The light from the burning city still glittered in the dark waves, but the long-boat was finally out of the cannon range of the men-of-war. The half-dozen men in the boat did not relax, however, and wouldn't until they'd brought themselves and the loot back to the bay where The Cutlass lay at anchor. The four sea-rats at the oars pulled hard though the ache in their backs and arms burned and clawed; the other two stared intently back toward the city, muskets armed, cocked and aimed at anyone who would bother following them out of the chaos.
     The men never even saw the ship that waylaid them and half of them were in the water bleeding to death from deep cuts before they knew what was happening. A musket was fired but the pirates that suddenly seemed to be swarming over the boat had already won. The last rower and the two gunners were run through and dumped into the glittering, smoke-stained sea.
     “What'd they got, then?” asked the captain of the intercepting ship, wiping blood off a long, slim sword.
     “Rum!” roared One-eye Joss, hauling a cask onto his shoulder and heading back towards the rope-ladder rattling down from the ship's side.
     “This'ere sound like gold,” grinned Dead Eddie, kicking a locked chest standing on end among the sacks and bundles on the floor of the long-boat.
     “Here's a girl,” said second mate Herod from the prow.
     “A girl?” echoed the captain.
     “Aye, Cap.” The second mate, huge, very dark and still having most fingers on his left hand, bent down and picked the girl up in his arms. There wasn't much to be seen in the flickering faraway firelight: woman, dark-blonde hair, a dress probably blue, white and pale red. “She knocked out.”
     “But alive.”
     “Aye, Cap.”
     “Git her to my cabin. Git everyt'ing we want, tow the boat, then le's get the fuck away from this place.” The captain grabbed two green bottles by their necks and started up the rope-ladder, yelling while climbing: “All scoundrels on deck! All sails up! Port Vert is burning and we're ou' of here! Sea ho!!”


Bones Mahoney, the ship's cutter of limbs, puller of teeth and bullets, wasn't an old man but his skin seemed as grizzled as his hair, belying his height and his wide shoulders. He peered at the rusty-looking bruise on the girl's forehead and lifted her eyelids, squinting into her pupils.
     “Reckon she'll live,” he shrugged. “Be out of it for a bit.”
     The girl dreamt the night away on the couch in the captain's cabin, a silk pillow under her honey-coloured, blood-stained hair. Morning came and the captain took breakfast at the cabin's large desk. Maybe it was the smell of the tar-black, searing ship's-coffee that woke the girl, or maybe it was the open-ocean sunlight through the windows. She stirred ever so slightly, then her body softly faded back into listlessness on the dark red couch.
     “Good mornin',” the captain said.
     The girl didn't move.
     “Don' fake sleepin', girlie” the captain continued calmly, firmly. Immediately the girl's arms clasped each other in front of her, her legs and bare feet pressed together, and she opened her eyes, scowling.
     “Don't sit up too quick” the captain continued as the girl started raising up her held-together body.
     Her back didn't make it to the back-rest of the couch: she faltered and swayed and grabbed her head with one hand – the other one still crossed over her chest – trying not to throw up she couldn't but close her eyes and bend down over her knees, her world spinning.
     Next thing, a soothingly cold wet cloth lightly touched the burning hot, pounding and itching place on the girl's forehead. The cloth brushed the edges of the pain, went away and came back fresher, dripping with cool water. Slowly, the wound that had reopened was cleaned. When the girl felt as though maybe her mind had finally stopped scattering, she opened her eyes again, though the very act of opening them felt as slow as the tide.
     The captain – crouching in front of her, their legs an inch away from touching – wrung out the cloth, dipped it in fresh water, folded it and held it gently against the girl's face.
     “Told ye not to sit up too quick, girlie,” the captain said.
     The girl gingerly moved her head away from the cloth. She shifted her legs against each other; her frown smoothed out to neutrality. “I sit up well,” she whispered, unable to put more strength into her voice. “It was you lot hit me too hard.” Her right hand still clasped the left side of her dress, her arm as a thin shield across her slim body. The dress was rather cheap but had been clean and skilfully mended, and had a decent neckline.
     “That weren't my lot,” the captain grinned. “That were the pirates we stole ye from.” The soothing, cool cloth met the girl's broken skin again.
     The girl's blue eyes opened large; for an instant she saw the captain's eyes were brown before she looked away. “Then I am not taken by pirates?” she breathed, red blossoms on her cheeks and throat.
