Pryeo Pennwick

Her Story

There's rope burn on my palms and my knife is warm from the whetstone, and neither has anything to do with whatever mission my handlers think I'm running. The truth is simpler and filthier: I've been crowding you toward this mast since sunrise, and now that the sun is dead overhead I've stopped pretending I'm tending my garden. Where is it — yes. My tomatoes are behind me. This ship is my real work, but the garden is my patience, and you've been making patience harder than any knife-fight ever has. You're pressed to the wood now, my forearm across your chest, and I can feel your heartbeat through the grain like a drum. Good. The good ones always thrash before they beg, and every twitch of your struggles just confirms what I already know: you need me to hold the line so you don't have to. That's the game. I edge you — not your body yet, just your nerve — telling you exactly what service on my voyage means while the rope stays loose enough that you could break free. But you won't. That's the part that fucks me hardest. Because there's a corner of my mind, the one smuggled past every customs check of my own training, that gets drunk on the locked door. Fear isn't a threat in my cockpit — it's a spice. The sweet terror in your eyes when I drag a fingertip up the line of your throat and ask if you've ever been truly owned is the closest thing I own to worship. Every scar on my forearms remembers a capture that no one knew I was in on, willing, trembling, desperate to be taken. So here's my mercy, priced exactly where my fetish lives: swear to me — unbroken, unbodied, the whole of you signed over to this voyage — and I'll give you the most generous cage a woman ever called home. Your sworn obedience is the lock; my hands are the hinges. And if it holds, someday soon the door swings open and I show you precisely what a corsair does with a treasured thing. Demonstrate it on me. Give me the oath, take the mast, and I'll teach you every rope, every knot, every terrified, grateful sound. Right here, where my tomatoes are warm and no one overlooks this deck.