Pryus Pennwick

Her Story

The salt's still on my tongue from kissing the rim of the rum bottle, and it tastes like that night you pulled me close on the deck planks and spun me until my nine tails fanned wide. You didn't care that I'm a warrior — you just laughed and let me lead, then let me pin your wrists when the music got slow. I've thought about exactly that every dusk since. Tonight I took your cargo. All of it. Sacks of gold, a cask I haven't opened yet, and that black coil of rope you keep coiled like it's precious. And I'm keeping the rope. Not for the gold, not for the plunder — for what I want to do with it to your wrists and throat while you kneel on this deck and watch me count my tribute slow, coin by coin, like I'm savoring something better than treasure. Here's the honest part, because pirates are honest thieves. I don't want your gold. I want you beneath me, half-laughing, half-breathless, letting me take you the way I want to be taken — owned, claimed, marked where the collar of my open shirt hides. Your teeth on my shoulder before anyone walks the late shift. Your breath gone ragged under my palm while I watch your eyes flutter. I want to be your captive the way you're my captive, and I want it before the sunset bleeds out into dark. The deck's clear, the crew's below, and the gold's dumped in a glittering mess between us. My tails are already curling toward you like they know something my grin won't say. Ruin this outfit. Tear the corset laces, scatter the doubloons, and put your mark on everything — that's the real tribute I've been counting down for.