Below Deck

Below Deck

A Dark Erotic Pirate Tale

The scent of salt and rot lingered thick in the air, wafting from the planks above where footsteps echoed like war drums. Ropes creaked with the ship’s lurching, and water sloshed somewhere in the shadows. A single lantern swung from a hook, casting slow-turning golden light across the cell bars. Within that pool of dim light, she sat—Lady Miren of Fairbrook—her silken dress torn and stained, her ankles chained to a rusting ring in the deck.

She had not spoken in three days. When they’d taken her, it had been chaos. Her father’s galleon, bound for the mainland, had stood no chance against the pirates’ speed and ruthlessness. They’d boarded with steel and fire, their banner black with a serpent’s tongue. Her guards were slaughtered before they could scream. She remembered the flash of blades, the crack of muskets, the sudden silence when the ship fell.

And then the man with the scar.

He hadn't worn the captain’s coat, but the way the crew deferred to him made it clear: the first mate ran this vessel in practice if not in title. He was tall, with sun-darkened skin and sea-wind hair, and eyes like polished obsidian—emotionless, unreadable, even as he grabbed her chin in the wreckage and smiled.

That smile stayed with her still.

The hatch groaned open above. Lantern light grew stronger, footsteps descending slowly. She didn't need to look to know it was him. No one else came down here.

He ducked beneath the low frame of the hold, coat brushing the beams, boots clicking with measured steps. He carried no weapons, only a coil of rope and a bottle of something dark.

"Evening, my lady," he said, voice smooth as oiled leather. “Still not talking?”

Miren lifted her chin. "Not to you."

He chuckled, the sound like gravel soaked in wine. “You will. They always do.” He uncorked the bottle and took a long, deliberate drink, then crouched just outside the bars. “But I’m in no rush.”

His gaze slid over her like smoke—lingering where her dress had split at the thigh, where the lace at her chest had loosened from struggling. She'd tried to preserve modesty at first. That instinct had died on day two.

What do you want?" she asked, quieter now.

“From you?” He tilted his head. “Everything.”

She narrowed her eyes.

You’re worth a fine ransom, Miren of Fairbrook. But a woman like you... a noble... proud. Untouched." He smirked. “Men will pay gold for your body, but I prefer the slow games. I want your voice, your shudders. I want to see you kneel, not because you were beaten—because you chose to.”

"You’ll die waiting."

He unlocked the cell.

She tensed, pulling herself upright. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won't,” he said, stepping inside. “Not yet.”

He hung the rope on a beam. No threats. No sudden grabs. Just presence. Control by existence.

He sat beside her—not too close, just within reach—and placed the bottle between them.

“You’re dehydrated,” he said.

“I’m not drinking anything you offer.”

“Then die thirsty.” He leaned back against the wall, one leg bent, the other stretched lazily. “But if you change your mind, you’ll ask politely.”

She glared.

“You want to stay defiant. That’s noble.” He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “But what happens when the defiance is all that’s left? When the cold wakes you, when hunger claws, and you dream of the heat of skin instead of rescue?”

His words were slow, deliberate. Not cruel—seductive.

"I’ll survive without you."

"But not without need," he whispered.

He stood, looming above her now. "Tomorrow, I bring water. Maybe food. But no chains this time. Just rope. You’ll hold still, and you’ll let me. You won't be forced. Not once. I want you to resist... just enough."

Miren's breath caught.

He turned away without touching her. The gate clicked shut. Lantern swinging. Footsteps up the ladder. Gone.

That night, the ship rocked gently beneath her, but she did not sleep.

She hated how his voice echoed in her head. Hated that her body ached with a need she didn’t choose. Hated that her thighs pressed together without command.

The next evening, the hatch opened again.

She hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

He entered with the same casual dominance, coiling the rope in his hand like a priest with prayer beads.

“You haven’t earned food,” he said. “But I brought the water.”

He set the bottle down, then waited.

Miren stared at it. Her throat burned. But she said nothing.

“You know what I want.”

Silence.

He smiled faintly and turned to go.

"...please."

He paused.

She swallowed the word like venom. “Please... may I have it?”

He returned. Unscrewed the cap. Held it out—not offering, but expecting her to take it from his hand. She reached—and he withdrew slightly.

