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How on earth could the DeMauriers, Sparrows, Turners, Shimura, Whitfield, Bertram, Gibbs etc. families exist in the present day if they never actually really existed in the past?
Honestly, this is SO made-up it’s ridiculous.
Note: This is happening now-ish, like maybe last month ago or next week or so...
All Tessie’s Children 5
Captain James Norrington peered through the mist. He pushed down the panic, focused on the goal. Always focus on the goal, he reminded himself.
Who was he kidding? There was little hope, even if the kidnappers did find him in this fog, that they would release the boy, and an almost zero chance they would let Norrington go free. He would deliver the money, and they would kill him. He was certain of that now, after three days of drifting in this ocean-bound hell.
There was mostly fog and darkness. When the fog and darkness did lift, there was endless water with no way of finding his way home. When the sky was at its brightest, there seemed to be a haze over everything; the sun appeared as a blur, diffused to an indistinct smudge. His instrument panel was dead. His communications were gone. Even his watch wasn’t working.
He had water to last another week, maybe, then he’d be dead, whether the kidnappers made the rendezvous or not.
He’d prefer a fight, to be honest. He’d rather die from a bullet or a blow than thirst on the open water. He knew his heart wouldn’t be in it, though. He had nothing to fight for. A rich man’s son. His employer’s son. A spoiled brat he didn’t even like. He never should have left the service.
He wouldn’t have, if he’d known he would be reduced to this.
The saddest part was this: he didn’t think anyone would miss him. He had no wife, no children, no girlfriend, no roommate. Not even a dog or a goldfish. He was that ex-navy guy down the hall, quiet, polite, didn’t go out much. Read a lot. Took the trash out for his neighbours. “We had no idea he led such a dangerous, exciting life as a private security provider. If we’d known, maybe we would have paid more attention to him.”
He sat on the deck, not caring anymore, head in his hands. He should be alert, he should be watching for signs of life, he should be on duty 24/7. But there didn’t seem to be any point to it. There was nothing to be alert to.
Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t heard the motor, no pumps running. Nothing. It was nigh impossible for a ship to sneak up on him like that in the open water!
But there it was. And it was huge. Silent as the night, and almost as dark.
Norrington lifted a hand to his eyes and stared up at the huge main mast, the dark sails, the complex rigging. It was like something out of the books he used to read as a boy. A pirate ship straight out of legend. This had to be some kind of joke. Or he’d been out here longer than he thought and was hallucinating.
The rope that fell with a thud to the deck at his feet was real enough. The side of the ship loomed above him, menacing.
“Ahoy,” a voice shouted. “Don’t just sit there swingin’ the lead, lad. Tie the money on and we’ll haul her up!”
They were going to grab the money and sail off. He grabbed the rope and tied off the case full of hundreds. They were going to leave him to drift and die.
He looked up, almost straight up, to the deck of the ship above. It was a trick of the light. The angle or that damnable haze. He could see shadows above him, imprecise silhouettes, phantoms hovering at the edge of the rail. The rail of a ship he’d never seen the likes of outside a museum or a book of maritime lore.
These weren’t kidnappers. They were ghosts. Ghosts of pirates from times long past. Haunting the already-haunted waters of the Bermuda Triangle. All the ghost stories he’d ever read, breathlessly whispered tales around the campfire on land, and below deck at night when he was in the sea cadets, flooded his mind.
James Norrington wasn’t the sort of man who believed in ghosts and phantoms. But there was no other explanation for a ship that had to be at least two hundred years old popping up in the very middle of a calm ocean.
The thud of the rope ladder beside him was even louder than the rope had been.
“Haul arse up here, mate. You must be starving!”
Oh, great. They were going to feed him, then kill him. Keelhaul him or force him to walk a plank or hang him from the yardarm… Norrington could run, but what good would it do him? He’d be sailing in circles until they caught up to him. Might as well face the demons while he still had some strength.
Strong hands grabbed him under the arms when he reached the top of the ladder. He was tossed onto the deck as if he weighed no more than a housecat. The force of the landing knocked the wind from him.
“Wha’d’ja do that for, Gibbs? For Jack’s sake, he’s not a toy, ya know.”
“Sorry. Don’t know me own strength, sometimes.”
“Bloody teenagers…Captain Sparrow! He’s aboard.”
Norrington looked up at the biggest, widest, hardest-looking teenager he’d ever seen. And he’d seen some pretty tough guys in the service. This kid had shoulders like a football player wearing the pads, and when he smiled down at Norrington he showed two gold teeth in an otherwise normal mouthful of bright white.
