Between Cutlass and Desire - 4. Aboard the Abyss

The cabin was steeped in a murky half-light. The lone lantern hanging from the wall flickered weakly, its golden glow casting warped shadows across the old wooden planks, making them stretch and twist—as if the ship itself was breathing. The steady groan of the timbers and the distant crash of waves formed a dark, hollow melody, while I sat curled on the cold floor, knees drawn tight to my chest. My mind was a storm—loud, chaotic, relentless.

My head throbbed with the weight of everything—the jagged shards of memory cutting deep. I couldn’t stop the flashes: the splintering wood of my ship as the pirates stormed it, the screams of my crew, the wet, brutal thuds of bodies hitting the deck. The smell of blood—metallic, bitter—still hung in the air, thick enough to taste.

My stomach twisted painfully, an ugly knot of hunger, rage, and fear.

But that wasn’t the only thing making me sick.

His touch still burned on my skin.

The captain’s hands, rough and demanding. His mouth—hot, brutal. The taste of him, the strength in his grip, the way he knew exactly how much I hated it… and how much worse it was that I hadn’t fought hard enough.

What’s wrong with me?

I buried my face in my arms, trying to shut it out.

Sin.

The word clawed its way to the front of my mind, sharp and cruel.

Is this punishment? Is this the devil testing me?

The thought sent a deeper chill through me, one that reached all the way into my chest. I swallowed hard, bile rising in my throat.

You let it happen.

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms. I wanted to blame him—the captain, with his wicked grin and sharp tongue—but the worst part was the echo of my own betrayal, the heat that had flushed through me when I should have been frozen with hate.

This is sin.

I squeezed my eyes shut and the words, raw and desperate, stumbled from my lips.

“Lord… help me.”

The prayer felt hollow, lost in the damp air of the cabin. My voice cracked on the last word, weak and useless.

Am I damned for this?

I didn’t even know what I was praying for. Escape? Strength? Forgiveness? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.

I tried again.

“Deliver me from this.”

But the ship just creaked in response, the wooden boards groaning like some cruel joke. I pressed my forehead against my knees, trying to bury the thoughts—bury the heat still coiling low in my stomach—but it lingered, heavy and unwelcome.

Is this how the devil works? Twisting the weak?

My hands trembled.

You were weak.

The sharp squeal of the door made my heart stop. For a single, suspended beat—nothing. Then it slammed back into motion, pounding fast and frantic against my ribs.

The thick wooden door creaked open just enough for the damp sea air to slip in, and there he was. The lantern’s flickering light caught the jagged angles of his jaw, the rough scars that slashed across his cheek.

He said nothing. Instead, he stepped inside, slow and heavy, and dropped something at my feet with a dull thud.

A crust of bread. A strip of dried meat.

I barely had time to register them before a battered metal mug was shoved toward me.

“Drink.”

His voice was low, edged with impatience. Not a kindness. A command.

I hesitated, my fingers twitching toward the handle. And then I recognized it. The mug.

Plain, battered, unremarkable. And yet, I knew it.

Not because it was unique—it wasn’t. Just a standard mug, the kind stacked in the galley of my ship, passed from hand to hand without a second thought. One of dozens, maybe hundreds. But seeing it here, among stolen goods, among the remnants of a life I would never return to…

It hit me like a fist to the ribs.

A stupid, insignificant thing. And yet, it felt like proof. Proof that my ship was gone. My life was gone. And I wasn’t getting it back.

A cold, heavy nausea spread through me.

I lifted the mug to my lips, the cool metal grazing my skin, and took a sip. The liquid inside burned its way down my throat—rum, of course, though it had been watered down, just enough to dull the edge. But the sharp bite of it was nothing compared to the heavier taste that filled my mouth.

Vengeance. Loss. Defeat.

And worse—the bitter tang of my own shame.

