The Incorrigible sequel, Pt. 5

by ~laziestgirlintown

Wicked pirate sequel, last part.

Night had fallen, but the pirate ship was once more lit bright by torches and coloured lanterns. Most of the crew of the Incorrigible were on the main deck, all dressed up in their finest clothes and hats, wearing jewels and silver and gold, each armed with several exquisite, lethal-looking weapons.
     Jean de la Petite Mort, beautifully painted-up as he was, noticed many of them noticing him as Pope Susie led him over to the quarterdeck stairs, placing him in front of Horned Peter. The musician had been looking out, away from the ship, but as Pope Susie walked off across the deck he turned to Jean – and his eyes widened.
     “Good evening,” Jean said, feeling a little smile on his face knowing how stunning the make-up had made him.
     “E'ening,” Horned Peter mumbled, nodding. He looked at Jean for a few seconds longer, then turned back to the sea. The new recruit followed his gaze.
     There were other lights out there. Some illuminated parts of other ships, anchored some way off. But most of the lights were cluttered together farther away, on the shore – jumbled street lamps and lit-up houses on winding, labyrinthine streets, spreading out in an irregular pattern like a challenge against the deep blackness of the land. There were other sounds out there as well, where for so long there had been only the ocean: the sounds of land close, the faint sounds of a lot of people. And there were smells of jungle and of town, out in the deep darkness under the starlit sky.
     And then, the splash of oars snapped Jean's attention back to the sea just by the ship. But he couldn't see anything through the dark, and instead looked on up to the main deck.
     Captain Crow was standing alone in the middle of the deck. She was wearing a black coat embroidered with intricate patterns in shining black silk, black pantaloons going down into polished black leather boots, and a tricorne hat that had once been black but was now the colour of night on the open ocean. A single crow's feather adorned the hat, deep black but shifting in the colours of the rainbow.
     The captain was unarmed. She rested her hands on her hips and patiently faced the side of the ship Jean was closest to. Around her, around the deck, the rest of the crew stood facing the same way – resting their hands on their weapons.
     Next to the railing, First Mate Rotten stood by a rolled-up rope ladder, looking down on the dark ocean. “Name yerselves!” he called down and there came a reply from just below:
     “Ahoy, pirates! Captain Anwick of the the Hawk be askin' permission to come aboard the Incorrigible, with his First Mate and two trusted hands!”
     Mister Rotten straightened and looked to Captain Crow, who nodded.
     “Welcome aboard, pirates!” Rotten called down and dropped the rope ladder over – it stretched and then moved. Moments later a man's head showed above the railing. His face was weather-worn and scarred, and shaded by a black hat with a wide red feather. As the pirate climbed aboard, they saw he was wearing a red-and-gold brocade vest over a white shirt, and a cutlass on either side of his belt. He bowed to Captain Crow, and then presented in a loud voice:
     “Captain James Anwick of the pirate ship Hawk.”
     The other pirate captain climbed aboard, his easy movements those of a man who has climbed aboard a thousand ships in his life. His coat and his short beard were silver. His face was sunburnt and lined but very handsome, the smile in his eyes brighter than the subtle one on his lips. His dark grey tricorne hat was unadorned but there were diamonds in his ears and elaborate silver buckles on his boots. He, too, was unarmed.
     “Captain Crow,” he greeted, with a deep bow.
     “Captain Anwick”, she replied with a steady smile, bowing without taking her eyes off him. Two more pirates climbed up onto the Incorrigible behind Captain Anwick. Both were richly dressed and both were armed.
     “I have an offer I would like to present to the Incorrigible, Captain,” Anwick continued.
     “We will talk,” Captain Crow nodded. She turned and strode to her cabin, followed by Anwick; she held the door open for the other captain and followed him inside.
     Mister Rotten and the first Hawk pirate who had come aboard took up positions to either side of the door, while the other two from the Hawk took their places: one in the middle of the main deck, the other by the railing, close to the rope ladder.

