Voyages Of The St Veronica Ch 01

Good morrow, fine reader! I am to be your humble narrator and am also the unRedeemed Spirit of the Captain of the pirate slaver, "Saint Veronica", forced to wander the world still and share my tales.

For your mind's-eye view, I was six feet tall, broad of shoulder and powerful. My black hair matched my dark Portuguese complexion; faulted only by the blue eyes my mother had gifted me with.

"Saint Veronica" was a fine craft, fast as any of the merchantmen ships used by those who fled us.... or the ships of the line which hunted us. Bearing four posts and a flying jib, our sail aloft was more than any, and she flew before the wind, being constructed stoutly of the best aged woods. Carrying an experienced crew of nearly 300, we outmanned nearly everything we hunted; having two gun decks with a total of 80 guns manned by seasoned crews, we outgunned the rest.

My ship had advantages over other Pirate craft; things which assisted us at our trade. We had doctors, trained in London and Amsterdam, able to treat our battle wounds and those of our booty. We had entertainment for the crew: though not all slaves were available, many were... and any slave used by the skipper was shared by all --- no selfishness here.

In example, I remember a fine French woman, daughter of some Duke. Flame red hair, skin fair as cream, and as fine a figure as ever graced a girl. She was tall for a woman, nearly five and a half feet, but light and delicate. A firm mouth rouge colored to match her hair offset her emerald-green eyes. We took her off a small barque rushing from one "safe" island to another, and looked to offer her for sale at Jamaicatown. The bastards there would buy anything not English, and pay good coin whether the girl was experienced or fresh. (Could not say about the last; we never sold any in that condition!)

After being brought on deck, she cowered before the men who held her, and rightly so. They teased her while waiting for me, but held her clear when I approached.

"Good afternoon, fair maiden," I said in French (likely the last she'd hear that tongue for a while). "Why did you choose to undertake such a dangerous voyage, when rogues such as we are about?" The men shared a hearty laugh.

"Are you the Captain? I demand to be returned to my home at once. My father is rich and important; he will pay good ransom for my unharmed return!"

Again I laughed. "You have precious little rights on my ship to be 'demanding' anything. Your father's wealth and willingness will be tested, to be sure; our prize crew is already taking a message to him notifying him of your fate. While here, however, you belong to me and my men, and shall act in the humble ways of a slave or lose some skin. The choice is yours, as will be the consequences of your actions."

"You scum dare not threaten me, as your scurvy crew will rot in prison or the mines as soon as my father learns of my situation."

I turned to the men and smiled. This was the usual response from rich bitches. Motioning to the doctors and my First Mate, Jorge, I stood back from the girl and approached the wide rail on the port side of the ship. My men were high in the rigging and standing on the yardarms, watching the fun below.

The three men soon had the Frenchwoman stripped and in shackles, much to her distress. Unbroken as yet, she threatened one and all with the rope's end or the hangman's noose. Hearing slight response beyond laughter, she fought harder. She was brought to the rail in my near presence.

"Bitch, what was your name?"

"I am the Lady Marie du Rochforquet. How do you dare say, 'what WAS my name'?"

"Simply put, on this ship you will be Bitch, and you will be so until your father redeems your ransom, we sell you to slavery, or we drop you over as chum to attract the fishes! Will you submit with honor, or do you wish me to begin the process of breaking your will?"

"I shall never submit. You and your sewer rats will pay for this."

"It seems, Bitch, that you must begin an education in the world's ways. Put her tits on the rail, men!"

The three jumped to it, and two held her firm while the third put narrow shackles attached to the rail around her tits and fastened them. She was largely endowed so no extra straps were needed, though the hook from the mast chain pulled her arms up and behind her, while hooks from the rail spread her legs and trapped them. I bent to peer at her creamy bosom, enjoying the light freckles and brown treats it was decorated with.

"As you cannot keep a civil tongue in your head, we must begin to show you how to behave. Be thankful I have not yet cut out your tongue, nor even applied a brank to your unbowed head.

"So to begin, I shall use the Spanish Quirt your deportment demands, 20 strokes to your breasts. First Officer Jorge will treat your buttocks to the same, and your thighs to the same then your back to 50 with the whip if you do not learn from the first. Be sure your breasts and bottom will suffer their fate notwithstanding any change of heart you might have; you can still save your back and thighs, however. Vouchsafe this in mind for after the forty are complete!"

I studied my twin targets further, prodding them to ascertain where to strike, and how hard. Some places on the bosom are better to hit than others, as more reaction will be observed and more pain felt. Jorge, too, was checking his targets. Our eyes met and we nodded, planning to alternate strokes as we usually did. This increased the pain, distracted the victim, and allowed an entertaining vista for all our crewmen.

Raising the quirts, the punishment began. My first stroke was to the top of the breasts near the middle, while Jorge's choice was at the bottom of the cheeks, just above the walking folds there. We worked as to a system, saving the last five to be those remembered longest.

At 15 strokes, the girl fainted; Doctor Smith and Doctor van Zmoot checked her health and determined her fit to continue, as a bucket of brine splashed in her face. The coldness of the water awakened her, and the sting of the salt in her wounds helped remind her where she was.... and that this was no nightmare. Jorge and I resumed, laying on the last five strokes for all we were worth. Hard blows between her cheeks were matched by the first strikes to her nipples and their lovely halos. The twenty completed, she was given a drink of water to ease her scream-ravaged throat while Jorge and I enjoyed some ale.

Inspecting Jorge's work, I noted with pleasure the drippings from her quim. Not salt water but rather the fluids of excitement her body produced now stained her thighs and the deck below. The lady had become aroused! Here was a subject for some humiliation!

"Now, fine Bitch. How say you? Do you wish continuations of the whippings?" I continued in a voice to be heard by all, "Or would you prefer to become a plaything of the crew and properly subservient? I note clearly that the whipping has stimulated your cunt to becoming wet! Perhaps the pain is what you wish?" Those crew close at hand peered carefully to note the wetness I had claimed; rough laughter and coarse comments spread through the men. They quieted to hear her response.

"Captain, Sir, I beg you to discontinue the whippings and I ask for mercy. As a mere woman, I have no great reserve of strength to carry on with this, nor any desire for serious damage to my body or pain to my soul. I shall do my best to serve your needs, and those of your crew. I beg again for your mercy, great Sir."

Turning to the crew, I asked them, "And how say you all, my fine gang of bla'ggards? Will you have her screams, or her sighs?"

As one, they shouted for sighs as being their choice. I told the doctors to take her to my cabin, and treat her wounds as needed. First Officer Jorge was to stand guard on her and keep her under bond until I returned.

The Navigator and I took a shot of the setting sun and the first few stars, and set course for our meeting point with the rest of the crew and the barque, hopefully to return with the ransom.

NEXT: Her next surrender