I lowered the mug, but the warmth of the rum did nothing to ease the hollow ache spreading through my chest. My hands clenched around the battered metal, bloodied palms tightening.

The captain didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to. He’d left his mark. On me. Inside me.

Then I stared at the bread, dry and cracked, its rough crust flaking under my fingers. My stomach clenched with a deep, hollow ache—hunger, sharp and painful after nearly a full day without food. The last time I’d even thought about eating was back when I sat at my desk, before the pirates, before the blood, before him.

I hesitated only for a moment. Then I tore into it.

The first bite felt like chewing sand—dry, rough—but I didn’t care. My teeth ground through the tough crust, crumbs sticking to my lips as I forced the lump down my throat. It scratched going down, dragging painfully along my dry esophagus, but the knot of hunger in my stomach clawed at me for more. I shoved another piece into my mouth, my jaw aching with the effort, saliva finally rushing in as my body remembered what it was like to eat.

The taste was faint—just flour, salt, and time—but it filled me with a raw, desperate relief.

I barely even noticed the dried meat until my teeth were already tearing into it. It was leathery, nearly impossible to chew, but the faint trace of smoked flavor felt like a feast. I coughed against the rough edges scraping my throat and chased it with a burning gulp of watered rum.

The heat spread through my chest—warmth, real and immediate—blending with the dizziness of eating too fast after too long.

But I didn’t stop.

I swallowed another bite, crumbs falling into my lap as I worked through the meager rations, my hands shaking with urgency. Each mouthful dulled the raw edge of hunger, but it did nothing to numb the other gnawing feeling inside me—shame. I hated how desperate I looked, how pathetic.

But I needed it. Every bite. And through it all, I could feel him watching.

The captain stood in the doorway, silent. His deep, storm-colored eyes—that dark, endless blue—glinted in the lantern’s flickering light, unreadable but heavy with something I couldn’t place.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he walked forward, heavy boots thudding against the planks, and swung his sword lazily to the side, letting it clatter against the wall. The sharp steel bit into the wooden beams before it slid down and rested at an angle, almost like an afterthought.

Then, without a word, he dropped into the cot.

The old planks groaned beneath his weight as he sprawled out—one leg bent, the other stretched long, his heavy boots still caked with sea salt and dust. The tattered edges of his coat slipped down one shoulder, and he locked his arms behind his head, settling in as if he had no care in the world.

He didn’t look at me—but I felt his attention, thick and pressing.

“You planning to just sit there?” he drawled lazily, not even bothering to glance my way.

I swallowed hard, the last bite of bread still a lump in my throat. He shifted, one booted foot bouncing idly in the air. “If you’re going to be my pet, you can at least make yourself useful.”

I stiffened. Before I could even ask what he meant, he tilted his chin toward his feet. “My boots. Take them off.”

The command was low. Casual. Icy in its simplicity. I wanted to refuse—to snap something sharp back—but my hands were already moving. I crawled across the floor on raw, splintered palms, the scrape of my knees loud in the tense silence.

The boots were rough with dried salt and dirt, the heavy leather stiff under my fingers. I tugged at one, straining to pull it free until it slid off with a sharp yank, the weight of it surprising me. The captain let out a deep, satisfied sigh.

“Other one,” he grunted.

I stripped the second boot, tossing it to the floor with a dull thud. For a moment, I hesitated, staring at the rough fabric of his socks worn thin from years at sea and then his calloused feet. He flexed his toes, and I knew what he wanted.

I’m nothing but a damn servant to him.

Yet, I reached out. My fingers pressed into his foot, the ball of my thumb dragging hard against the arch. The skin was tough, scarred, worn from years of salt, sun, and battle—but beneath that, muscle shifted under my touch. I dug in, pushing harder, forcing my resentment into each motion.

At first, it felt wrong, humiliating. My stomach twisted with the act, every movement another reminder of how far I’d fallen. But then I noticed it, the small shift in his breathing.