“Hullo, mate. I’m Danny Gibbs. This here’s Mr. B. That’s for Bertram, don’t you know.”
“No, I do not know,” Norrington couldn’t help muttering. He did not appreciate being manhandled by some overgrown child.
Mr. B. was a tall, slim man with smooth, coffee-coloured skin and a rather elaborate set of braids arranged around his head. Quite handsome, Jack couldn’t help thinking. So was the kid, in a burly sort of way. His skin was a touch lighter, and his hair was shorn quite closely, except for a long tail at the back, braided neatly and beaded with trinkets made of what looked like gold.
Gibbs hauled Norrington to his feet. “Sorry, like. You’re none the worse though, eh?”
“Put him down, Gibbs! You’re like an over-anxious puppy.”
Norrington whirled in the direction of the disdainful, and decidedly female, voice.
“Sorry, Captain. Can’t ‘elp it - I’ve never seen an outsider up close-like afore.”
Well. Norrington had never seen anything like that in his life, from any distance.
She was tall, almost as tall as Mr. B., with an almost identical but even smoother skin tone than Gibbs, like coffee with two creams, and pitch-black hair that fell in heavy, richly adorned twists and braids and turns almost to her slender waist. She wore thick black boots with a wide cuff, black trousers tied with a bright green sash across her trim hips and a flowing white shirt. A spotted orange and black cat perched on her shoulder, looking like a mildly malevolent sprite.
A pirate ghost.
He must have been staring with his mouth hanging open. She laughed and gold flashed in the sun. Her eyes squinted, the skin crinkling under thick, black kohl. “Never seen a pirate captain before, then, Captain Norrington? Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m Captain Wilhelmina Sparrow, and this is my ship, the Tessie Tetra. Don’t be worrying about your precious job security – the lad was released two days ago. I hear he’s back at the family compound, safe and sound, already. So if you decide you want to go back, you’ll be gainfully employed.”
“Go back. You mean you’ll let me go?”
She threw her hands up in a flurry of sparkling rings. “I would never hold a Norrington against his will!”
James had to admit it was an excellent meal. He finished every scrap of stew and biscuit, washed it down with a mug of hearty ale, and hadn’t felt so satisfied by a dinner in years.
He was most unsatisfied by the captain, though.
Captain Sparrow lounged on her side of the table, feet up on a chair, tossing back shots of rum and throwing him meaningful looks. She talked as if she’d known him all his life, and she did seem privy to most of his doings: what schools he went to, his military record, his employment history, his ex-wife (it had only lasted eight months – she’d left him for a stockbroker), his employer. She also seemed to know he wasn’t very happy with any of it.
But she wasn’t giving much information about herself, or her crew, or this remarkable ship.
The cat lounged on the bed, eyes ever-alert and trained on the intruder. Norrington had the impression that if he ever threatened its mistress, his eyes would be in danger.
“Smoke?” the cat’s mistress asked, flipping open a silver box filled with hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Quit three years ago.”
“I know. But that was those corporate death sticks. These are organic, no additives, savvy? You don’t crave them nearly so much, so you can keep it to a manageable level, like.”
Given the primitive surroundings, he half expected her to pull out a flint and light the cigarette by some sort of archaic ritual. He almost laughed when she reached into the side of her boot and pulled out a Zippo lighter with the iconic face of Bob Dobbs painted on the side. She flipped it open expertly and took a long drag.
“Tell me about your ship, Captain,” Norrington said. He’d been asking since he’d been brought on board, and she’d been waving away most of his questions with a flash of gaudy jewellery. Norrington was determined, this time, to learn more.
She smiled around the cigarette. “Tired of talking about you?”
“I’ve never met a Captain who didn’t want to tell me all about his, or her, ship…”
“Don’t play games with me. You don’t want to face up to your miserable life, that’s fine. I’ll talk. I’ll entertain you for while.” She got up and walked to the window, running her hand over the ornate trim. “This here’s the fourth Tessie, obviously. She’s been running for forty-three years. We keep very good care of our ships, you see. She’s an almost exact replica of the original ship of our people, the finest ship that ever sailed. The Black Pearl.”
Norrington was sailing on the ocean in a replica of a folk tale.
“You’ve heard of her?”
