Leslie felt the wind kiss sensuously on her cheeks, and blew blushes into them. It was a very cold night, but she had no coat on her shivering, petite frame; only ropes tightly wound around her hands and ankles, and the gag between her luscious lips. But she was not alone. In this lovely night of cold, the moon shone brightly over a huge ship with dozens of captives lining up its clean deck.
Her mistress, Miss Prufrock, was very agitated beside her; before, her high hair had looked tight and neat in its bun, but now, it was in a messy array of hair sticking out like a wounded ball of wool. She had a dirty gag between her very thin, very cruel lips, and was fidgeting in anger and incredulity at her imprisoned state.
Like the other prisoners, they were sitting down or squatting or otherwise; and Miss Prufrock in her elaborate, brocade dress of fiery red, looked most out of place here, and in what she considered a very embarrassing unladylike position; the pretty lady of twenty-three years had been tied with a tight rope snaked on her hands and connected to her ankles. And as a lady of high rank in society, she was very indignant over this coarse treatment.
Next to her, Leslie, who, though cold and trembling, sat demurely and quietly in her position; legs folded beneath her, with her wrists tied securely and tightly to her ankles so much that it numbed her. She was forced to arch her back, creating a space of graceful curve behind her. She wore an ugly, plain black dress, the Prufrocks' servant's uniform for the personal maid.
Leslie, nineteen years old, who had worked for the Prufrocks ever since she was seven, worried over her mistress. Though her mistress had been unkind and sadistic to Leslie over the years she had been with the wealthy, noble family, Leslie's compassionate soul did not like to see her mistress suffer through any indecency committed to her, and prayed that her young mistress and all the other prisoners would be able to escape from this unfortunate event safely.
A brawny man with dark chest hair sprouting out of his tight tucked-in shirt appeared with a few number of equally, physically monstrous men. They were pirates; they had attacked the ship Leslie and her mistress had been on, killed the ship's captain and as many of the ship's crew as they could, and captured the people travelling on it, who were mostly young people—excluding a couple of elderly persons.
Now, they were in the mercy of these uncivilized men. There had been rumors about pirates that Leslie had heard before stepping on this cruise—of how they attacked, killed, raped, and kidnapped people, demanding hefty ransoms for them and selling them into slavery—the first she had ever taken since entering the Prufrocks's mansion, but she had never dreamt of ever meeting one.
They went on looking at the prisoners, leering and sneering and spitting and taunting. One kicked a young man, and his fiancée screamed into her gag. The huge sailor grabbed her, ripped the gag off, and forced a sloppy, brutal kiss upon her. She quieted down and with tears in her eyes, huddled closer to her fiancée. The sailor laughed cruelly, joined by his cohorts. It stopped abruptly, when their captain appeared. "What d'ya think we should do with them people, Cap'n?" asked one. "Looks good 'nuff to sell, don't they?" said another.
The Captain was a tall, lean, and well-built man, and he had an aloof, cold expression. There was no visible compassion or kindness in his features, but there were ferocity, brutality, and the hints of a cold-blooded nature. He went about inspecting his captured goods, surmising what prices they could bring him if he sold them, should they not be bought back by ransom. Leslie saw him, watched him with fearful eyes as he used his sheathed sword and gloved hand to occasionally prod on his prisoners.
Leslie trembled for her mistress, for she knew her mistress was a very pretty lady, and was well-endowed with womanly features. But when he reached Miss Prufrock, she glared balefully at him, daring him to do something at her defiance. "Hmmph," he said, his unmoved expression showing that he was unimpressed by her show of boldness, or of her often-admired beauty. She was pretty of course; though her hair looked messy, her lips too thin, her nose too small, and her cheeks too shallow, she was still quite pretty. He had seen many girls like her before, on the land and on this ship. She should fetch a reasonable price should he have any need to sell her—but he doubted that he would need to.