The way his shoulders relaxed, his arms slackening behind his head. His jaw unclenched, just slightly. He liked it.

The realization hit hard. And something in me… shifted.

My touch slowed, became more deliberate. Fingertips tracing over the hardened callouses, the knots of tension in his sole, the rough edges of old scar tissue. I pressed into them, feeling the tight muscles soften beneath my palms, the way his body began to loosen under my touch.

A low, almost contented breath slipped past his lips.

He likes this.

I didn’t expect it—but it stirred something deep in my gut. A sick satisfaction.

I have power here. Small. But real.

That thought barely had time to settle before his foot shifted beneath my grip, pressing against my palm. Testing.

I barely had time to react before his voice cut through the thick, heated air.

“Kiss it.”

I stiffened. My fingers faltered.

A slow chuckle rumbled from above me. “You heard me.” His foot flexed slightly, the ball of it pressing against my chest. “You think I don’t feel it? That little thrill when I relax under your hands?”

My stomach clenched, a hot, shameful flush creeping up my neck.

“Go on.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as I bent forward, pressing my lips against the arch of his foot. The skin was warm, rough, salt and leather clinging to it.

A sharp inhale. He liked that. I hated that he liked it.

His foot nudged me, forcing my lips lower. “Again.”

I obeyed.

The chuckle that followed was pure amusement—dark, wicked, and soaked in condescension. “Use your tongue.”

I stiffened, my breath catching painfully in my throat.

His foot pressed harder against my chest, firm, unyielding. “What’s wrong, pet? You were so eager to please with your hands.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach twisting. This was different. This was worse.

“Lick.”

The command cracked through the air like a whip. Heat burned up my neck, the humiliation curling deep in my gut. I wasn’t a dog. I wasn’t.

But a pet does as it’s told.

My tongue flicked out, hesitant, barely skimming the arch of his foot. Salt. Sweat. Leather. The taste of degradation.

A sharp inhale.

His foot nudged against my lips, demanding more. “That’s not how a good pet licks.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Willed myself to disappear.

“Again.”

I obeyed. This time, I lapped at his skin, slow, deliberate, the way an obedient pet would. The taste made my stomach churn, but the low groan that slipped from his chest made something worse twist inside me.

His toes curled slightly, pressing just enough to remind me who was in control.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with approval. “Good boy.”

My face burned, my throat achingly dry, but I kept licking—long, slow drags of my tongue against the rough skin of his sole. Salt, sweat, leather—it coated my mouth, clung to my lips.

I reached his toes. But I didn’t stop. Something inside me—something horrible, something I refused to name—wanted to keep going.

My lips parted, and before I could think, before I could stop myself, I took them into my mouth. Suckled. Like a calf at its mother’s teat.

A deep, pleased groan rumbled from his chest, a sound of pure amusement, pure satisfaction.

I had disgusted myself. And he loved it. And then his breathing changed. Slower. Deeper.

I dared a glance upward.

His head tilted back against the wall, dark hair damp with sweat, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as his hand drifted downward. Lower.

My breath caught.

His hand wrapped around himself, fingers tightening as he started to move. Slow strokes at first, deliberate, almost lazy. Indulgent. His chest rose and fell in heavy, measured breaths, each exhale a low rasp through his teeth.

God—no!

This is sin! I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t see this…

But I couldn’t look away.

The rhythm of his hand picked up, rougher now, matching the low growl building in his chest. His hips shifted against the cot, tension winding tight through his whole body. My own pulse hammered in my ears, my stomach tightening in something hot and wrong.

I hated the flush creeping up my neck. The heat pooling low in my gut.

This is wrong. This is…

But my skin prickled, my breathing quickened, and the shame tangled hard with something darker. His head snapped down, eyes locking onto mine—dark, wild, knowing.

“You like this,” he rasped.

“I…” My throat closed around the denial.

His grin widened. “Filthy little pet.”