     Jean de la Petite Mort realized he'd been all but holding his breath, and with a shiver he slowly started breathing normally again. The crew of the Incorrigible began moving idly about the decks, chatting with each other and casually eyeing the visiting pirates, who were on their guard but seemed neither hostile nor uneasy.
     Many of the pirates were also glancing at or openly watching Jean himself, he saw as his gaze wandered. He remembered the face he'd seen in the mirror and it made him smile – which gave him several smiles in return.
     Some started moving towards him; the first to come up was Lucy Fire. The collar of her white shirt was open wide and low, showing a large ruby resting on a gold necklace between the curves of her breasts; she had red and yellow painted fiercely around her eyes.
     “Good evening,” Jean de la Petite Mort greeted her.
     “That it be,” she answered, her dark eyes caressing his face. “And ye be beautiful, lover.” She shook her head lamentingly. “I'd eat those lips up save I know Her Holiness'd keelhaul me if'n I ruined that.”
     Jean grinned. “You're beautiful too,” he said. “But I think you always are.”
     “Well, o' course,” she answered, her red lips quirking.
     “'Cept early mornin's,” Horned Peter muttered and they both turned to him.
     “Even then, I'm prettier'n you are, Old Man,” Lucy Fire said with an easy smile.
     “Sho. But y' ne'er rememb'r songs.” The purple scarf on the musician's head hung low on his eyebrows; his face was very dark in the flickering light.
     “So I make me own words,” waving her fingers at him.
     Second Mate Herod, White Betty and One-eye Joss strolled up.
     Herod looked Jean in the eyes and reached his hand out. “Ma'mselle Jeanne.” The new recruit offered his own hand and the pirate bowed to softly kiss his fingers.
     Jeanne de la Petite Mort smiled curiously. “I see there's no confusing you, Sir.”
     Herod stood up. “No, mam'selle.”
     “Not even now you've seen me naked.” Oh all saints and devils did I just say that? And the frowns and raised eyebrows of the others – do they not know? Do they not know how Misha - -
     “I can't believe you're not a girl, you're so fine,” the second mate replied seriously, still gently holding Jeanne's fingers. “Dost thou mind?” he asked. “Wouldst rather I called thee Monsieur?”
     The new recruit beamed. “No,” he answered. “I don't mind.” He laughed as he realized it was true. “I never minded being called mademoiselle.” I minded being called 'hey you' and piece and doll and sweet thing, he thought, but I never minded being called Nellie. Jeanne de la Petite Mort curtseyed to Second Mate Herod, not lowering her eyes. “When there be something I mind I shall speak my mind,” she said confidently.
     “Yo-ho!” White Betty exclaimed, grinning proudly. “We'll make a pirate of ye yet!”
     “Yarr – at least a pirate and a half, methinks,” said One-eye Joss. “One John and one Jenny. John of the Four Winds and Jenny of the Seven Seas, aye?”
     “Jean du Diable and Jeanne de l'Enfer,” Lucy Fire suggested.
     “Black Jack Cutlass and Red Cannon Jill,” opted White Betty.
     Jean de la Petite Mort opened his mouth to say that he'd agreed with the captain that he wouldn't be a pirate on her ship – but it struck him that the reason for that had fallen long ago: he would take orders from Captain Crow. And now that he knew the code... So he just smiled, and basked in the attention.
     “And ye'll come see our pretty town, won't ye?” White Betty asked.
     “Dead Man's Bluff will fall at yer feet,” Herod promised.
     “We want to show ye off, beautiful,” One-eye Joss added. “Bet the cap'n 'll love to stroll into Dead Man with ye on her arm.”
     “They be done,” murmured Horned Peter and all the pirates turned around as one, as the door of the captain's cabin opened.

     Captain Crow stepped out on the deck, swiftly surveyed the ship in front of her, and nodded as if to herself. She walked on to the centre of attention; Captain Anwick followed behind her, taking up position in her shadow: halfway between the two first mates by the cabin door, and Captain Crow, who stood herself in the middle of the main deck.
     It had been crowded, but now everyone stood to the sides, attending.
     “Incorrigible scoundrels!” called Captain Crow. “The Hawk be askin' for our company on a hunt.” She grinned. “A little dove is thinking to carry beautiful things all away across the sea, back to the kings and queens in the dusty lands. The Hawk feels we oughta remind her that there be birds of prey right here who be likin' beautiful things – and who take 'em when we want 'em!!” The crew cheered happily and Captain Crow turned to Captain Anwick. “Sir. I be presentin' yer plan to me pirates tomorrow. When we be agreed I'll let ye know what we've decided.” The captain bowed his assent. “And tonight, I hope ye'll stay and enjoy our hospitality a while, afore we head into town.”
     “It'll be an honour, Captain,” Anwick smiled with another bow of his head, and Crow turned round again to face her ship.
     “Right, me hearties!” she called to the gathered pirates. “There might be gold in the future but tonight there be dancin' and drinkin'! Let's have us a feast!” Everyone cheered uproariously and the captain hied on. “Peter – music! Cutter – feed us! Herod – get that cask of the really good fucking rum! Annie, there's all those bottles of the bubbly stuff as well, aye?”
     Everyone set to, running about purposefully. Behind Jean de la Petite Mort, Horned Peter's fiddle started playing, something very fast, wildly danceable, but impossible to sing to.