Norrington shrugged. He’d heard of her. Of course, he’d heard of her. His father used to entertain him with bedtime stories of the mythical Black Pearl and the adventures of her crew of loveable miscreants. “I suppose that’s why you call yourself ‘Sparrow’ then?”
She frowned, and her eyebrows kinked into bemused squiggles. “No,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a dull-witted child. “I call myself Sparrow because that’s my name. My lineage goes back to Jonathon Sparrow, son of Jack Sparrow, and Veronica Whitfield. She was the daughter of Commodore Jackman Whitfield, the very Commodore that replaced your ancestor, and namesake, Commodore James Norrington.”
James stared blankly. “What ‘Commodore Norrington’? I’ve never heard of such a man.”
“Oh, I suppose not. Bit of a black sheep, I’d say. Only one to reach the rank of Commodore, though he only held it for two years. But then, he’s not so much a direct ancestor, because you come from the Edgar Norrington’s of Boston, don’t you? That was Commodore Norrington’s eldest brother, wasn’t he? Oh, I’m not sure now. Manabu told me all about it, but I can never keep the generations clear in my head. That’s why I’m a captain, not a chronicler. Now, Manabu, he’s got all this in his head – his mother is the head genealogist of the clan. He’s due to take over when she passes, but all the Shimura’s are good at that sort of thing. Especially Manabu. Lovely man. It’s a shame really. He’s not much on women. Now, let me see if I can find the tree, I know I have it here somewhere…”
She rooted through a trunk and Norrington took the opportunity to study the cabin. Other than the lighter, he hadn’t seen anything more modern than a radio that looked about forty years old. He wondered if he’d stumbled across an eccentric billionaire, living out pirate fantasies. Maybe the whole kidnapping had been a hoax, and this was the way rich people were having fun these days. They used to hold elaborate murder mystery parties, back before they started starring in their own reality TV shows.
Captain Sparrow babbled on about Jonathon Sparrow. He’d made some sort of an abrupt change in his life, at the exact same age his father was when he met his true love, and the same age Norrington was now, when he found a woman he loved, and this was considered some sort of a miracle. Perhaps, Norrington thought, pirates don’t fall in love very often.
Captain Sparrow slammed the trunk closed. “Ah, here we are. It’s not the latest version, but it takes us up to young Gibbs’s birth, I believe.” She hefted a thick roll of paper on the table and rolled it out.
Norrington could only stare at first. It was covered, every inch of it, in fine black lines, interconnected and intersecting, linking names and dates inked in a careful, delicate hand. The patterns were intricate, weaving together to create a swirling fractal, something that may have been, for all Norrington could discern, a Mandelbrot.
Captain Sparrow was tracing a path through the lower right side of the page. “There, that’s me,” she muttered. And sure enough, there she was, Wilhelmina Sparrow born January 17, 1977. She followed the lines up and to the center, tripping over the blacker bits where the relationships went in every which direction. “And I go back all the way back to the man himself…”
And her finger rested, near the center of the page, under the meticulously scribed name, Jonathon, Earl of Duncroft, Captain Jack Sparrow. The lines spiralled out from him in every direction, and Norrington realized it was less of a family tree and more of a family web.
Norrington cleared his throat. “The ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’, I presume?”
Captain Sparrow grinned. “You have heard of him.”
Norrington grimaced. If this was a fantasy, it was an elaborate fantasy, to say the least.
Of course, he’d heard of Jack Sparrow. He’d also heard of Paul Bunyan, Robin Hood and Peter fucking Pan.
A bell sounded in the distance.
Captain Sparrow brightened. “Ah, that would be Manabu, now. He’s been dying to meet you, you know. We haven’t corrupted a Norrington in decades!”
“I beg your pardon?”
But it was too late; she was out the door.
Manabu Shimura, as it turned out, was an exceedingly handsome man with knotted, dreaded, braided, decorated hair, dark-toned skin and dark eyes (but without the kohl), lean, strong frame and elaborate, archaic pirate clothing, similar enough to Captain Sparrow’s as to seem her brother. Or cousin. Later, Norrington would attempt to trace the lines of the family web and ascertain the exact relationship, but he couldn’t quite get his head around it. There were too many generations and too many convoluted twists. They greeted each other as close family, called each other ‘cousin’, which Norrington later learned was the accepted greeting among within this extended clan no matter what the actual blood relation might be. They hurried to the cabin once Shimura was on board.