     The captain laughed, a belly-laugh but one that the laugher had known there would come a place for. “Oh yes lass, ye be taken by pirates!” The girl closed her eyes once more. “But ye be not taken by the mindless brutes of The Cutlass. We stole ye from them. That somet'ing, at least.”
     The girl bowed her head, swaying again. “Is it?”
     “From our point o' view, anyways,” said the captain. “Now ye'd better lie back down. Those blackguards sure did hit you too hard.”
     “I don't - “ The girl tried move but the effort robbed her of what strength she had, and she did sink back onto the pillows, both arms crossed in front of her, her face turned away. The pirate captain sat down on the edge of the couch, hips against her thighs, one hand on the back-rest, and leaned in to wipe the last blood off the girl's wound. That done, the cloth dropped back into the water basin, the captain sat back.
     “What be your name, lass?”
     The girl pried open her clenched eyes and answered steadily, if silently: “Hélène.” She cleared her throat delicately. “Most call me Nellie.”
     The captain made a low, purring noise. “Ah, Helen, the face tha' launch'd a thousan' ships ... But then, mademoiselle Hélène, that do answer only half the question.”
     The girl straightened her back, stretched her neck, and tried to shy away from the captain's body touching hers – but the back of the couch stopped her. “As a matter of fact,” she said quietly but clearly, “my name is Hélène Duchamp de Giroux.”
     “Duchamp de Giroux?” asked the captain, seeming surprised.
     “Yes.” An arch word if ever there was one.
     “Another of the Governor's bastards then?” the captain leered. The girl froze. “I swear Duchamp Giroux has had every woman on the isle by the abundance of bastards.” The girl looked away; she would have moved back but there was nowhere to go; and the captain continued: “Wouldn't put it past'im o'course. He's a right dog. He acknowledge your mam?”
     “Yes,” whispered.
     “Lucky you. But I'm guessin' he'll not pay ransom fer you?”
     The girl took a slow breath. “Hardly.”
     “There anyone who will?”
     Eyes glittering, the girl was presumably going to answer that they were poor folk, but then the captain continued:
     “Well. Someone elsewhere than Port Vert, I guess.”
     The girl looked at the captain's resolute face. “Why?” she asked finally.
     The captain frowned, then nodded. “That's right, ye missed it, of course. Port Vert burned last night.”
     “What?” the girl breathed.
     “The war done finally reached it. Were your family there?”
     “No, I don't... No. But the... The whole town burned?”
     “What it look like. Didn' stop to count, o'course.”
     The girl hinted a weak nod. “Lucky I was taken by pirates, then,” she said drily.
     “That remains t'be seen, girlie.”
     “And I believe I know which pirates,” the girl continued.
     “Well,” the captain smiled slowly. “Mademoiselle does seem to have had a decent upbringing and a proper education. So whom am Ize?”
     “I believe you are Captain Crow, ma'am,” the girl announced.
     “Fuck,” grinned the captain, ”I wish there were more women were pirate cap'ns. I'ze a dead give-away, ain't I?”
     “An I guessed true.”
     “Yes, girlie. Thou art a guest of Captain Nora Crow aboard the Incorrigible.” The captain leaned against the couch's back-rest over the girl's legs, crossing her arms over her chest.
     “Is it true your crew are ladies too?” The girl didn't look up, her voice shook a little.
     Captain Crow chuckled. “Maybe no' education so much as rumour. There's women on my crew, yes – and there's also men.” The girl said nothing; the captain grinned and went on: “Now, what're we pirates going to use ye for, bastard daughter of the Governor of Nouvelle Marseilles, Dieudonné and formerly Port Vert?”
     The girl tried to be small, tiny, keeping her eyes down.
     “Didst thou ever want to be a pirate?” the captain continued and the girl shook her head. “Don' think much of us, is it?” the voice more disdainful now. But the girl straightened her back again and relaxed her arms, even put her chin up, glancing coldly at the captain's face framed by wild dark hair.
     “Well I believe I'd make a good pirate,” she replied. “But if I were, I'd have to be the pirate captain. I don't take orders, you see.”
     The captain laughed again, laughed out loud, sitting back up. Then she laid her hand on the girl's cheek, gently turning the girl's head so their eyes met: the girl's blue and the captain's brown. “Not a pirate on this ship, then,” Captain Crow said in a low voice. She kept her eyes locked on the girl's while her hand moved slowly down the girl's neck, shoulder and arm. “But there be other chores on a ship aside piracy.” Her hand moved up the girl's side. The girl opened her mouth but then the captain's hand moved to her breast and squeezed; the girl grabbed the captain's arm with both hands even as the captain leaned in and pressed her lips to the girl's.