With a shuddering breath, he let go—his body tightening, his jaw clenched as he came with a low, guttural sound that tore through the air like a whipcrack.

I sat frozen, hands limp over his feet, breath ragged, skin feverish and damp. The room reeked of sweat, rum, and something thicker—something that clung to my skin like filth.

God forgive me.

For a moment, silence.

Then—his foot nudged me, slow, deliberate.

I barely had time to react before his toes pressed against my chin, tilting my head up. His gaze raked over me, eyes dark with amusement.

“Not done yet, pet.”

My stomach plummeted.

I opened my mouth—to protest, to beg, I didn’t even know— but then his foot dragged lower, down my chest, pressing against my stomach.

“Touch yourself.”

My breath caught violently in my throat.

“W… What?”

He smirked, leaning back against the cot, watching me, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.

“You heard me. Do it.”

My whole body locked up, horror clawing through my ribs.

“I… I can’t…"

His smirk deepened. “Oh, you can.”

“It’s a sin,” I choked out, heat crawling up my throat like bile.

His chuckle was low, slow, indulgent. “And?” He spread his legs wider, watching me like he was enjoying every second of my agony.

“It’s not about what you want, pet.” His voice dropped, smooth and taunting. “It’s about what I want.”

He leaned forward, foot still pressing against my stomach, keeping me down.

“And I want to watch you fall apart.”

My chest heaved, panic and shame battling with something worse—something I couldn’t name.

“Go on. Now.”

His fingers brushed over his own thigh, almost casual, almost bored. “Or do I need to help?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Every inch of me burned.

This was worse than the licking. Worse than the orders, the way he toyed with me, the way he made me feel like nothing. Because this time, it was my own hand. And he knew it.

“Do it.”

My fingers curled against the planks, nails scraping against the wood. My whole body burned with shame, with something thick and suffocating.

I had no choice.

With trembling hands, I obeyed. My skin was hot, my breath ragged—not from desire, but from sheer humiliation. My own touch felt foreign, wrong, disgusting. The small, involuntary twitches of pleasure only made it worse, made me hate myself more.

He watched, eyes dark and lidded with amusement, his tongue running slowly over his teeth.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

The words slammed through me like a curse.

His eyes never left me. He drank in every reaction, every labored breath, every helpless twitch.

My sin had just become irretrievably apparent when he sat up with a jerk. His grin twisted, darker now.

“Think I’ll make sure you don’t go wandering.”

I didn’t understand until he pulled something from beneath the cot. A length of chain. And at the end of it an iron anklet, dull and heavy.

“No!” I scrambled back, panic surging.

But he was on me in a flash, rough hands seizing my ankle. The cold metal snapped shut around my bare skin, the click loud, final. The chain rattled as he yanked it, testing its strength.

“There. Now I don’t have to worry about you running off.” His grin curled sharper, amusement flickering in his eyes as he gave the chain a slow, deliberate tug. “Not that you’d have anywhere to go,” he mused, voice thick with mockery. “Running would be the only thing you could do.”

I knew what he meant. And worse—he knew that I knew.

His grin deepened, something almost triumphant in the way he watched my expression shift. Not a killer.

The weight of it anchored me, the cool metal biting into my ankle. A pet. Caged.

He sat back, satisfied.

“You’ll sleep there tonight,” he sneered, gesturing to the spot directly in front of his cot. “Like a good little pet.”

I bit down on the flood of words building in my throat—rage, shame, a thousand protests—but they died before they reached my lips.

He turned away, settling back onto the cot, already done with me.

The chain rattled softly as I pulled at it. Futile. Hopeless. And I hated the part of me that burned hotter now than ever.

My body moved before my mind caught up, obeying instinctively, even as my thoughts clawed and screamed in protest. I curled up on the hard planks, the rough wood digging into my ribs. The thin fabric of my clothes did nothing against the creeping cold that seeped up from the floor, its chill settling deep in my bones.

