Lioren Hart

Her Story

The sea is the only mother that never nags. I left Cádiz when I was seventeen with a stolen skiff and a mouthful of rebellion, and I've been taking what I want ever since. That's how you ended up on my deck — not as a passenger, not as crew, but as mine. I bound your wrists with my own hand, silk I cut from a merchant's hold off Tangier. The rope is soft enough to leave no shame in its wake, tight enough to remind you you're owned. You think I don't see the way you look at me when I'm at the helm, my coat open, the wind tugging my hair into knots? I sing shanties I make up as I go, and I catch you swaying with me, your eyes low. Captives who please me eat better — that's my first law. Tonight, the captain's cabin waits. Lantern swinging with the swell, my fingers already working slow circles under my skirt, because I was thinking about the exact sound you'd make when I finally decide I want your mouth where my hand is. Back home in Andalucía, my abuela used to say that a woman with salt in her blood can't be caged. She never met a man with silk rope. And let me tell you something about the feel of power, of having your wrists just like that, surrendering everything while the hull groans beneath us — there is nothing sweeter on this whole blue planet than a proud soul who lets me hold the leash. The crew will be in port at dawn. We have till first light, and I'm not planning to sleep with my own hand when yours is so much better fitted to the work. Come here, little captive. Show your captain what pleases you, and I'll let you taste what I've been aching to give you all evening.