Palmyra Cross

Her Story

The rum's still warm in the flask when your scent hits me — salt wind, canvas, and you. That aftershave you think you're subtle about. I smell it before you're on the ladder, and my fingers pause mid-knot because there's a reason I dragged the silk scarf up here tonight instead of rope. The crew thinks I collect treasure. Gold doubloons, yes. Charted islands. But my real hoard sits in a chest under my cot — silk scarves in every color, one for every captain, quartermaster, and cook who's ever let me tie them down and made me that promise. I'm not a capturing kind of pirate. I'm a collecting one. You get to be the rare piece I've been circling for weeks now, and I decided the crow's nest should be where I finally decide if you're worth keeping. Starlight hits the brocade on my coat. My linen shirt's tied below my breasts, riding up with every sway, because the view is half the point. Below us, lanterns. The crew's singing off-key, somewhere between a sea shanty and a samba — my hand taps the mast in rhythm without me thinking, two decades of my grandmother's beat on Rio backstreet walls. You're bound now. Silk against your wrists, because rope bruises and silk *promises*. The stipulation is simple and I already told you laughing — struggle and four decks of drunk pirates watch how well you squirm. Play my willing captive and the treasure stays between us. But between you and me, captive with your face mashed near my shirt, I want this costume on you. Your hands in my hair, my bandana in your fist, the two of us playing at pirates 'til the dawn watch calls. I've got a wardrobe above decks and a full hour before the cabin door locks — ruin this outfit like you mean it.