#thotty things

bingo squares — stranger sex and CMNF additional content warnings — 18th century purity culture and oral (f receiving) 

CAPTAIN KARLSSON’S touch is assured and unhurried.

His weathered fingers are devoid of the girlish trembling that so plagues yours, thwarting any attempt to glean a bit of pleasure. As if your body were rejecting the sin outright.

Absent is the fear of being discovered by one of your maids or, heaven forbid, your lord father; your captain vowed any who dared to enter his quarters would be measured for the chains.

—and he had done so with his fingers idly exploring your untouched mouth. The very ones stroking the walls of your once-untouched cunt, your peak on the horizon.

You are finding it quite difficult to reconcile the desire you feel with the sight of the filthy scoundrel granting it to you. It would be confounding any evening, but none more than this, with your mind as murky as the sea rocking the ship.

What you do know with certainty is it feels infinitely better than your own hand, or the host of downy pillows bunched on your floor; the ornate bed frame your late mother imported slams against the wall otherwise. And you’re equally as sure your stern governess would have a conniption—as well as your head, if she were privy to the ease of your seduction.

The captain’s arms, a map of hardship and violence, curl around your bare thighs. The juxtaposition of his skin and yours is significant, and with his corded forearms tight to keep you still, the jagged scar that brands him an enemy is, for your rational mind, inescapable.

Your conscience burns as fiercely as the hearth in your belly.

His touch—a most lovely distraction indeed—reaches new depths, and your vision is ornamented with constellations of your very own.

Your hands clutch the edge of his stately desk so tightly that there’s sure to be dainty crescents imprinted in the varnish.

The captain spies your paled knuckles in his periphery and affords you a far better place to find purchase.

He groans into your heat when your fingers weave through his unruly mop and softly tug at the dark mane. The captain captures your gaze without slowing or ceasing his delicious torment.

A gentle redness has blossomed on his cheeks and the tip of his nose since you last glimpsed his handsome face; the mark of a pirate who drunk ardent spirits to excess.

But, it is your essence with which his lips glisten.

You are just as affected by the unforeseen thrum of vibration as you are by the knowledge that you have somehow managed to please him in any way, perhaps more so.

With his calloused palms, Captain Karlsson, the fabled King of the Pirates, draws you nearer. Your hips roll against his relentless suckling, all of which is presently concentrated on the sensitive spot a little north of your entrance— a pearl, he’d called it.

He divides his attention between sucking the gem swollen and tending to the pulsating hole below it with a broad, flat tongue. Too enraptured by his mouth, a wicked finger delves into your softness when you’re least expecting it.

A most indelicate sound fills the candlelit chamber. A lewd squelch unlike any noise you have yet to hear, from yourself or otherwise, wilts what little nerve you possess.

Aghast, both hands clamped over your mouth.

The heathen knelt between your parted thighs gives a hearty chuckle; that particular sensation must be exhilarating for a pretty, sheltered thing leading such a regimented life.

Perhaps, he shall keep you. To entertain his mind and warm his bed.

Nay, that be the rum talking.

It would seem he's loaded to the gunwales. 

You fail to see what amusement could possibly be found in such obscenity, so unbecoming of a lady of your station.

Captain Karlsson nips your inner thigh and grins.

“Don’t get shy on me now, Duchess.”

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