He passed her, and Leslie's heart lifted for her mistress, only to plunge into the depths of gloom when he stopped upon her. Leslie ducked her head down, trying to hide her face with her thick tresses of light blond hair. But he wouldn't let her get away easily; he used his long, sword to sweep a volume of her hair aside to catch the face beneath. He jerked her face towards him roughly with his hand. Doe-like eyes the color of calm sky stared back at him, tremulous and depthless in their deep emotions. Her chin quivered in his hand. When he saw her face, his heart dropped. It was such an exquisite, beautiful face. He had never seen anyone who had ever matched her beauty in its innocence and its goddess-personified loveliness. What's more, he knew this face. He remembered this face from a long, long time ago.
In an instant, he shocked Leslie by kneeling on one knee in front of her. "Are you a virgin?" he asked in a harsh, impatient tone, as he jerked a black glove off one hand. The question shocked innocent Leslie, and she blushed at his audacity. When she didn't answer and avoided his ferocious gaze, he grabbed a handful of her skirt and wrenched her skirt up. From her gag, Leslie screamed a muffled scream of surprise and protest; loud sneers and ribald comments greeted her from the unsympathetic sailors, who thrilled at her misery, and leered at the glimpses of snowy thighs that were slightly exposed from the skirt bunched somewhere near her knees; she struggled but her hands and ankles were tied very securely and his large hand was already making its way purposefully between her thighs. Leslie tried very hard to keep her thighs together, but he used both his muscular arms to easily rip them wide apart. He leant into her ear to deliver a quiet, spine-chilling threat, "If you fight me, I will fuck you right here in front of everyone." Leslie trembled, and big tears of anguish over this crude action spilled over her smooth cheeks.
He edged closer, his knee between her, and pushed his middle finger into the heat of her cunt. Leslie gasped, jolted, and automatically tried to close her thighs but his knee was in the way. Her trembling thighs gripped him tightly as she whimpered, as he inched his finger deeper into her tight heat, and finally found what he had been searching—her virginity—it was still intact. Satisfaction flooded into him, and he felt strangely triumphant in knowing that nobody had possessed her yet. Pleased, he reluctantly pulled away from her delicious heat, and stood up. His eyes were enflamed with an inscrutable intensity as he looked at her and announced his commands in his smooth, self-assured voice. He ordered his trusted second-hand man to send out orders for ransoms for these captives, set in steep prices, and if they were not collected by the end of the deadline, the prisoners would be sold into slavery.
"In the meantime, bring this girl into my cabin," he said, giving Leslie's a searing look that terrified her, and shocking his crew; as far as they knew, the Captain never showed any interest—romantic or sexual—to any species of the opposite sex. They had already concluded that he was either attracted to men (for which there were no trustworthy evidence) or was so discreet in his sexual affairs that they were unable to discover them (to which they had never been able to disprove or prove for certainty).
Two members of the captain's crew freed Leslie from her constraints and hauled her up. "Come on, hussy. Our captain's waiting for 'ye little pussy." They chuckled. She looked at her mistress for sympathy, for help—anything, but all her mistress gave her was a haughty look mixed with variable emotions that did not in any way, pity Leslie's situation; it was a disdainful look that told Leslie that her mistress thought her a whore for being chosen, that she was in fact, appropriately selected—a slut; and one Leslie could not decipher, which was Miss Prufrock's jealousy. Her pride was wounded in that the extremely handsome captain, exceptionally well dressed for a pirate—by far the most dashing and most magnetic man she had ever met—had deigned to choose her own plain maid instead of her. Her mistress turned her face away, and it truly broke Leslie's heart, as she was carried away.
They shoved her into the captain's quarters, sneering as they slammed door shut. "Mind 'yer to give him all he wants—he's a dangerous man—the devil of the seas!" were the last she heard, as she stepped closer into the room. It was quite warm in here, warmer than it had been outside, at least. Still, Leslie could not help shivering. She was still feeling the aftereffects of the last few hours, and she was distraught and exhausted, both mentally and physically. She wrapped her tiny body with her arms, feeling tears glimmering in her eyes, threatening to fall. She had never been out of the Prufrock property, and now that she was out of it, to have such an experience happened to her! It was simply too much.