“Ah, the elusive James Norrington. It was a devil of a task to get you away from civilization, I must say. Took a good deal of scheming before we settled on kidnapping your employer’s son. I was sorry to have to involve the lad. As it turns out, the kid’s a bit of a stick and I was more than happy to send him home.”
Norrington gaped.
“Oh, yes, I’m very pleased to meet you,” Shimura continued. “You’re of the Edgar Norrington’s of Boston. Fine family. Captain Reginald Norrington was of your line, was he not?”
Norrington straightened his back. Reginald Norrington was a family legend. “The Civil War hero,” he said automatically. The man’s name was rarely ever uttered without the sobriquet.
“That’s what they taught you, eh?” Captain Sparrow said with a snort.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Manabu said. “He was a deserter. We picked him up off the coast of Virginia in 1865. Delightful man, from what I understand. Had three wives, eleven children in all, not counting the ones he had with your great great great grandmother on the outside, of course. Loved the pirate life, that one did. Wrote several songs about the man himself.” Manabu clapped his hands and began to sing in a soft, deep voice. “Captain Jack, he sailed the sea, a greater pirate ne’er ye be. Watchful of the changing tide…”
“…Trusty Turner by his side,” Norrington finished.
“You know it!”
“Of course. It’s a children’s song.”
Wilhelmina Sparrow guffawed.
Manabu Shimura cleared his throat. “I see the legend has been somewhat tidied up for outside consumption. Never mind. We’ll set you straight. Or rather, not straight. Things have been twisted to make them palatable for the outside. You see, James, we have a different way of viewing relationships here.”
“And just what do you mean by ‘here’?” Norrington demanded.
“Why, the Bermuda Triangle, dear cousin.”
“The Bermuda Triangle?”
“Well, you didn’t think all those legends were made up by boy scouts and conspiracy theorists, did you? All those ships and planes and people couldn’t have vanished into thin air as a result of magnetic disturbances or storms or ghosts.”
“We’ve kept up the family tradition of benevolent piracy,” the captain added.
“You mean to say that you, or your family, have kidnapped all those missing people? Stolen the boats and planes?”
“We need new blood, like any community. And swag. It’s not everyday you can get someone to willingly enter your territory with a suitcase full of money, you know.” The two pirates shared a brief chuckle.
Shimura sobered quickly and elaborated, “We don’t kill unless it’s absolutely essential for the survival of all, and we’ve provided medical care for hundreds of stranded travellers. Besides, no one has ever stayed against his or her will. People are quite happy to live on our islands in peace and harmony. Get away from the rat race, as it were.”
“And all the legends - it’s been nothing but pirates all along?”
“And a few grouchy Aztec gods,” Captain Sparrow muttered.
“Aye, them as well,” Manabu agreed. “Also, some peculiarities of the weather that create a fair amount of storm activity around the perimeter. There are a few magnetic… eccentricities. You’ll find your regular instruments are of no use here. We have our own.”
Captain Sparrow swung a small, round wooden case from a gold chain and grinned at Norrington.
“And of course,” Shimura continued, “there have been a few instances of… over-protective gods. Aocmoilhuicpa, in particular. He’s very protective of all Sparrow’s descendents, so you’d best treat this one with due respect.” Manabu gestured toward the smug-looking captain. “And you’d best start learning about the ancestors, because everyone will refer to them and you won’t be able to follow a conversation without knowing them.” He pointed to the far wall.
Every inch was covered with framed portraits. Norrington had noticed the odd paintings when he’d first entered the cabin. Rich oils and swirling watercolours.
“Copies,” Sparrow had said when they entered. “The originals are all on land, away from the salt. They’re good copies, though. That sort of talent is inherited,” she’d added with a wink.
Norrington squinted at the names etched on small, bronze plaques beneath the heavy, carved frames. Someone lit another lantern, and then the names from fables and tall tales leapt out, along with less familiar ones.
Jack Sparrow. Will Turner. Anamaria DeMaurier. Alphonse and Matthew. Tessie.
“This Tessie?” Norrington asked.
“The one my ship was named for, aye,” Sparrow answered. “That’s her last husband, Bootstrap Bill Turner. Looks a lot like his son, eh?”
Norrington looked up at a dark portrait of a melancholy-looking man, beautiful in face, with smooth cropped hair. Spitting image.
