Morning broke its peculiar yolk over the sky, and thus as light progressed and it grew warm, a tantalizing omelet of golds and oranges and vermilions was made, and the intoxicating beauty of the day—the colors of the sky, the taste of sea salt upon her lips, the gentle buck and sway of the ship, the sound of First Mate O’Corrigan screaming, “At mast, ye scurvy butts!”—all of it filled Brianna’s heart almost as much as the memory of Alexandra’s first encounter with a strap-on phallus.


Ah! thought the lusty pirate, fingering the broad buckle at her waist—was it just last night that they had surrendered all to each other, flesh, hearts, souls, and minds, when her time-traveling little starting oboist from the Cleveland Symphony Orchestra finally admitted there was nothing she wanted more than to practice her technique—her embouchure, as she called it—upon the whole of Brianna’s finely muscled body?


She turned around suddenly, confronted with the great glory of Alexandra buck naked, sleeping soundly upon the great brass bread, her splendorous ass rising above the tangled sheets like the untouched bounty of a newly discovered Pacific Isle. Except that Brianna had touched and plundered that body part—indeed, the entirety of Alexandra—again and again last night. She was a “Lost Continent” no more! She was colonized and imperialized, a corrupt local puppet government had been set up inside her heart.


Feasting upon this sight, Brianna’s loins felt as spicy as her cargo from the Far East, as if her clitoris were a knot of fresh cardamom, her entire genitalia as fiery as an Indian curry. Her vagina was a vindaloo! Her nostrils flared in frustration. How she missed the food of Bombay!


Brianna swaggered over to the bed. Well, she thought, if she could not have Indian food, she would have the girl from Shaker Heights. The pirate loomed over the bed. Her hands, always perpetually at rest upon her scabbard or her belt, were about to proceed in removing her pants when Brianna saw the oboist’s dark head stir upon the pillows.


Alexandra attempted to blink away sleepy dust from her eyes as she looked up to Brianna. “Well well,” she rasped sleepily. “My little barnacle cannot tear herself from my side.” She stretched as graceful as a cat—until she rolled her neck, which composed a sickening symphony of pops, snaps, and creaks that made Brianna wince—and she sat up and tossed her black hair out of her eyes with a final triumphant pop from a neck vertebrae. Her sea-colored eyes smoldered as she reached out to draw her pirate lover closer.


“You best tell the lads you are indisposed again,” she purred to Brianna.


“I won’t hear of it,” the pirate captain declared staunchly, even as Alexandra unbuckled her belt. “You may think this ship runs itself, Alexandra. And it is true, my men are well trained and know my wishes and commands so completely that they require little guidance these days. Still, if we are to make it to New Orleans in time for Mardi Gras, I assure you, my presence on deck is not merely an asset, it is a necessity.”


Alexandra’s initial response was peeling the tight leather trousers off Brianna’s body. “And I assure you, my dear, it is a necessity that your asset is on my face within the next five minutes.” She ran her hands over the solid wonders of Brianna’s thighs and teased the moist, soft, deliciously scented, furry little juncture between the two legs, pleased at the pirate’s hiss and sudden lurch into her touch. “Oh. And Brianna?”


“Yes, my love?”


“This time“—Alexandra’s gaze hardened into an invective that could not be broached— “the parrot cannot watch.”

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