     Not having a chore to do, Jean alternated between watching the pirates – moving deliberately around, already beginning the feast while they were setting it up – and looking back to watch the musician's incredible hands – with the twelve strong, agile fingers moving in a frenzy over the strings.
     Some had started dancing to his music, moving round others who were setting out food. Most were already drinking, fetching bottles from everywhere and anywhere. A lot of the pirates glanced more and more often towards Jean, smiling at him with admiring, pleased or lustful smiles, and he smiled back at everyone, deciding to enjoy this evening of beauty to the fullest.
     Then, Jean's flitting gaze landed on Captain Anwick, who had sat down in one of two chairs carried out on deck. Captain Crow wasn't in the chair beside his, she was moving about among her crew, talking and laughing. The silver-haired, silver-dressed pirate captain was watching Jean de la Petite Mort curiously, steadily. Jean met his eyes across the busy deck and Anwick smiled – very subtly, almost imperceptibly: unless one was looking into his eyes. Jean raised his eyebrows and the captain's smile grew clearly visible. What did I just do, the new recruit thought, and then he heard a change in the music and turned to Horned Peter.

     The fiddle had finished the hectic dance tune with an especially rapid flourish, going into a lingering, mournful note as the preparations on deck were done and the crew found their places, settling down.
     Jean watched Peter's long dark fingers pressing down strings, holding the bow so delicately it seemed to be moving of its own accord. He heard which song was beginning to rise out of the winding notes, and the young man did as the musician had taught him: remembered those large hands moving across his skin, playing, teasing, caressing, bringing him close to the feeling of being able to fly. Blood rushed to his face – and to his groin – and he grinned; then he closed his eyes, and leaned back against the wall to keep himself steady. When the music came to the right place he started to sing.
     It was Blood red roses, and he sang it all the way through without opening his eyes. The fiddle's melody and the suggestive lyrics fed his memories of Horned Peter's hands moving freely over his body, making his skin tingle. Eventually he realized he was even moving as if someone was touching him. And this time he heard it himself, how his feelings, his arousal, carried his voice – making it more emotional, more evocative... well, sexier.
     The song ended and the fiddle fell silent – to a much larger silence. Jean de la Petite Mort felt a pleased smile on his face as he opened his eyes. Everyone was watching him intently. His smile faltered a little; his cheeks flushed with heat and he wondered if it showed through the make-up.
     Then, behind him, Horned Peter began playing the guitar: Port Vert girls. Jean was still looking round at his audience when he started singing. His gaze lighted on Captain Crow, and he decided to experiment: calling up memories of her hands on his skin. Oh yes, that worked just as well. He felt a tremor in his voice and the captain's eyes widened. A grin grew on Jean's face as he looked from one lover to another, bringing their most intimate touches into his memories and into his song. His pulse thundered in his ears and he felt himself growing hard.
     When he came to the last verse he glanced across his audience once more and flinched as he got the impression that about half of them were poised to spring at him like predators if the slightest movement encouraged them. He breathed out with the last words and shut his eyes again, realizing he was panting. Horned Peter started playing Ev'rybody's doing it. Is he crazy? Jean thought. Well, so be it. If a dozen of 'em want to fuck me right here, let 'em. Still with his eyes closed, leaning on the wall and shivering from imagining twenty different hands moving over his skin, he began singing.
     Almost at once, Pope Susie's voice joined his. Immediately after that, Philippe Kingfisher and then White Betty took up the words, singing along. Jean peeked up with a cautious smile, hair curling in front of his eyes. More and more joined in until nearly everyone was roaring, bawling or howling the song.
     It ended in disharmony and laughter, whistles and applause, the new recruit unable to stop giggling.
     Behind him, Horned Peter promptly took up another tune. Call round any old time, it was. Jean de la Petite Mort laughed wickedly and sang – this time letting his gaze travel determinedly, openly seductive, from face to face, those he had fucked and those he hadn't, including the Hawk pirates and their captain. He felt intoxicated with the attention and desire he met and drank it all in: if this admiration was only for tonight he wanted to get as much out of it as he could. He swayed his hips to the music, threw out his arms in the chorus, leered, winked, playing it to the full, repeating the last chorus twice – and the song was ended. The pirates began applauding and cheering, and Jean, still grinning, closed his eyes and bowed his head for a second.
     Then he looked up and said, “I think that'll do for now.”
     He turned on quivering legs and climbed the quarterdeck stairs, sitting down on the top step, above Horned Peter, above everyone. Alone, in half-darkness, he rested his back against the wall, looking down on the deck.
     The pirates finished their cheering and Horned Peter played on; everyone got up to dance and drink and eat, talk and laugh and flirt with each other. Jean let his eyes drift closed, trying to get his breathing under control.