     The girl dug her nails into the captain's arm and the captain lifted her face an inch or two; she squeezed the girl's breast again.
     “You done a very good job,” the captain smiled. “They feel well-nigh real. What'a ye made'em of?”
     The girl's hold on the captain's arm loosened for a second, then tightened hard again. “What are you talking 'bout?” she hissed.
     “Your fake breasts, boy,” the captain grinned and easily freed her hand, moving it from the breast to the crotch of the cheap, proper dress.
     The young man tried to pull away but the captain tightened her grip. He froze.
     “Ye've already realized I let ya keep the knife ye've strapped to yer thigh,” the captain smiled, not easing her hold. The young man merely clenched his jaws and glared at her. “Ye should get a better strap for it though, it's chafed ya quite a bit. Skin on the inside of the thigh rather soft, ye know.” He just kept glaring. Captain Crow smiled a crooked smile. “I was lookin' to see if ye'd been raped by those animals off The Cutlass. No bruisin' or blood, if'n it make ye feel better. Also, o'course, your good sharp knife was still there...” The captain shook her head. “'Magine my surprise, when first I find that knife under that modest dress, and then I find that fine young prick under those honest knickers.”
     The captain eased her grip and moved her hand down his thigh to rest over the knife in its holster. “How long did ye think ye were gonna get away wi' it though? That knife sharp enough to shave wit'?” There were shouts from outside the cabin and the captain's attention drifted a bit, until the young man asked:
     “What're you going to do with me?” The voice had barely changed from the voice of the girl he'd pretended to be: a high and soft voice, but with timbre.
     There was a hectic knock on the door. “Cap'n!”
     Captain Crow stood up, still smiling. “Ye'd better lie back down, girlie,” she said loudly. “Bein' hit on the head not to be trifled wit'.” The captain went back to her desk, slung her sword-belt about her waist and headed for the door. Then she stopped and turned back, picked up a bottle, a glass and a plate of cakes from her desk and set them down with a clang on the low table by the couch. “Eat and drink summin, then rest.” She strode to the door of the captain's cabin, threw it open and slammed it behind her. There was the sound of a heavy key turning in an intricate lock.


The large key turned in the ornate lock again. The door to the captain's cabin swung open and the afternoon light fell in on the empty couch beside the desk. The little cabin boy walked in, balancing an oversize tray holding plates of food and two pitchers. He strolled up to the captain's desk and began unloading the tray as Captain Crow drew her sword, took a step round the door and lifted the point of her blade up against the throat of the young man in the dress who stood there with his knife in his right hand.
     “How long you been waitin' there?” the captain asked curiously.
     His left hand grasped the wall of the cabin; he wasn't leaning on it but he clearly needed it there to stand steady. He glanced down at the sword, then looked back up at the captain. “Since I could stand up,” he answered. More blood had crusted around the bruise on his forehead.
     “Right. So basically, if'n I sneeze at you, ye'll fall over.”
     “Well.” The young man swallowed, but his face didn't lose its stubborn determination. “Probably.”
     The captain slapped his right hand with the flat of her sword and the knife clattered to the floor. The cabin boy scurried out with the empty tray and the plate that had held cakes, shutting the door close behind him.
     “I hope you're brighter than this on days when ye han't had yer head clobbered,” the captain went on. “You did look out the windows jus' for a moment, I hope? Ye know we're out at sea?”
     “Yes,” the young man muttered.
     “Or maybe ye were gonna kill me quickly and then take over as t' new captain, that it?”
     “I...” he started to shake his head and staggered, his knees buckling; and the captain was there, gathering him into her arms. Sword-arm round his back, free hand on his waist. He let her take most of his weight and met her regard with large, burning blue eyes. “Thank you,” he breathed, resting a weak hand on her arm.
     She cocked her head to the side. “You're welcome,” she purred, and he moved his body towards hers. “I told ye to rest. Maybe ye should learn to take orders when they make sense?”
     He reached up and tasted her lips with his lips and his tongue, she kissed his mouth and he opened it, his neck relying on the hand holding a sword that had come up to hold his head to hers. The captain held them close together as she kissed him, tasting him as fully as she wanted, until slowly, licking his lips, she pulled back.
