07 August 2007
Post-Coital Peril
June, 1856
It was several hours later when Botter and I finally emerged from the cabin of the Hairy Clam, having been roundly ravaged by the sex-starved female pirates. We both simultaneously lit up a post-coital cigarette each, and gazed out over the moon-lit waters of the ocean.
“I haven’t seen that many nipples since I worked in a cattery,” Botter finally said, breaking the silence.
“Welcome to my world, Botter,” I replied, exhaling smoke into the cold, night air. “A never-ending procession of tits and fannies.”
“I think the short brunette quite fancied me,” Botter continued.
“The blind one with two wooden eyes?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“That would make sense,” I said.
We fell into silence again, quietly drawing on our cigarettes. Botter shuffled awkwardly, then spoke again.
“I…thank you, milord,” said Botter. “It has been a while since I felt the gentle touch of a woman.”
“I would wager that it has been even longer since you felt the gentle breast of a woman,” I replied.
“Yeah,” Botter answered. “It’s been a while. Not that I am complaining, milord. I am of course only to happy to be at your service day-in and day-out, but I have missed laying with a woman.”
As Botter slunk into silence again, I considered my faithful man-servant carefully, and felt a slew of strange emotions that I was unfamiliar with in regard to the small wretch. I felt pity, and sympathy and a desire to even embrace the poor fool. However, I quickly remembered that I was an Englishman, and made sure to bury these pesky emotions back down deep within my gut.
“Come, Botter!” I cried, slapping him heartily on the back, causing him to drop his cigarette into the water. “This is no time for moping! If you like, I could break one of your limbs, and give you something to really mope about, eh?”
Botter smiled, and turned back to face the ocean. We continued to regard the black sea, until we were joined by Captain Labia NoBeard, who was wrapped up in a blanket.
“Ah, Captain!” I exclaimed. “We are both much obliged for a wonderful day’s sport, but I am afraid we shall have to press on to-morrow, for we are bound for America on some quite urgent business. So, if you would be so kind as to-”
“Oh, I am afraid that will not be possible,” Labia interrupted, shaking her head. “We are pirates, do not forget, and you are our treasure, milord. And we are not in the habit of giving our treasure away. No, you are to spend the rest of your days here, with us.”
While the idea of spending every waking moment being sexed to Singapore and back was an appealing one, I was determined to make it to America and to the aid of my brother, Ludlow.
“Now listen here, madam,” I said, waving my cigarette in her face angrily. “I am not about to surrender myself to you and your crew, and become some kind of sex-slave, doing it night after night after night after night after night…”
“Are you sure, milord?” Botter whispered into my ear.
“Yes! Listen, woman!” I snapped, getting increasingly riled by the whole affair. “I am a lord, and an aristocrat, and I serve precisely no-one, save for Her Majesty the Queen, may God Save Her Royal Globes. So I must politely demand that you drop us off at the next available port, or allow us to board another vessel, else I shall be forced to ask again, in a distinctly less-than-polite manner, possibly involving a sound thrashing to your beautiful behind.”
I concluded my rant, and crossed my arms indignantly. Captain Labia smiled a smile that seemed not to be powered by joy, but by malice.
“You will stay,” she repeated, drawing a pistol out from the folds of her blanket. “Alive, or dead.”
“Pah! You would not kill us, if we really are so important to you.”
“It is true, I would rather not kill you,” Labia purred, stroking the muzzle of her pistol against her cheek. “But we shall get by with or without you. We are all quite used to quenching our sexual thirst with each other’s juices by now.”
This extraordinary turn of phrase made my Lord Palmerston twitch, but before I could become fully aroused, I heard a chorus of guns being cocked in the shadows, as the crew of the Hairy Clam stepped forward to support their captain. I sighed.
“Tits,” I said.
It seemed I had metaphorically leapt out of the frying-pan, into the fire and then straight into a ruddy big furnace.
- Lord Likely
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