Trigger Warning & Note about Consent: This story contains BDSM elements that may appear like non-consensual sex; however, it is a fantasy as seen in a woman's dream and as such, all activities are under her ultimate control. There are quite a number of situations where she asserts her sovereign consent, thereby demonstrating that she has the capability of choosing not to consent. Many of the fantasy situations would not work the same pragmatically in the real world, and thus caution should be used if one tries this at home. Safety and enthusiastic consent is the way to do it.
Also, I have reworked the storyline a bit, making it align with canon better.
While vacationing in the Bahamas, a woman sits on the beach dreaming after leisurely cocktails lull her into sleep, and a book falls from her hand on the sand beside her. It tells the tales of pirates, both historical and legendary, mixing in her dreams.
On a moderately breezy, sunny day. Captain Flint's green eyes squinted into the mid-morning sun rising above the storm clouds, mercifully heading away from their position. He cut an imposing figure, being fully six feet tall, with mahogany hair pulled back from his forehead into a leather knot at his crown and a fiery scarlet goatee over a solid square jaw. From the crow's nest above a shout signaled a ship had been spotted on the western horizon; turning, he pulled out his spyglass to take a look.
Ordinarily, it would take half a day or more to catch up to such a ship, but this one was odd. For one thing, she was closer than most sailing ships upon first spotting, their white topgallant sails gleaming in the sun along the horizon; for another, this vessel only had the lower foresail unfurled—in such breezy weather. A fine, three-masted frigate of a prize she was, but no colors flew to indicate ownership. It would perhaps take a couple of hours at full knot speed to catch up to what might prove an easy mark. They needed a prize like this to keep the crew happy, after their recent spate of ill luck.
Upon approach, the crew readied the cannons, but their quarry appeared deserted, for there was no change in course nor defensive reaction; gun ports remained closed and the deck remained deserted. At close distance, ten of the eleven sails could be seen neatly lashed, as if in port or riding out a storm. No damage to the vessel was apparent, and it seemed to have been recently launched or refitted, judging by the bright varnish and paint. It was a beautiful ship.
Boarding happened quickly, the men dispersing to all quarters with swords and pistols drawn. His own cutlass at the ready, Flint strode to the stern, seeking the ship's log and manifest. Along the way, he noticed the helm wheel had been secured to keep it on a steady course. He headed past the closed doors of the officer's quarters, straight back to the captain's cabin. Bursting through the door, he was surprised by a lone figure rising from the window seat opposite, left-handedly swiping a blade from the table.
Swiftly he attacked with brutal force, raining heavy blows upon his opponent. He growled, "Yield, and I may let you live!" realizing in that moment he was fighting a woman, however strangely dressed she was in long trousers and a shirt with sleeves cut above the elbow. She blocked his first strikes, yet reeled from the force of them. His fifth swing knocked her down, her sword clattering across the floor. But instead of catching her then, he was amazed at how quickly she scuttled to retrieve her cutlass, her long braid swinging vigorously from the crown of her head.
"Yield, I said! You cannot hope to win!" And he attacked again. However, this time she changed her tactics along with sword hands, parrying instead of blocking. Using his own strength against him, she darted sideways, leaving empty spaces for his forceful charges to stumble. With a deft twist against his hilt, she pushed into a nerve in his hand that disarmed him, quickly following through with sword-point to his neck to back him against the bulkhead. He tried lunging forward but stopped when he felt her unwavering point prick a blood droplet from his Adam's apple.
A lower growl formed in his throat, but before he could form threatening words to match, she cocked her head listening to his men stomping across the decks. "You have a crew?" Without waiting for an answer, and in the blink of a moment, she rotated the cutlass, holding it horizontally out towards him, head bowed. "Then I surrender this ship and its contents into your safekeeping." Her body shook slightly, breathing still raggedly from the fight.
This sudden turn surprised him, but adrenaline still roared in his ears. He seized the proffered sword, immediately holding it across her throat as his long strides backed her against the table. Her steady return gaze caught his anger, diffusing it; she wasn't quite defiant, not quite bravely fearful, but in suspense between the two. "All her contents?" he queried in a softly dangerous tone, lifting her chin with the sword drawing a thin line of blood. A flush spread across her cheeks as her gaze wavered, lips trembling. He took those lips in his, breaking through her eggshell resistance and exploring his new acquisition as she surrendered herself into the kiss. Seducing women with a kiss was his special gift, although rarely used. He stopped as abruptly as he started. "I thought as much."
"You... have me at a... d-dis-advantage, sir," she breathed, still recovering.
He placed the cutlass behind her on the table, gripping her lower back in one hand and the top of her long braid in the other, pressing his hips and lips against hers, leaving no doubt as to how thoroughly he intended to explore this new possession. Her arms rose up to grasp at his shoulder blades. Yet he stopped suddenly again, upon hearing his crew's boots on the planking.
"Come." Sweeping up his own sword to resheathe it, he noticed with satisfaction that she was still leaning back against the table, regaining her balance. He led her outside onto the deck, pulling out his kerchief to dab the spot of blood on his throat before wiping sweat from his brow. It would not do for his crew to see him injured by a mere woman. His quartermaster was surprised to see the prisoner, but informed him the rest of the ship was secure, with no other passengers nor crew, but the hold was full and ready to inventory. Billy Bones, the boatswain, had already seen to it that the one foresail had been furled while the ships were attached.
A scuffle from behind made them turn to look: the woman had hold of Smitty's wrist twisting the seaman's arm as he lay fallen at her feet. "Don't." She looked down on the hapless sailor with a set to her jaw.
Restrained ire clouded the captain's brow. "Let him go." At a nod, two brawny crew members took firm hold of her arms as she complied. "Mr. Gates," he called over his shoulder to his burly quartermaster while staring at her darkly, "Do you recall any rooms below particularly suited to hold her securely?" While she did not struggle, her eyes still flashed defiance against whatever Smitty had done. Flint stepped over and wiped her bloodied neck with his kerchief to cover his own blood on the cloth, sneering a little as she winced.
"Yes, captain, I believe I know just the place. Sturdy bolt on the outside to keep merchandise from shifting. Move a few boxes out and she'll have room enough to sit." At a nod, the quartermaster took the woman down to the hold. Flint wasn't sure whether he meant to keep the woman safe from the crew or the crew safe from her—or both. He would question her later, after examining this easily won prize.