Above me, I could hear his breathing.

Slow. Steady. Self-assured.

Every inhale was heavy, each exhale purposeful, as though even the act of breathing was a statement of control. Between the spaces of those breaths, I could hear the deliberate stillness, like he was waiting—watching—testing me.

He was right there. Right above me. And his presence weighed down like a stone on my chest.

But sleep didn’t come. Instead, the thoughts did, fast and merciless. Images tore through my mind in jagged flashes.

The desperate screams of dying sailors. The metallic stench of blood—thick and choking—coating the deck in dark smears.

And me? I hadn’t fought. I’d hidden. Like a coward.

I clenched my fists, nails digging deep into my palms, but the memories clawed harder. The feel of the sword in my hands—the single moment I could’ve ended this—ended him.

But I hadn’t. And then… The kiss. That damn kiss.

I ground my forehead against my arm, trying to crush the thought, but it burrowed deeper. I could still feel it, the heat of it, the roughness, the way my body had frozen, trapped somewhere between fear and… No!

I squeezed my eyes shut, breath hitching, but the images wouldn’t stop.

My mouth on his skin. My tongue dragging over his foot. His voice murmuring ‘good boy’ like I was nothing. And worse… My own hand.

A wave of nausea rolled through me.

I did that. I let him make me do that.

The shame hit like a fist to the gut. My stomach clenched, my throat burning, but it wasn’t just humiliation. It was sin. My body still ached, a sick, lingering pulse of wrongness coiling in my gut.

God forgive me.

I curled tighter, pulling my knees to my chest, breath shallow and ragged. I had done exactly what he wanted. And I hated myself for it.

My chest tightened painfully, my whole body curling tighter, smaller. And then—suddenly—my eyes burned. I blinked hard, willing it away, but the heat built, rising until I felt the sting of tears. Hot, heavy, and unforgiving.

I pressed my hand against my mouth, trying to muffle it. But the tears came anyway.

They slid down my cheeks—hot, bitter—tracing over my skin before sinking into the dusty planks beneath me. Each one felt like a weight, sharp and suffocating.

I started to pray.

Mercy Lord, please. Please get me out of this.

My throat worked around the words, dry and silent, like my body barely remembered how.

Forgive me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this.

I clenched my eyes shut, the tears falling harder now, the shame thick in my chest.

I’m not this weak. I’m not…

But I was.

My hands curled into fists, the rusted chain rattling again, sharp and loud in the thick silence.

Deliver me from this evil. From him. From…

But the prayer faltered.

Because when I squeezed my eyes shut, I didn’t see salvation. I saw him.

The deep, wild blue of his eyes, burning with something dark and bottomless. The rough edge of his jaw, the heat of his breath against my skin. No. NO. NO!

The tears turned bitter, my throat burning.

Is this the devil testing me? Or worse: have I already failed?

I pressed my palm harder over my mouth, the sobs tearing through me, muffled and ragged. Above me, his slow breathing hadn’t changed—steady, solid.

Like he knew. Like he was waiting for me to break. But I already was. I couldn’t break any more.

I curled tighter against the cold floor, the weight of the chain biting into my ankle, anchoring me here.

Lord, please…

Hot and fast, the tears slid down my cheeks—salt on salt—tracing a burning path over my skin before disappearing into the dusty planks beneath me. I clamped a hand over my mouth, my shoulders heaving, every breath jagged and raw.

Don’t let him hear. Don’t let him see.

But he noticed.

The cot above me creaked, a slow, heavy shift of weight, followed by the deep groan of old wood as he leaned over the edge. The air thickened instantly, his presence sinking down like a stone on my chest.

Suddenly his hand reached for me. I didn’t have time to brace for it.

Rough fingers threaded into my hair. The skin of his palm was warm, calloused rough against my scalp. I flinched, my breath freezing in my throat—but the pull I expected never came. He didn’t yank. Didn’t hurt.

