The things I’ll do fer love

A Pirate’s Dilemma: Part the Last

This here tale be poorly suited for young ‘uns and Puritans. Ye’ve been warned!

The beauties hoisted yer ill-fated Cap’n upstairs like a sack o’ bullion. I could scarcely credit me fortune, but me self-congratulations were a mite premature. And that warn’t the only thing premature. When they dunked me in a claw-footed tub o’ suds and washed me proper, I made a right fool o’ meself, I did.

“Damnation,” said I. “I suppose that’s what ye get fer years of abstinence.”

Arumba, the Nubian, pressed some vile grog to me lips and bid me drink. “For strength, Cap’n. We have plans for you.”

That they did, I tell ye. Once that bitter brew passed, I swooned, and felt meself borne up again by their fine strong arms. And then I felt no more.

When I came to, Maria of Cordoba and Mai Poon, me Cathay princess, were ministering to me rusty equipment. Oui Oui the Parisian was doing unspeakable things to me teak leg, and Arumba was pressing her ample bosom to me parched lips. Me head swam like some dark leviathan twenty-thousand leagues deep, yet I had the sense of others in the room, scurrying to and fro like hungry bilge rats.

Above me moans, I heard Stella’s voice. “Where is it?”

And another voice, a masculine voice, but not terribly so. “Damn it, woman, search again.”

Blast! I knew that voice. One of Her Majesty’s finest, an agent of the Crown. And a right ponce, too. I recalled that this one had a long history of consorting with beauties of the evening.

It all made sense. The malt vinegar bottles on the tables downstairs weren’t for feminine hygeine — they were for fish and chips. And the ferns and calla lilies weren’t for me rival, Jack Sparrow. Oh, no, me bucko.

The Jolliest Roger had taken to servicing Her Majesty’s fleet.

“Infernal limeys!” I cried, but with Arumba’s plump endowments in me face, it came out, “Mm, mmphms!” I struggled to rise, but the double-dealing vixens had bound me hands and foot.

“Step aside, ladies,” said that infernal Britisher, Randall Richards. I felt a cold draft of air on me nether regions as me beauties shoved off me rudder.

“Ye have me at a disadvantage, Randy Dick.”

“Indeed,” said the fop. “I would know where you keep the key to your lockbox, Captain Wood.”

“Ye’ll get it over me dead body, ye limey bastard.”

He gave me a waggish smile. “Have it your way. Stella? Waterboard him.”

Waterboard? I count meself a student of the torturing arts, yet I had not heard such a thing. But me ignorance would soon be cured.

Stella hove into view, that great glorious mountain of flesh I’d once called me own true love.

“Nothing personal, Cap’n. It’s just business.”

Buck naked, she straddled me face.

“One more time,” said Randy Dick. “You have stolen bullion from Her Majesty’s Ship The Drake. We’ve searched your ship, and haven’t found the bullion or the key to your lockbox. That leaves only one conclusion. Stella? Sit.”

The mistress of the Jolliest Roger settled herself, sealing off me grizzled mouth and nose with her plenteous booty. I struggled for air, all in vain. When I thought meself a goner, she stood.

“Well, Captain?” said Dick.

I gasped, coughed, spat. “Is that the best ye can do? That be heavenly.”

Randy Dick stroked his hairless chin, pondering me fate. “A hard case, this one,” he said. “Let’s try some softer torments, shall we?”

“Oui Oui,” said Stella. “Give him The Special.”

The Special. Something about the way she said those words shivered me timbers. But I found little to fear, at least at first. Oui Oui gave me rudder the Parisian treatment, as it were, and I figgered I could stand such torture for a year or more before I’d crack.

I spent me load of shot, but Oui Oui kept going.

“Damn it girl, stop!” said I. “I ain’t yer personal mess hall!”

“Oui Oui can suck the rind off a watermelon, Cap’n,” said Stella. “I beg you to reconsider before you lose your last coat of varnish.”

True enough, the pleasures of Paradise had given way to an infernal ache. What a way to meet me maker!

“Enough,” I cried. “Ye’ve unmanned me, ye dastardly succubus.”

“You may stop, Oui Oui,” said Randy Dick. “Where’s the key, Captain.”

“Ye’ll have to look where the sun don’t shine.”

And that be me story, mates. I lost The Drake’s hoard to these scurvy scoundrels, but at least I got them to do what no beauty had never done before. Arrr, not even Mrs. Morning Wood.