“No, no, that’s Charles Dubois,” Shimura corrected. “He wasn’t a Turner. Or at least, we didn’t think he was. But as it turns out, Bootstrap had an aunt who was shipped off to the New World as a potential bride for a fur trader or what have you, and we suspect… we don’t know for sure… the records are poor from back then, you know…we’re still looking for conclusive proof.” Manabu traced a finger over the frame of the painting. “Rough life, that one had. Until a DeMaurier claimed him.”
Claimed him??
“They had many happy years together, almost as many as Jack and Will had.” Shimura pointed to the largest portrait. Two men, one a handsome, proud looking man in a feathered hat, the other resplendent in an array of ornaments, rakish, roguish… Norrington looked up sharply, at the assortment of trinkets and scarves and kohl that made up the distinctive look of Captain Wilhelmina Sparrow.
She graced him with a winning smile.
“Good lord. They aren’t just stories, are they?”
They could still have been. This ‘Sparrow’ could still have been some sort of delusional, demented eccentric. She could have painted the portraits herself, made up the whole thing. But something about them seemed authentic.
Norrington looked back at the portrait. Jack Sparrow’s arm was slung casually over Turner’s shoulder. They were standing quite close. They looked utterly at ease with each other. And the insinuation had been made that they’d had many happy years together. Together. Happy.
And they said it had been decades since these people had ‘corrupted’ a Norrington.
What sort of mess was he in?
Shimura sidled up to him, all sinuous grace and seduction. Norrington was suddenly and acutely made aware of the man’s lean muscles, tensed under his flowing silk shirt and snug trousers. Shimura had even white teeth and full, reddish lips. He radiated heat and sensuality. And he looked at Norrington with the darkest, deepest eyes he’d even seen.
“You don’t happen to fancy blokes, do you Captain?” he all but purred in Norrington’s ear.
Norrington jumped.
“Don’t scare the lad, Manabu. This is all new to him. Give him time to adjust.”
Sparrow took his arm, led him away from the paintings. Sat him down on the edge of the wide bed. “Maybe you should have a rest, James. It’s been a long few days out there in the mist. Don’t fret. We’ll make berth at Terra Liberty in the morning, and you can meet more of the clan. Stay with us a while, and then you can make your decision.”
“You’ll really let me go, if I decide I want nothing to do with your ‘clan’?”
She gave him another one of those meaningful glances.
Norrington was stunned. The kohl beneath her eyes was thick, but from this distance, he could see that she had extraordinarily thick, black lashes. Her eyes were a rich chocolate colour, her cheekbones prominent, lips a touch pouty and definitely pretty. A pink tongue darted out, and Norrington felt the sweat break out across the back of his neck. The hand on his shoulder was strong, bejewelled, long-fingered and calloused. Firm. The fingertips pressed into his muscles. The captain smelled of the sea, faint tobacco and a spicy undercurrent with a hint of sweet rum.
The stresses of his three days adrift, the shock of being brought aboard this ship, the discoveries he’d made, all made his head spin. That and the fact that this bizarre, eccentric, aggressive, striking and alarmingly beautiful woman was close enough for him to feel her warm breath on his cheek.
“Of course. You’re free to do as you please. But we both know you’re not going to want to leave us, don’t you?”
James Norrington opened his eyes to watch the sun creep across the floor of the cabin. There were his new boots, the high, brown leather pair, made for him especially by one of the DeMauriers. He couldn’t remember which one.
He’d met dozens, scores, maybe hundreds. All hard and weathered and tough, all beautiful. Truly beautiful, in form and manner. None of them frowned the way people on the outside did all the time. Norrington had never noticed before, but most people back home wore their mouths perpetually downturned at the corners. The people here truly did seem at peace, even when they were engaged in piracy.
The island of Terra Liberty was large, mostly rolling hills. Cows, goats and horses wandered freely. The town was a bizarre mix of the old and new. Technology was sparse, and carefully applied. The waterfalls produced electricity, but it was only used for things it would be nigh impossible to accomplish without it. There were computers. There were communications devices. There was medical equipment. All this existed beside blacksmiths and people grinding grains by hand and large parties of women and men sewing together and weaving on ancient looms. The brewers of ale and distillers of rum used centuries-old methods. The food was unrefined, full of taste and goodness. The clothes and furnishings and people themselves were a hodgepodge of styles from the last three centuries, with jarringly modern touches applied to the ancient with much flair and little concern for consistency.
There were packs, prides he guessed they might be called, of spotted cats, descended, he was told, from the original Monkey of Black Pearl fame. In fact, everyone was descended from, or married or adopted into, the DeMauriers or the Turners or some other ‘original’ family. Of course, the Sparrows were numerous.