Instead, his fingers—those same brutal, bloodied hands—were gentle.

They swept through my damp hair, pushing the sticky strands away from my forehead. His thumb brushed lightly against my temple, a soft drag, before his hand settled at the nape of my neck, heavy and grounding.

A strange, awful calm spread through me. I didn’t want it. I didn’t.

But my body sagged under his touch anyway, the terror melting into a bone-deep exhaustion I couldn’t fight anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re made of iron,” he murmured, his voice a low, smoky rasp.

The softness in it cut deeper than the blade ever had. I froze. I didn’t want this, this fragile, twisted kindness, but it poured into me all the same, filling the cracks where my fear had broken me apart.

My throat clenched around a silent sob. And that’s when I felt it—his thumb, now tracing lazy, slow circles at the base of my skull. A comfort. A mockery. Both.

“You’ll last longer if you don’t fight yourself,” he added, quieter now. Almost like it was advice.

Something inside me cracked. A sound escaped me—small, raw, humiliating. My entire body trembled under the weight of it. I hated it. Hated him. But more than anything, I hated the flicker of relief curling in the pit of my stomach, sick and unbidden.

His grip tightened—not brutal, but firm. Anchoring. Like he was keeping me from slipping too far, from drowning in whatever storm raged in my head.

“I’m not planning to kill you,” he said after a beat, his voice rough, dragging against his teeth. Then, softer, almost amused, “Not if you stay a good boy.”

The words burrowed deep. He’d said that before. But it was different now. It sounded different. It felt different.

Good boy.

The phrase rattled in my skull, over and over. Did he mean obedient? Tamed? A pet at his feet? Or did he mean something else, that I don’t turn bad, don’t turn evil? That I don’t become like them, like him?

Did that mean… that he needed this, he needed me?

The thought flickered and died too fast to grasp.

And yet a warmth stirred in my chest, shameful and unwanted. God help me, did some part of me want to be good in his eyes? Not just safe, not just spared, but worthy.

I clenched my jaw, my throat tightening with something close to nausea.

If good meant weak, I wouldn’t survive. But if bad meant dead… what choice was left?

I hated myself for even thinking it.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away. But the phantom touch stayed. His fingers had left their mark—hot, heavy, haunting. I could still feel the drag of his thumb against my temple, the slow pulse of his fingers at my neck. The cot creaked as he rolled onto his back again, the tension in the air retreating like the pull of a receding wave.

But the weight didn’t lift from my chest.

Above me, his breathing evened out—slow, steady, controlled. Like this was nothing to him. And maybe it was. But then why had he done it?

Why had he touched me like that—not cruel, not mocking, but steady? Why had he wanted to calm me?

Why did he want to be here? Why this spot, right at the foot of his cot, close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough that every breath, every shift of his body, reminded me exactly where I belonged?

He could have had me thrown in the brig. Chained below deck. Left to rot in the darkness.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he kept me here. Near him.

If this was only about power, then why was there something else tangled beneath it?

Why did I feel his loneliness?

It was too much. I curled in tighter on the hard planks, my fingers clutching at the dusty floor like I could anchor myself to something real. My cheek pressed into the wood, damp with sweat and tears, and I felt the slow creep of cold sinking in, through my clothes, my skin, my bones.

But still, his touch lingered in my hair. Damn him. And damn me, too.

I bit my lip hard, willing the thought away, but it clung to me, coiling around my ribs, winding through my breath like a whispered curse.

Good boy. Obedience. Survival. Something else.

The words pressed against my skull, circling, refusing to fade. Would I ever hear them again? Would I ever want to?

I squeezed my eyes shut. The exhaustion I’d been fighting crashed down on me, heavy and inescapable. My body sagged, my breath slowing, matching the quiet sway of the ship.

But the last thing I felt before the darkness swallowed me was the ghost of his hand. Warm. Solid. Real. And the words that refused to leave me. Good boy.