     Shortly the guitar fell silent and the fiddle took up a waltz. The new recruit opened his eyes – to see Captain Anwick heading right for him.
     The captain stopped at the foot of the stairs, bowed courteously, and when he looked up his pale blue eyes easily captured Jean's, in spite of the gloom.
     “Might I have the pleasure of a dance?”
     His voice was engaging, melodious. Just like before, Captain Anwick's eyes were smiling more than his mouth. He held out a hand. Jean swallowed, then stood up.
     “It would be my pleasure, Captain,” he answered.
     He walked down the steps, laying his hand in Anwick's, and when he came down on deck the captain bent to kiss it.
     Rising again the pirate looked directly into Jean's eyes. “Captain James Anwick of the Hawk, at your service.”
     The younger man felt a sudden urge to laugh, but reined it back to a wide smile as he replied:
     “Jean de la Petite Mort, at yours.”
     He pronounced it so it could almost just as well have been Jeanne; and bit back laughter again as he saw the pirate's eyes grow large, the smile lines around his eyes falling back.
     Then in one smooth movement, Captain Anwick stepped up and moved them out into the waltz, taking the hand he'd kissed in his left hand and laying his right arm around Jean's waist. His eyes never once left the young man's face and his strong arm held their bodies closely together as he whirled them across the deck, in and out among the other dancers.
     His partner met his serious, absorbed gaze with a soft smile that may have had a bit of smirk in it.
     “You dance a very good waltz, Captain,” Jean said after a few moments.
     The smile began returning to the pirate's eyes. “Please allow me to return the compliment,” he answered.
     “All I'm doing is following your lead, Sir.” He blinked his long eyelashes and relaxed into the firm embrace, fitting his body to the captain's. Anwick drew in a breath through his nose and tightened his hold. What a tease I'm being, the new recruit thought. But he is a good dancer.
     “Have you been sailing with Captain Crow long?” the pirate asked, his voice lower now.
     “Aye, Sir. All of two whole days.”
     Captain Anwick's smile grew a bit further. “And are you enjoying a pirate's life?”
     “Well, I'm enjoying pirates.” The answer came easily – and the captain's smile was back as if startled awake, lighting a fire in his eyes.
     “Ye are, are ye?”
     Jean nodded. “Oh, aye indeed, Sir. Shiver me timbers and everything, Sir.”
     Abruptly, the strong fingers resting on Jean's waist pressed closer, warm through the thin shirt, caressing eagerly – while the heel of his hand, which hadn't moved, pushed their bodies even tighter together.    
     “Do that belay the shivering?” Captain Anwick murmured: obvious, burning lust rising in his voice and in his gaze – and between his legs.
     Oh shit, Jean thought as he felt himself respond immediately and unstoppably, his own sudden arousal no doubt at least as conspicuous as the captain's, his eyes refusing to break free from the older man's gaze.
     “No, Sir,” he answered, his voice hoarse. “No, it doesn't.” Completely unbidden, a tremor ran through his entire body. The pirate, inescapably, felt it too, and smiled. He moved them through a few more turns of the waltz, Jean's skin heating and his breath speeding up as his befuddled mind tried to think what on earth to do next.
     “Tell me, Jean de la Petite Mort,” Captain Anwick said softly. “Are ye... with... someone?”
     And the young man's smile lit up at once, with pleasure and pride as well as relief: he knew the answer to that. He straightened his shoulders, moving his body slightly away from the older man. “Aye, Sir,” he said confidently. “I'm with the Incorrigible.”
     The pirate captain blinked; then he bowed his neck just a fraction. “Savvy, me friend.” He, too, subtly drew back.
     They were still looking into each other's eyes as they danced on but their smiles were calmer, the fire waning. At the end of the waltz Captain Anwick brought them to a halt in front of Captain Crow, who was standing beside the dance floor with Annie Angel, Archibald Albatross, Naughty Natalee and the Cook.
     Annie Angel bowed to the visiting captain. “Might I have the next one, Sir?”
     Anwick held out his hand. “Certainly, Angel.” They spun away out onto the deck as the music started up again.
     Jean de la Petite Mort looked sideways at the Incorrigible pirates. “I didn't lead him on too much, did I?” he asked, quietly.
     “Ye barely touched 'im,” Naughty Natalee and Cook Holm muttered in chorus.
     “He'll remember you,” Albatross grinned.
     “My li'l honey-trap,” Captain Crow nodded, smiling. “Which remind me: are ye comin' with us into town?”
     He met her brown eyes. Of course I'm coming with you. “Aye, Cap'n,” he answered. “Ye wanna show me off?”
     She laughed and took one long step up to him, wrapping both arms round his waist and pushing their thighs, groins and stomachs together. “By the topgallants aye, I do!” Jean, smiling, returned the embrace. “Actually,” the captain continued, “I were wonderin' if you'd wear this dress I've stolen.”
     He thought for a second. “I don't think I could take off this shirt without wrecking Pope Susie's work.”
     “Whose shirt is it?”
     “I borrowed it from Misha.”
     The captain turned her face and shouted: “Sunshine!” The cabin boy came running up. “Would ye ask the Russian, may I cut his shirt in half if'n I buy him a new one?”
     “Aye, Cap!” Sol En El Mar exclaimed, and ran to the stairs to scurry down below decks.
     “What colour is the dress?” Jean asked, feeling Captain Crow's fingers tracing the bones of his spine through the thin cotton shirt.
     “If yer eyes could blush,” she replied. “That colour.”
     “Cap'n!” he grinned. “Ye're a poet, ye are!”
     She smirked back at him. “It be the truth.”