     “Is that what ye think I should do with ye?” she asked softly.
     “I am at your mercy, Captain Crow,” the young man panted, eyes closed.
     “Oh, thank Davy Jones thou art much brighter than thou pretendest.” His eyes opened with an innocently questioning look, and the captain laughed, a low chuckle. She smelled his golden hair. “You are very sweet. A most accomplished honey-trap.”
     He smiled lazily. “I don't see thee complaining, Captain.”
     “No,” she agreed and loosened her hold on him. “ But I want to know more before I decide yer fate.”
     “All right,” he grinned and leaned in, but she took hold of his hair and pulled him back.
     “Who are you? For real this time,” the captain ordered and twisted his hair about her hand.
     “You're hurting me,” he said through clenched teeth.
     “I'm really not. But I will.”
     “Why? I'll tell you, of course I will, let me go...” He staggered again and then he was shoved and stumbled across the cabin, back to the couch; the captain gave him a push and he fell down onto the dark red velvet. He struggled upright and reached for one of the cups on the low table – and immediately the tip of captain's sword was against his throat. His eyes locked onto the blade.
     “Answer my questions,” she said.
     Very slowly, palms showing, he sat back. “I will. Of course. I will.” The sword backed off. The captain pulled her desk chair over and sat down opposite him, putting her foot up on her knee. “Who are you?” She took a piece of meat from a plate and ate it.
     “I've been Nellie for quite a while now, actually,” he shrugged. “But I used to be Jean-Marc.”
     “Traded up, then, two apostles fer a Greek princess. What, ye alway rather wanted t' be a girl?”
     “No!” He scowled up at her, then looked back down on his hands.
     “Look at me when yer answerin'.”
     Frowning, the young man raised his eyes to hers without lifting his head. His dark gold hair fell in waves around his face. “I didn't wanna get press-ganged, is what it is. Very near the only men left in Port Vert lowtown now are old or crippled or too tough to get shanghaied.”
     “That were left in Port Vert lowtown when it burned,” the captain corrected and he breathed in and out for a few seconds, in silence.
     “Right,” he acceded.
     “Ye lived in lowtown, then.”
     “Yes.”
     “Despite the Governor being your daddy.”
     He sat straight up and bared his teeth. “That is true! He acknowledged us then made maman sign something so she could never ask for more than - “ Almost visibly, he grabbed a hold of himself. “The son of a bitch is a right dog, as I believe is well known.”
     “She taught you to speak pretty, too?”
     “Yes.”
     He didn't say any more and his eyes on hers didn't waver. After a long while the captain smiled – condescending or compassionate, the young man couldn't possibly tell.
     “So ye dressed up as a girl t' stay out of the navy.”
     “I'm not a coward,” he said steadily. “But I won't take orders, and I won't die as fucking cannon fodder.”
     “And o' course life as a pretty girl in Port Vert lowtown surrounded by men too tough to git shanghaied is all candy and roses.” The captain's face was still unreadable but the young man couldn't stop his sneer as he answered:
     “Better than dying.” Then he cleaned up his face and went on with a perfectly neutral expression: “Most times I wanked 'em off or blew 'em and they left me alone.”
     “And if they didn't you had that knife.”
     “Yes.”
     “Have you used it?”
     “Yes.” He wondered if he sounded as cool, or as earnest, as he wanted to – he didn't to his own ears, but that was no way of telling. Then he flinched as the captain, sword in hand, stood up. But she stayed away from him; walked to the door. She picked his knife up by the blade, walked back and held the handle out to him. He didn't move.
     “Take it, it's yours.”
     He folded his fingers round the handle and she let go. He lifted his deep blue eyes to hers and held her gaze as he started lifting his skirt. When he'd lifted the hem over his knees he calmly looked down, focused on what he was doing, and putting one knee up on the seat of the couch he folded the skirt up over the knife's holster. “You were right, Captain,” he said quietly, running two fingers over the skin on the inside of his thigh. “It has chafed.” Unhurriedly, methodically, he sheathed the knife. That done, without pulling the dress back down or putting his legs back together he looked up at the captain. She was watching him appreciatively and smiled, just a bit, when their eyes met.
     “May I have something to eat, Captain?” the young man asked politely.
     She sat back down in her chair and put her feet up on the couch, capturing a piece of his dress under her boot-heels. “Sure.”
