Xebec

Motion… Not so much rocking as softly rolling. A sensate lullaby of ship-water movement slowly waking me to powerfully charged awareness.

Sensation… Texture. Scent. Crisp-soft sheets and cool not-yet-dawn air against uncovered bare skin. Downy short-cut male hairs bristling velvet under questing fingertips. Air laden with the complementary fragrance of sharp citrus clean and ocean-heavy sea air arousal.

Awareness. Of the stirring-awake masculine figure at my side, whose head I have been absently petting in my drowsy rousing, of the stinging prickle of desire needling hot across my exposed skin, of the honeyed spice of heady need flowing thick through my veins, intoxicatingly seductive.

And then a voice. “She’s awake.”

I am caught in halfsleep, the thin veil of unawake both shrouding clarity and enhancing sensation, and while I know I am – in actuality – ensconced in the familiar cushioned warmth of my own bed, I am simultaneously – in my dreamscape -somewhere else…

There are two of them; who they are, I don’t know, but I *do* know that there is hierarchy here and that piece of knowledge is my power. And my pleasure…

I turn, my body in a half-sprawl, slowly coming aware of my actual surroundings. My nipples harden at the barely-there brush of my silky cotton sleep shirt over their flushed ache, and I flex my inner thigh muscles, rubbing the damp proof of my want against the wet center seam of my sleep pants. My nostrils flare at the fuck me fragrance rolling off my heated skin, permeating the surrounding dawn-light air. I dip my hand below the waistband of my pajamas and stroke my fingers through my wet curls, pushing their tips against my clit. Sliding slick across my slit, I push tight inside my heat, plunging back into my dream.

A three-masted vessel, we. Adrift on a sea of sheets…

Full. Impossibly, spread-taut, achingly full, I am sandwiched between the press of their bodies and being impossibly stretched. Their cocks are hard. Beyond hard. Purple-veined, straining, beautiful. Mine.

But it’s not their cocks filling me. Not now. Not yet.

One of my pirates – so that’s what they are, then I think to myself, followed by the realization that I must therefore be the captain of these marauders, as they are most certainly beholden to me – is holding me upright from behind with one hand, his ornately cuffed wrist wrapped around my front, pressing hard enough against my abdomen to imprint its design on my skin, while he uses his other hand to press first one thick finger, then two, into the resistant snug of my ass.

The second man, wearing the same elaborately decorated metal bands on his wrists as the first (interesting, that… there must be some significance in the bracelets… perhaps I own these men?), is pressing into me from the front, whispering encouragement in a language I don’t know as he twists first two fingers, then three – gently but unrelentingly – high and forcefully come-hither full, so deep I can feel his rough-tender manipulations against my cervix.

Swallowing a gasp and muting a cry, I say goodnight to my dream-self and attend fully-wakened to the pleasure my own fingers demand, reveling in the clamp-together walled constriction of my cunt, the rippling hot of coiled muscles pressing taut inside my belly, the tickle-pain zinging electric, arcing through my clit. Cumming is a storm, lightning-quick and thunder-charged, a force-gale shudder that anchors me anew.

Pirates? I wonder to myself as I slowly open my eyes to the day, shaking my head with a smile at the absurdity of the notion.

Pirates. Whatever will I think of next?