     Naughty Natalee sauntered past them over to the cook, with a mischievous smile on her lips. “Ye know, Cutter, sink me if I'm not in the mood for a little somethin'...” she crooned.
     Cutter Holm looked up, frowning. “That spread ye had earlier di'n fill ye up then?”
     “I reckon I did most of the spreadin', matter o' fact...but ye know how these snacks leave you wantin' fer summing with a bit more... ah... meat to it.” She stepped closer to him and let her fingers roam over his chest.
     “Oh?” the cook growled.
     “And as all know...” her hands travelled southward and encountered a fair bit o' wind in the sails, “Cook Holm have the best sausage in all o' the seven seas, and nothin' compares to the way he handle oysters for tha' creamy soup.”
     “Oh I'll put a fine boudin in yer salmagundi,” he muttered, grabbing her arm – and they hurried off together, to the stairs leading down to the galley.

     Archibald Albatross gazed after them, fanning his face with one hand. “And I should have very much more of that Champagne, while it's still cold,” he said and walked off with resolve in his step – leaving Jean de la Petite Mort an Captain Crow on their own.
     Jean's eyes drifted slightly away from the captain's. “I really didn't go too far with Captain Anwick?” he asked, uncertain.
     “Did ye not fancy 'im then?” she wondered.
     His eyebrows flew up and his mouth fell open – he was possibly looking comically surprised. The captain laughed at him, and shook her head.
     “I wager our Angel's doin' her best te broadside 'im right now. As her lover, do ye object?”
     “Well, no.” It struck him what he'd said even as the captain went on:
     “Nor would she or any of us've objected if you'd've jiggered 'im. Well, just in this case Annie'd be jealous, but...”
     “Oh,” Jean breathed.
     “Ye wanna have another go at 'im?” Captain Crow asked.
     He looked at her grinning face and considered it – for a second, or two.
     “No,” he realized, feeling his smile coming back. “Ye know, Captain Anwick's handsome and sexy and a great dancer and all, but...” Jean's hands moved over her back, down below her waist. “But I don't want him. I'm with someone.”
     The new recruit met his captain's eyes, and held her close – and then the cabin boy was dashing up to them, beginning to deliver his message even before he stopped: “Mister Dimitritch says it's okay and he wants a black or red shirt to replace it and bring him back something from town and fill his pescipshun as soon as conveyn- - conneve- - um, when ye can.”
     “Right!” Captain Crow said and slapped Jean's bottom, glancing up at his face. “Ye wanna dance more first, lover, or shall we dress ye up?”
     Jean de la Petite Mort looked into her brown eyes. In the periphery he saw the cabin boy running off again among the dancing and feasting pirates on the main deck, and he smiled, cocking his head to one side. He nodded once and then looked out over the deck.
     It wasn't long before Jean found what he'd thought he would: Dead Eddie, watching him and the captain attentively. “Just a moment,” he said to her, freed himself from the embrace and walked through the feast over to the pirate standing by himself.
     “Good evening,” the new recruit said.
     “Good evening,” Dead Eddie answered.
     “The captain's going to cut me out of my clothes. I was wondering if you'd like to watch?”
     The pirate's red-brown eyebrows lifted. “Aye. I would.” He nodded. “Thank ye.”
     “C'mon then,” Jean smiled and led the way between drinkers and dancers back to Captain Crow. “Dead Eddie's going to watch,” he told her.
     “As ye wish,” she answered, and they grabbed a few lanterns, bringing them along to the captain's cabin.