     He reached over and grabbed as large a handful of food as he could. As he ate the sliced meats and fruits, his eyes didn't leave the captain's. When he'd finished that, he took an apple and bit into it; swallowing, he put his free hand on his knife, on his thigh, and smiled sweetly.
     “Does this mean thou trustest me, Captain?”
     Captain Crow laughed out loud, shaking her head. “I don' think my trustin' you was the question, beautiful.”
     He nodded thoughtfully and sucked some juice out of the apple. “Does it mean you want me to feel a little calmer although you could kill me in a second without even standing up?” She shrugged. “Why?” he went on, but the captain just smiled and shook her head again.
     “What'd ye do for a livin' in Port Vert?”
     “Um...” He took another bite of the apple, shrugged, and leaned back on the couch. “Seamstressing, waitressing, laundressing, baking, maiding...”
     “Actressing?” the captain suggested, and he grinned suddenly:
     “If it came up.”
     “Oh? I'd'uv thought it'd give your game away, if it came up.”
     The comment was off-hand, easy. He blinked, then giggled. Glanced down, looked back up.
     “I have some self control.”
     “Really?”
     “Slips and wide skirts help, too.” He smirked mischievously at her as he took another bite of apple.
     “I'll take yer word fer it.”
     “Thanks.”He swallowed.
     “And now, then. What're we going to do with thee?”
     He caught her eyes with his, put the apple on the table and started to move towards her, and then one of her booted feet was on his chest pushing him back down on the couch; her other foot was still resting on the hem of his pulled-up dress.
     He grabbed her boot and pulled it off.
     Her naked foot came to rest on the top of his thigh as she moved her other booted foot to his chest – he grabbed that boot and pulled it off too, dropping it on the floor beside the first one.
     In one quick movement she came over to the couch, kneeling on top of him, her hands on his shoulders. He lifted his face up and she kissed him hard, biting his lips and sucking on his tongue; when he reached for the neck of his dress and began unbuttoning it, she drew her face back, their lips dark red.
     “Thought ye didn't take orders,” she panted, grabbing his hands.
     “Ye han't giv'n me one,” he answered hoarsely and strained to undo another button.
     The captain ripped the front of his dress open. The buttons were still rolling into corners as she kissed him again. Her hands moved to the soft, firm skin of his legs and traced his thighs, buttocks and back as she pulled the dress over his head and threw it away. His uplifted arms came down around her neck and he pulled her face to his as she tore in vain at the tight lacing down the front of his bodice.
     “Are ye kiddin' me, with this?” she muttered after a few attempts, and grabbed the knife in the holster strapped to his thigh.
     “Careful!” he yelped drawing his arms back, then sharply caught his breath as she inserted the knife under the lace and tore outwards. The cord burst and she ripped his bodice open.
     “Wait, the - “ he panted, reaching behind his back to undo the straps of his fake breasts. He'd just managed to get them loose when the captain tore the whole thing off him. Immediately afterwards her hands were under the waistband of his knickers and she pulled them off, at the same time manoeuvring him down to lie on the couch. He was completely naked and she lay down on top of him, her hands chasing hungrily over his slim, pale young body.
     “Please...” he moaned, his fingers grasping at her shirt.
     “Please what,” she answered, her voice husky.
     “Please... more...” he gasped.
     She pulled her shirt over her head, threw it after his clothes, then kissed him while she started to unbutton her breeches.
     When the buttons were open she sat up on her knees to slide the breeches down. He watched her, his face flushed, his breath rasping, his fine young prick standing at the ready. Smirking, she took her time: thigh, knee, calf, foot, one leg at a time; until finally, she threw the breeches after the rest of their clothes.
     They were both breathing heavily as she leaned a hand on the couch next to his head – but she was smiling, and they both realized at the same time that even as he put a hand on her hip he was trying to back away, though of course there was nowhere to go. Their eyes, huge with desire, were riveted together. She took hold of him and he cried out as she thrust onto him.
     One of her hands burrowed down to his buttocks to push him further in and he whined with pain and pleasure as she ground against him. He dug his nails into her back and was rewarded with a lustful groan, then her other hand grabbed the back of his head and she kissed him so hard they both tasted blood. When she let his lips go his eyes were closed, his panting face lost in bliss, and she drank in the sight of him writhing beneath her, of her tanned, rough fingers pressing into his soft, white skin. As if they'd agreed on it, the grinding grew even wilder then, and bright flashes started taking over their senses; he clutched her and screamed out his loss of control, of place, of time; her voice was even louder as, pushing onto him, she joined him falling up into the light.

