her eyes. Her body cringed away just as her head did, shrinking down upon itself to protect her from what she saw or felt. The shackled hands wrapped themselves around her as far as they black chain would let them reach to cover the torn body of her gown, creamy skin visible despite her best efforts.
The second looked towards the mast, her shining gold hair held back by combs of ivory and decorated with precious stones from far away countries, blue eyes starred in wide wonder—but not horror—at what she saw, her hands, though encircled in the black iron, pressed against her stomach to quell its unbidden stirring. The shoulder of her own gown lay ripped, a tattered point hanging down to expose the top swell of her left breast, buoyed up by the corset tightly cinched around her.
The third woman, whose tower of brunette curls somehow survived the ordeal that brought her to her present circumstances intact with Its golden chains and ornaments still perfectly placed within, the tower leaving her neck wonderfully bare saving for a tiny wrong chain of gold with stones placed in every third link dangling down from her lobes, stared with twinkling eyes towards the main mast, a tiny curl to one corner of her mouth showing amusement and approval over what occurred. Her bearing, though on her knees, was still proud with her back straight and made her seem older—or at least more possessed of herself—than the others, and quite unabashedly the top of her gown had been pulled down to revealher bosom, full and lush in the prime of womanhood, a wine stain giving the skin a look of having been rugged.
At the mast stood the captain, tall and towering to make the deck hand appear stunted. He wore a shirt as white as the driven snow, though no man would dare insinuate any kind of virginal quality to the captain—the laces at the neck lay undone, exposing a hint of downy hair along the lightly muscled chest— tucked into dark trousers that ended in tall black boots whose tops turned down just below the knee, the hilt of a long dagger sticking out of the sheath made into the boots. A wide almost impossiblely criminal sash tied about his waist and dragged down just behind the rapier frog hanging from his black sword belt. The rapier itself had its point buried loosely in the deckboards while his hand rested on the pommel above the intricate basket-hilt. A tied bandana of the same impossibly crime silk as that around his waist covered his head though a few dark brown curls poked beneath it; the captain’s brown eyes twinkled as his other hand—the elbow propped against the mast as he leaned forward—stroked a neighborly trimmed goatee, the corners of his mouth curved in a grin of either amusement or wickedness as he spoke. Around his neck the handle of a long leather lash rested—well-braided and supplement.
The ear into which the captain spoke hovered a short distance away, three pearls dangling from the lobe Though a lock of chestnut attempted to disguise valuable earning. Those chestnut locks, in long waves, would have spilled down her back, but for a thin cord tied in them holding them up, giving the impression she hung by her hair. The woman’s neck was also lusciously bare, as was most of her body, the only remnant of her gown the tattered sleeps that ended at her shoulders as her limbs were tied spreadeagle, the ropes extending far up into the rigging, turning the woman into a small sail at a height convenient for the captain.
Her exotic emerald eyesbrimmed with unshed tears, though the track previous tears lay quite evidence on her face, and emotion that spoke of confusion. Her delicate, rosebud mouth was pursued in what could only be described as bliss.
The renowed fair skin of Irish descent seemed to glow in its lush nudity, but also revealed small red lines which wrapped around from her back, which had their own glow. The red lines grow in frequent down Her body, becoming most concentrated around her hips and thighs—and because her limbs were stretched tight, both the inside and outside of those creamy thighs bore red lines, but where on the outside they were angry and firey, inside the lines glistened wetly, seeming to emanate from a delicate pink and red flower.
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