     They set the lanterns up around the cabin and Captain Crow opened a closet, taking out a long dress which shimmered dully in the light.
     “You were right about the colour,” Jean said as she brought the dress over to him.
     “O' course I'm right.”
     She draped the dress over the couch; it looked like a woman sleeping there. Then she tilted her head to Dead Eddie. “Sword or knife, Eds?”
     “Sword, please,” the pirate mumbled.
     The captain took her sword and baldric down from a hook on the wall, buckling the belt on over one shoulder. Then she drew the blade from the scabbard with a ringing sound, flourishing it in a wide arc which ended just in front of Jean's stomach – he gasped and tensed and the tip of the blade delicately lifted the hem of his shirt.
     Slowly, the captain slid the sword further in under the shirt, pulling the cloth away from his chest. When the sharp point pushed out of the shirt's collar, Jean lifted his chin, leaning his head back, his eyes never leaving the captain's. And then the sword cut outwards, rending the shirt open in one swift slash.
     Jean let out the breath he'd been holding as Captain Crow lowered her sword, walking around to stand behind him. His gaze moved over to Dead Eddie, who watched intently as the captain took hold of the torn shirt's collar and pulled it off the young man, stretching his arms backwards.
     There was the sound of the sword being sheathed, and the captain stepped up close to Jean. She laid her hands on his bare waist, slid them round to his stomach, and down to his breeches. His breath and pulse started speeding up as she slowly started undoing the buttons, one by one.
     Dead Eddie, also breathing faster, was looking steadily at what the captain's hands were doing. And what those hands did next was push the new recruit's breeches and knickers down to his thighs, and move back up to close around his prick. It rose immediately to her touch. Jean's eyelids fluttered and fell shut, and he leaned back against the captain with a sigh.
     She started moving her hands gently but determinedly and he was just about to ask what she was doing when he glanced up and saw Dead Eddie staring at him, panting, touching himself with one hand down the front of his breeches. The captain's face was down against Jean's shoulders, and the young man realized he was doing his job as the ship's lover – with Dead Eddie.
     The captain's hands moved away, one up to his chest and one down to his thigh, and Jean groaned, spreading his legs a little for her fingers, as he took his hard prick in his own hands. He began massaging slowly, then faster, experimenting, trying to surprise himself, using fingers or palm or the whole hand; panting and moaning as the pressure built in his balls.
     Captain Crow moved a leg in between his and dug her fingers into the flesh of one of his buttocks. Jean jerked himself harder, dizzily trying to hold back until he saw that Dead Eddie, too, was on the verge of climax; then he closed his eyes. He gripped himself tightly with one hand and slid the other to the tip of his prick, forcing it to be gentle where the other was rough. As he finally gave up control he swooned, with faith in the arms that held him up – yelling out loud when he came into thin air, hearing beneath his own noise the bit-back, muffled grunts of the pirate across the cabin.
     In the silence that followed, they heard music from the deck outside. Guitar and fife, and a strong tenor singing. Parts of Jean's mind drifting back were idly thinking he couldn't place the voice, but then he snapped fully back to himself as the captain dried him off with the torn shirt, and pulled his knickers up. She walked back around him and he looked up into her eyes.
     She smiled crookedly. “First night back out on the seas is mine,” she said.
     “Oh yes,” Jean de la Petite Mort agreed. Then he looked over at Dead Eddie, who also smiled a little. The pirate met his gaze and nodded his thanks.
     “Let's get our lover dressed up fer showin' off, then!” the captain grinned.
     She walked off into the darker corners of the cabin and Dead Eddie wandered closer; he was still studying the younger man's undressed body, his eyes now and again straying up to meet Jean's. For a second they smiled at each other; and then Captain Crow came up to them with her arms full.
     “Think I'll let ye gird this contraption on yerself,” she said, holding out Nellie's bodice-and-fake-breasts.
     “Sure,” the new recruit replied, taking the outfit from her and tying it on with swift, practised movements.
     Then the captain turned to Dead Eddie, nodding back at the younger man, holding Jean's knife out between them. “He has this holstered to his thigh.” The new recruit also looked at Dead Eddie, until the pirate's blue-green eyes glanced tentatively up at his face.
     “Wanna lend me a hand, mate?” Jean asked.
     One moment passed.
     Then Dead Eddie nodded. “Sure.” He looked at the holster as he walked up to them, took it from the captain, and went down on one knee. “Which leg?” he muttered.
     “The left,” Jean de la Petite Mort answered quietly.
     The pirate carefully laid the short belt around his thigh, and closed the buckle. Two fingers pressed in underneath the leather, over the softest skin, waiting there for a few seconds, to see the strap wasn't too tight or too loose. Then Dead Eddie pulled his fingers out, tied down the holster's lower sash and stood back up.
     “That good?”
     “Aye,” the new recruit answered. The pirate's eyes caught his for another fleeting instant, then Dead Eddie walked away into the gloom outside the lanterns' lights.
     “One of these nights,” Jean de la Petite Mort muttered after him – then turned, smiling, to the captain, who was walking up to him with the dress and the pair of boots he'd worn earlier.
     “Ye do learn fast, don't ye,” she grinned.
     “I'd better, I've got some catching up to do,” he answered, looking pleased with himself.
     She held up the dress for him to step into, then she walked round him – fingers trailing along his waist – to button it up.
     Coming back to his front again, the captain fiddled for a while with the décolletage; he felt her trying to push his fake breasts around.
     “Um, Captain?” he said, and she raised her face to his. “Jeanne doesn't actually have cleavage to show.”
     “I know, smart-ass,” the captain sneered, letting him go. “I'm trying to git back a li'l o' that ambiguity ye had goin' for ye. But yer boobs are too shapely.” She caressed one of them gently. “Ye never did say what ye made 'em of?”
     “I can keep some secrets, can't I?” he answered, bending down to pull the boots on. “Some o' the pirates out there want to think they're real...”
     The captain studied him, frowning. “Awright. But ye need some edge. Ye can't just be beautiful.”
     Jean de la Petite Mort shrugged. “Give me a weapon and a sword belt?”
     “I were gonna do that anyways. Ye do not go into Dead Man's Bluff wivout a visible weapon.”
     The new recruit considered some suggestions – wooden leg, eye-patch, parrot, tattoo, beard, discarding them all – and then he grinned happily. “So my edge will be that they don't see what my edge is. They'll wonder all night what me secret be. I'm coming to port with the Incorrigible scoundrels – there must be more to me than meets the eye.”
     Both the pirates stared at him for a few seconds – then their grins grew to challenge his. “Ye're gettin' it now,” Captain Crow beamed; Dead Eddie, silently smiling, nodded his agreement. Swiftly stroking Jean's arm, the captain walked past him to the closet she'd fetched the dress from; she came back with a sword belt.
     The belt itself was almost plain, but very good quality. The scabbard, long and crescent-shaped, was unadorned except for an intricate but very sparse pattern skilfully worked into it. The sword's handle was wound in scarlet: the captain grabbed it and drew the blade.
     Like the belt and scabbard, the blade was simple at first glance; it curved like the very newest moon. But when the captain turned the sword over – suddenly seeming to direct the music they faintly heard from deck – the new recruit saw glittering shadows of patterns worked into the steel. He saw how exquisitely sharp the weapon's lethal edge was.
     “Ye know how to use it?” Captain Crow asked him.
     “Haven't the faintest,” Jean whispered.
     “We'll see to that later. By the Deeps, this damn thing do most the work itself anyway.”
     She sheathed the sword and stepped up to him, strapping the belt around his waist, copping a feel while she was at it. The weapon rested lightly on his hip. Then she stepped back, crossed her arms on her chest and looked him over. Looked him over attentively for quite a while. Finally, she nodded decisively.
     “That'll do.”
     The captain turned her side to her new recruit and held out her arm. He laid his hand on it, moving close to her, and she led them up to the door. He quickly learned to match her stride as she threw the door open and marched them out onto the main deck.
     