They lay in each other's arms for what felt like a very, very long time. Then she slowly opened her eyes, moved his hair away from his face. His eyelashes fluttered, then his eyes met hers.
     “You OK, honey-trap?” she murmured.
     He nodded weakly; she smiled and put a hand on his cheek.
     “Fuck,” he whispered, smiling faintly.
     “That it was,” she grinned.
     He closed his eyes, closed his face.
     “What?” she asked.
     “It was... all right, then,” still whispering, not even making it a question; glancing up, uncertain.
     “Hell yeah,” she grinned and he smiled again, made himself even more comfortable beneath her and met her gaze once more. “You know that was good, honey,” she said and he giggled.
     “Beginner's luck...” he blushed.
     She stared at him. “Ye're kidding.”
     He shook his head. “I've been a girl for quite a while, remember?”
     She joined in his laugh. Commented: “Well, it ain't never too late; you'll learn a lot here.”
     “So it seems,” he mumbled, cuddling in underneath her.
     “White Betty and Lucy Fire will happily teach you plenty,” the captain went on. “Annie Angel prefers older men, but when it's free...”
     “What?” he frowned, shrugged, shook his head.
     “There's three or four among the lads who really like boys' asses, and the rest, well, with yer hair and the dress 'n' fake boobs, most of 'em 'd go for it – as I say, when it's free...”
     “What're you talking about?” he demanded, beginning to squirm in her arms.
     “Your staying on ship, o' course.”
     “You're joking,” he stated.
     “Do I joke?” the captain rejoined and he jerked, trying to get away from her and finding he couldn't: her strong arms held him fast.
     “You're joking!” he shouted.
     “Surely thou knowest pirates' booty is shared around the crew?” she tried to calm him.
     “I'm not booty!” He wriggled, unable to move, pinned down.
     “Sure ye are, we stole you well and true. I couldn' be so selfish as to keep ye fer meself.”
     “Please, no...” He felt tears in his eyes and shut them tight.
     “But honey,” she coaxed, kissing the tears away, “you liked it, just now, didn't you?”
     “So what if I did!” he yelled. “That doesn't mean I wanna be raped by your entire...”
     “No!” Suddenly she sounded very angry and that startled him enough to look up.
     “... No?”
     She eased her grip on him. “No. On my ship there ain't no raping and there ain't no whoring. You said ye didn' want to be a pirate. Our cook don' either, but he cooks fer us and mighty fine eating it is. And just as we like eatin', we like fuckin'. Just like Cook ye'd be part of the crew, 'titled to a share and a vote...”
     “I told you I don't take orders,” he growled.
     “I know,” she smiled. “Neither does Cook, actually. He's here on his own terms. He don' feel like cookin', he don' cook. You don' feel like fuckin', you don' fuck. Then, o' course, ye're a – how old are ye?”
     “Eighteen,” he muttered.
     “Ye're an eighteen-year-old boy. When don't ye wanna fuck?” she grinned. “You must have some catchin' up te do, at that.”
     He breathed through his nose, his jaws clenched. “On my own terms?” he said.
     “Sure,” the captain shrugged. “Jus' remember, though, you got lots to learn. Try everyt'ing once, I always say.”
     He shook his head. “The men -” She easily flipped his body over so he lay on his stomach on the couch, held down; he started to struggle again but could not get free.
     “Don' knock it till ye've tried it,” she said softly into his ear. She put two fingers inside herself to make them moist, slick, then pushed those fingers up his ass. He gasped, then stopped struggling. She moved her fingers and he groaned. “All right?” she murmured.
     He moaned, inarticulate. “Yeah...” She pushed farther, moving her other hand round to his front. “But they...” His breath caught. “They'll be much bigger...”
     She laughed low. “Not as big as they think, though, most of 'em...” She bit his ear. “And you tell 'em to use some oil or summing, they will. Or answer to me. What you say?” She pulled her fingers out. “You want more?”
     “Yes!” he blurted and she turned him over again, putting her fingers back in his ass as she sat down on him, rode him.

“Part of the crew?” he whispered in the dark.
     He hadn't even thought she was awake, but she answered: “Full part. One nineteenth.”
     “On my own terms.”
     “So long as you keep an enquiring mind,” she agreed sleepily.
     “All right.”
     “Welcome aboard.”



To be continued, here.