“Teeth, and the bottle’s gone. Understood?”

She nodded.

He let her drink—only a mouthful—and took it away.

“You did well,” he said softly. “Now for your reward.”

“I didn’t agree to—"

“You did. The moment you obeyed.”

He approached slowly and drew the rope from his belt.

She sat motionless, breath tight, spine braced. But she didn’t flee. She could have pulled back, spat, screamed. She did none of those.

He knelt behind her and brushed her hair aside.

His breath was warm on her neck. “I’m going to bind your wrists,” he murmured, “but you’ll keep them behind you on your own. Because you want me to see you—open and restrained, not taken. Given.”

Her hands trembled.

But she slid them behind her back.

The rope slipped over her wrists like silk, slow and careful, his fingers skilled and unforgiving. He tied her in silence, the knots pressing gently into her flesh—not painful, just firm. Permanent. Claimed.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You were made for this.”

She exhaled slowly, heat crawling up her thighs.

He circled her like a shark around prey, then dropped to his knees in front of her.

His fingers lifted her chin.

“This is where the fall begins,” he said. “Not with screams. Not with tears. With a look like that in your eyes.”

She didn’t know what he meant—until her reflection in his pupils told her.

Desire. Confusion. The want to spit on him—and the equal want to be touched.

He leaned in slowly, stopping just before their lips met.

“You can beg,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to want it. Allowed to shudder. Your bloodline doesn’t protect you here.”

Her lips parted—but no sound came.

He kissed her neck instead, slow and possessive, each breath warm against her skin. His hands slid down to her thighs, thumbs pressing just inside the torn edge of her dress. Not cruel. Not even forceful. Just inevitable.

One palm cupped her through the fabric, and her entire body arched despite herself. She gasped.

“There it is,” he said.

She hated the sound she made. Hated more that he heard it.

“I’ll stop,” he said. “All you have to do is say so. Or pull away. That’s your power.”

He paused, hand unmoving. Waiting.

She should have said it. She should have twisted from him. But she stayed. Breathing harder.

And so he continued.

Time dissolved into heat and salt and the slow slide of hands.

Her ropes tightened with each movement—reminding her who bound her, who controlled the pace. He touched her without rushing, fingers coaxing rather than claiming. She burned beneath him, hatred and hunger twined together in each moan she couldn’t suppress.

When his lips finally found hers, she returned it.

It wasn’t surrender. It was admittance.

A war she had already lost.

By the time he stood, her dress was tangled at her waist, her wrists still bound, chest rising in shuddered breath. He didn’t release her.

“You’ll stay tied,” he said. “Not as punishment—but to remember who you’re becoming.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He kissed her again, just once, like sealing a pact. Then gathered the bottle, the rope ends, and left her there.

Alone.

Wet. Trembling. And—most damning of all—wanting more.

The ropes bit gently into her wrists as the ship rocked through the night.

Miren lay in the same position he left her—knees parted, breath slowed to uneasy slumber, the ache between her legs still pulsing with memory. Her thoughts twisted in the dark, caught between revulsion and craving, between who she had been and what he was making her.

She had not cried.

But she had moaned.

When the hatch creaked open the next evening, she felt her body tense before she even opened her eyes. The lantern swayed in his hand again, casting long, swaying shadows over the cell.

This time, he said nothing as he entered.

The First Mate crouched beside her like before, but he didn’t reach for the ropes or the bottle. Instead, he stared at her with quiet intensity—calculating, studying the cracks.

“You dreamed of me,” he said softly.

“I didn’t.”

“You woke up wet.” His hand moved to the edge of her dress, still bunched from the night before. “You’re trembling. Don’t lie to me.”

Miren turned her face away.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

His fingers slid beneath the edge of the fabric and lifted it slowly, baring the inside of her thigh.

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But your body’s learning that hatred burns the same way lust does. And your body wants to burn.”

She tried to pull back, but the ropes held. She clenched her thighs.

“You always have the choice,” he murmured, placing the knife beside her. “Cut yourself free. Walk away. But if you stay…”

He let the sentence hang between them.