     All the pirates on the ship turned their attention to Captain Crow and Jean de la Petite Mort. He blushed hotly at the admiring curiosity, but his smile was just as as pleased and proud as the captain's.
     “Right then, me hearties!” she called. “The Incorrigible scoundrels be goin' ashore now to Dead Man's Bluff!” The crew cheered boisterously. “Captain Anwick,” she went on, turning to the other pirate captain, who was watching her as they all did, holding Annie Angel by the hand. “Mayhap we'll be seein' ye ashore?”
     “I've a feelin' our crews will cross paths, Captain Crow,” Anwick replied with a bow. He turned to Annie Angel; they looked into each other's eyes for a few seconds, then he bent to lingeringly kiss her hand. He stood back up and smiled at her. “Until we meet again, Angel.” Then he looked around and called:
     “Hawks of the nine oceans! We fly to join our aerie and swoop down on the bluff!” Back straight and head high, Anwick strode over to the rope ladder, his three pirates immediately gathering to follow him: down the ladder and then off in their boat.
     The pirates turned back to Captain Crow, who went on: “I need volunteers to stay aboard our home.”
     “I be here,” Dead Eddie said behind her. Jean glanced back to see the pirate leaning leisurely against the door jamb of the captain's cabin.
     “And I,” Singapore Lou said, nodding at his captain.
     “Thankee,” she answered, glancing over the gathered pirates, counting one missing. “And when Naughty Natalee's had her fill in the galley, tell her she be volunteered as well.”
     “Aye, Cap'n,” Lou answered.
     “Righ' then!” Captain Crow exclaimed. “Into the dinghies wi' the incorrigibles!”
     The crew cheered again and headed determinedly to the sides of the ship. They gathered the lines that would lower the two small boats and began to haul.
     “No, wait!” their captain interrupted. They stopped to look to her, and she grinned. “One of us be wearin' a long dress wi' wide skirts. No good fer climbin' down the side – my idea, beg yer clemency.” She turned to Jean. “P'rhaps ye'd get on board one o' the boats now, an' we'll lower ye with it.”
     “Aye aye, Captain,” he nodded and walked towards the starboard boat, which hung just by the gunwales. Coming up to the railing he started to plan the project of climbing aboard in a long dress with wide skirts – and then he was swooped off the deck. Second Mate Herod cradled Jean steadily, one arm behind his back and one under his knees – and then swung him over the side of the ship onto one of the seats of the small boat. The boat rocked in its ropes and Jean hastily grabbed the board he was sitting on, blinking back at the smiling pirate.
     “Thanks for the leg-over, Monsieur,” he said, slightly out of breath from the sudden relocation.
     “Ye're welcome, mam'selle,” Herod answered. Then he took hold of a rope and the pirates resumed lowering the dinghy, dropping it quickly down the side of the ship.
     And the ocean seemed to reach up and grab the small boat, pulling it down, clutching it eagerly. The waves that had been subtly felt up on the ship were close and curious down here, brazenly rocking the dinghy port to stern, side to side, trying to tumble its passenger. Jean spread his legs and pressed his feet onto the boards in an intuitive attempt at holding the boat still – and then pirates were dropping down all around him.
     Captain Crow landed on the seat facing his and yelled: “Loose!” The lines holding the dinghy to the Incorrigible were thrown off and the pirates hove to the oars. The little boat surged off over the waves, towards the cluttered irregular lights of Dead Man's Bluff.
     Darkness closed around them. Jean de la Petite Mort imagined he felt the currents and surf of the sea directly through thin planks, tickling the arches of his feet and nudging at the pads of his toes. The board he was sitting on moved as if of its own, jostling him this way and that – alternately rolling him onto White Betty to his left and The Dragon Rose to his right. The pirates' steady oar-strokes bore them forward, challenging the rhythm of the waves, drawing a straight course through them.
     “Let's teach our new singer one of our own songs, me scoundrels!” the captain called and the crew on both boats all cheered, and began to bawl and shout – and you should know which song it was:
               We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot.
                    Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
               We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot.
                    Drink up me 'earties, Yo Ho!
               Yo Ho, Yo Ho! A pirate's life for me.
     Jean quickly joined in on the choruses and the two boats seemed to fly over the sea, carried by the song, closer and closer to the lights of the port.