The Norringtons were thrilled to meet him. He was welcomed warmly and the histories of the various branches of the family were recited to him over late-night dinners. The Gillettes were quite friendly with the Norringtons, so he met a few of those as well.
In fact, many people, male and female alike, seemed quite happy to meet him. Very happy. Very friendly. There was a friendly atmosphere overall, and he’d learned to be careful when rounding corners and entering clearings. No one seemed particularly upset when they happened upon amorous activities or when they were interrupted in the midst of them. It seemed to be taken as a natural occurrence.
It was shocking at first, but Norrington had adjusted after the first few times he tripped over couples. He was flabbergasted one afternoon when he entered the public bathhouse and found two stunning young men engaged in an act he found quite appalling and unnatural. The young Turner had grinned at him shyly and started to apologize, but was interrupted when the other man, a Sparrow judging by the liberal application of smeared kohl under the sparkling green eyes, dove back down between the Turner’s uplifted arsecheeks and slurped noisily. Norrington had beaten a hasty retreat, and spent the next few moments trying to forget the rolling purr that had escaped the pretty lips of the young man, and wondering why he was so hard all of a sudden.
All in all, he was feeling a little dazed after the flurry of activity and the fact that last night had been the designated time for him to make his decision.
No one had ever decided to go back to the outside. Not that anyone could remember. A few had gone back for visits – that’s how stories of the Black Pearl had percolated down through his family over the decades. But it seemed that most people, whether they were related and sought out as Norrington had been, or random travellers caught in the Triangle by fate, decided to stay for good.
Norrington’s gaze swept over the floor. Next to his boots lay a pair of black, cuffed boots with heavy heels and a silver buckle. Lovely boots. Proper pirate boots. A warm foot trailed lazily up his right calf.
How could he have chosen to go back to his lonely apartment, the job he hated, the miseries of trying to find some sort of companionship in a world that cared more for the trappings of success than who a person really was? How could he not want to be free, to feel wanted, to enjoy himself for a change? Maybe even feel loved…
Beside the black boots lay another pair of black boots, a little less ornate, with a thinner heel but a thicker sole. Another warm foot tickled the back of his left knee.
Norrington was brilliant in a crisis situation, in the field. He was known and respected for his ability to function under battle conditions. In his personal life, though, he’d always been hesitant to make definite choices. His hesitancy had cost him several relationships.
“Back to sleep, James. It’s too early to be making decisions. You look all discombobulated…tell you what, we’ll extend your deadline.”
Norrington sighed as Captain Sparrow licked a wet line across his shoulder.
A warm, wet tongue tickled behind his ear. “She’s the captain, she’s allowed to do that, you know,” Manabu Shimura whispered silkily in his ear.
James shifted, rolled over, studied the dishevelled, naked pirates surrounding him, draped across him, wallowing in the damp sheets and thick scent of sex that surrounded them all.
“I thought I was supposed to choose.”
Wilhelmina smirked. “You honestly think you could choose between us?”
James shook his head. Helpless. He accepted Manabu’s offer of the slim cigarette, inhaled the pure tobacco gratefully. In a situation like this, sometimes only something as insubstantial as smoke could make you feel grounded. He found he did not crave it at all. It was like anything else in this strange place. There for the taking, if you wanted it, but with no pressure.
“So, I’ll extend the deadline indefinitely…”
“Stay until you decide…”
“Even if you never decide…”
“Why decide? Take things as they come.”
“We’ll sail the ocean… pirate some swag from rich people, visit the outside every now and then to have a tavern brawl, scare the odd upright citizen, visit the family when the opportunity presents itself…”
“Spend every single night in this cabin, naked and sweating…”
James groaned. He ached deliciously all over from the exertions of the night before. He remembered the tangle of slick limbs and tongues, the pull of mouths sucking on tender skin, hands all over him, hands that loved his hard muscles, didn’t shy from the scars, weren’t afraid to delve into unexplored territory. The taste of sex, toned muscle and straining sinew. Thrusting into wet heat. And the indescribable feeling of completion as he was filled with hard cock at the same time.
“And you didn’t even know you liked men,” Shimura chuckled.
“Well, he’s learned to be flexible about these things,” Wilhelmina grinned.
“After all, that’s the Pirate Way,” Norrington said.
End
Please check the Heart of Slash site for any updates to the Pirate Way.
Thank you for reading The Pirate Way.
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