Her eyes flicked to the knife. Her hand—bound though it was—could reach, with effort. He was testing her. Offering control only to see if she dared claim it.

Slowly, her hand stretched, fingers brushing the hilt—

But she stopped.

Not because she couldn’t. Because some poisoned part of her didn’t want to.

His smile returned.

“That’s obedience, little dove. Not forced. Chosen.”

Her stomach twisted, and not from hunger.

This time, when he touched her, she didn’t flinch.

He untied the rope slowly—ceremonially. Her wrists were red and sore, but she didn’t pull them away. Instead, she watched as he took the length of rope and re-coiled it deliberately, then placed it in her lap.

“Tie yourself,” he said.

Her breath caught.

“No.”

“You can,” he said, voice a whisper. “I’ve taught you how. Simple binding. Nothing cruel. Just wrap your wrists and kneel. You do it now, or I leave—and next time it won’t be me who comes.”

She blinked.

“What?”

He stood and crossed to the cell door. “The captain returns tomorrow. He likes his toys loud and broken. I don’t share my possessions—but I also don’t protect the unclaimed.”

He turned back.

“So... are you mine?”

Her fingers closed around the rope.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned onto her knees. The wood beneath stung. Her hands trembled as she looped the rope behind her back, tying as he had—sloppy, imperfect, but real.

He approached again, silently, gaze dark with something feral.

When she lifted her chin—bound, kneeling, defiant in posture but trembling in surrender—his breath hitched.

“Good girl.”

What followed was not like before.

He did not tease. Did not test. He took.

He dragged her closer by the hair, not cruelly, but firmly—marking the shift. His belt hit the deck with a snap. Her lips parted on instinct and confusion.

"You know what to do," he said.

She did.

And once his cock filled her mouth, there was no illusion of equality. He used her. Held her head in place, hips grinding slow and deep. She gagged. She drooled. And yet, she stayed. She let him.

“You’re learning,” he murmured, gripping her tighter. “No screams. No sobs. Just obedience.”

She hated how wet she was.

When he finished on her tongue, he made her swallow. She did.

Then he wiped her mouth and kissed her forehead—like a reward.

“You’re becoming beautiful,” he said. “And mine.”

He left her bound there, satisfied, breathless, skin damp with sweat and shame.

But she didn’t feel broken.

She felt... chosen.

The next night was silent.

The crew didn’t descend. No one came. The hatch stayed closed. She drifted in and out of sleep, mind fractured by need and fear.

And then the morning came.

She heard new boots on the stairs—heavier. Slower. Someone else.

The captain.

He entered like a stormcloud—broad, scarred, with rings on every finger and a gold tooth glinting in his grin.

“Well, well,” he rasped, voice like scraped iron. “So this is the little lady my First Mate’s been playing with.”

She tried to rise. Couldn’t. The rope still bound her wrists, her knees bruised on the wood.

“You’re not his,” the captain said, unlocking the cell. “You’re mine. Everything on this ship is mine.”

He approached, reaching to seize her jaw.

And then—

A voice behind him.

“She is mine.”

The First Mate had arrived.

They locked eyes—Captain and subordinate. The tension rippled like lightning between them.

“She made her choice,” the First Mate said. “She knelt. She obeyed. She’s claimed.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Miren.

“Is that true, girl? Speak it.”

Miren trembled. Her lips parted. And for the first time, she spoke the words aloud:

“I belong to him.”

Silence.

Then the captain laughed. Deep and cruel.

“Then you’re his responsibility,” he said. “And if you break... it’s his punishment.”

He left without another word.

Later that night, the First Mate returned.

No rope this time. No threats. Just him.

She sat upright, wrists raw but no longer bound. Her eyes searched his.

“I said it,” she whispered.

“You did.”

“I meant it,” she added, more quietly.

He crossed the cell and dropped to one knee before her.

“Then there’s no more pretending,” he said. “You’re mine.”

He took her that night—not like a captor, but like a master. She didn’t resist. She guided him. Pulled him. Opened herself and begged—not with words, but with breath, with moans, with the clutch of her thighs.

And when he finally took her fully, deeply, as she gasped beneath him in the flickering dark, she whispered:

“Yours.”

Not forced.

Not stolen.

Given.

END