     When the last verse and a dozen last choruses had rung out they were there.
     The darkness had fallen back again as the lights of Dead Man's Bluff spread out over the water: lights blazing from the windows of dockside inns – lights burning in torches and lanterns stationary or carried by the large and small thronging crowds of people.
     Crowds of pirates, Jean amended his thought as he heard more of the talking, singing, yelling and fighting all round. Definitely pirates.
     The dinghy pushed in between two other boats, bumping up against the timbered pier. Lucy Fire sprang up into the light on the jetty to tie a rope round an iron ring. The other Incorrigible dinghy landed further up the pier.
     Captain Crow jumped ashore after Lucy Fire – and turned to hold her hand out to her newest recruit. Philippe Kingfisher and Archibald Albatross stood themselves at the prow and clasped their hands together to make a step for him.
     Jean de la Petite Mort rose and found his balance; when he had it he picked up his skirts slightly to climb over the seat in front of him. He set his foot up on the improvised step, laid one hand in the captain's steady grip and leant his other on Archibald Albatross's shoulder – and together the pirates easily lifted him up onto the pier.
     Captain Crow grinned as she caught him. “Welcome to Dead Man's Bluff, lover.”
     “Thank ye, Captain,” he answered, with a smile that he kept stable when he looked to shore.
     The crew was gathering behind him and the captain – and the scores of pirates crowding the streets and open inns of the town were noticing them, turning to watch.
     “Aye, that be right!” Captain Crow called out, laughter in her voice. “The Incorrigible be comin' to Dead Man! Pour the rum and strike up the music and let nobody stand in our way tonight!” Her pirates cheered a loud, fearless challenge behind her and she looked over at Jean, her brown eyes glittering. “Ready for it?” she asked.
     He looked from her to their audience, fierce-looking proud armed drunk pirates every one of them – and his smile grew to a grin to match hers as he took the arm she reached out to him. “Aye,” he said. “I'm Jean de la Petite Mort an' ye be Captain Nora Crow, and we be the Incorrigible. Let nobody stand in our way.”
     And they strode into town.  


The End.

... except it continues here...