Q: Do we think that Tia Dalma is an ordinary woman? Do we think she resurrected Barbossa for free? Do we think the price she exacts is something children should read about?

A: No, no, and no.

I think she feeds on people. She sucks them dry. Love, pride, fear, anger… it all spells dinner as far as Tia Dalma is concerned. I repeat: not for kids.

Chapter 1 is about Barbossa, and it's mucho dark. Chapter 2 is with Jack, and the style and mood and content are all a little cheerier.

She reached out and closed her warm hands around him. Immediately, the pleasant tingling of pleasure about to happen was transformed into a hideous itch that no amount of touching would relieve.

"What's this?"

She smiled at him. "De woman help wit de burn," she purred, sliding her hands over her naked body.

As he made to climb aboard, she stopped him with a hand flat on his chest. "Hard an' fast an' it go til I say de stop."

The tales had led him to suspect something much less tolerable. "Anything you say, miss." But a moment later he regretted the words, as the odd itch flared up worse. He shoved inside her roughly to try and quench the fire.

She was right – it did help… but only a little. Aside from the salt-in-a-wound burn tormenting his groin he was already feeling the ache of an overlong denial of pleasure, which disquieted him because he knew it could not be natural. He was slowly beginning to understand – really understand – that he had no way out until she chose to release him.

For a while he made earnest attempts to take her normally. It soon became clear, though, that she was deliberately using her witchcraft against him, jolting and burning him, giggling every time he hissed with pain or surprise.

He couldn't continue like this, looking down into her eyes and hating her, trying to pleasure her while she was trying to harm him. He rolled off her, swearing softly at how much worse her absence made him feel.

Giving up was not an option, then. Shivering, his whole body twitching now, he dragged her up onto her knees and got behind her so as to spare himself at least the sight of her.

He found her hole easily and plunged back in, but the burning cooled only by the tiniest fraction. Furious, he put a hand around her throat and squeezed with everything he had. The vindictive pleasure of that helped eclipse his misery quite a bit.

He thrust at a pace that would have satisfied the most voracious of mortal women, using a double handful of her chest as leverage to pull against her. He squeezed her, mauled her, pinched her nipples, wanting to hurt her as badly as she was hurting him.

Even after blood welled up from a vicious set of scratches on the underside of her breast, though, he thought he was probably losing.

Over the sound of his labored breathing he could hear a rasping noise at the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like laughter. He choked her until the noise stopped, and received a full-body jolt of agony in return.

Filthy witch. Let her laugh at THIS… He let go of her throat and, after one more cruel twist, released her nipple as well. He reached down and withdrew himself from her greedy wetness and positioned himself up just a little higher, where it would really hurt. The itching, the burning was worse than ever, as though he had poured an acid all over his tenderest parts and then tried to rub it off with a piece of canvas. There was an ache in his lower belly too, and he began to fear that he might be sick.

When he forced entry in one powerful heave, pinning her hips to the bed with all his weight and pressing her face into the pillow to stifle her preternaturally loud screams, he actually thought she might cry off first.

He found that taking her in this way was even more unbearable than the usual – she was far too tight and too rough. Her magic had not weakened; he felt compelled to continue on as fast and hard as he could to achieve the mildest bit of relief for himself even though it was like making love to a pail of sand.

It was torture but at least there was some minor revenge in the pain he was causing in return, so he pulled her up onto her hands and knees and settled in for the long haul. He had a hand on her waist to synchronize the motion of their hips (even hurting as she was, she was still moving enthusiastically against him) and a hand free to slap at her chest, stifle her breathing, wrench her mouth open to make her drool like a half-wit.

His anger carried him for longer than he would have thought possible. After some time, though, he slowed due to exhaustion… and she wheezed, "More."

He broke then. What he was doing was killing him by inches, hurting so badly that his breathing had begun to resemble dry sobs and he couldn't unclench his teeth to speak if his life depended on it. He was suffering beyond his wildest dreams and the only thing that kept him moving at all was the belief that he was avenging himself in the process.

But far from being punished, she wanted more. He couldn't give it. He let go of her throat and collapsed over her back, defeated, nearly ready to start weeping. The pain worsened and she growled a warning to him to continue. More pain, tendrils of fire worming their way up through his midsection searing everything in their path, but although the penalty for stopping was the worst thing he had felt in his life, he wasn't lying when he shook his head and rasped: "I can't."

With a patient sigh, she reached around behind herself and pulled him out of her. He saw blood – lots of it. He had just enough possession of himself to hope that it was hers, but then she pushed him down on his back and straddled him. She relaxed her magic to a dull throbbing sensation and he breathed a sigh of relief. She looked down, her eyelids heavy and lazy and her lips curled into a sensuous half-smile.

He didn't know whether to blame her spellcraft or her beauty, but in that moment the jolt that shot up from his manhood was not made entirely of pain. "Curse you and all your kind, witch," he whispered. She looked down at him until he said it. "You know I need you."

She nodded. She rose up on her knees a little bit, reached down, and settled him back into her scalding tunnel. As she began to move up and down on him slowly, he noticed that her eyes were giving off a faint scarlet glow in the candlelight. Witch's draining me like a vampire, he thought before the ache in his loins exploded back into the throbbing agony he had known before.

Now she didn't look appealing in the least. She was like a demon from the pits of Hell, and he stared with savage satisfaction at the bruises that dotted her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. Ignoring his own pain he reached up, fully intending to pinch her nipples until he pulled them straight off her body, but she caught his hands in hers and fell forwards, pinning his arms to the bed. She held both his wrists with one hand and sat up and grinned down at him. It wasn't the grin of a woman but of a skull. He fought to sit up and found that he couldn't move. With her one dainty hand she was holding down all his strength and she was laughing at him, eating up his panic.

He fought as for his life but couldn't budge her one inch. She kept him pinned, by her witchery kept him excited, and rode him harder and faster than he could bear. He passed from shouting at her to screaming in terror very quickly. Everything inside him was being sucked out and this creature wouldn't let him move a muscle to stop it.

Finally she froze, mid-thrust, and stared down at him intensely. He thought he could see that she had her own eyes now instead of Satan's red ones, but a haze of tears prevented him from being sure. "Is this going to kill me?" he whispered.

"No." She smiled. "Come morning you be de same you ever were. Maybe a little sore." He didn't believe a word of it, especially when she clenched something inside of her and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to cry out. Still keeping his arms pinned to the bed, she reached behind her with her free hand and patted him on the inner thigh. "Open."

The heat was becoming impossible; he imagined himself packing his privates in ice but even that probably wouldn't be enough to soothe it. He couldn't fight her right now but damned if he would be made to cooperate. "No."

She actually seemed pleased with him, and only later did he realize that mustering all his will to resist her only gave her more of him to feed on. "If dat how you feel..." She rose up until for a moment he almost felt free of her poisonous body, then lowered herself slowly down so that he felt her scorching his every inch. He moaned and bit his lip until it bled, determined not to beg mercy, but she just licked up the blood and began to move faster. She bounced up and down and rubbed ruthlessly over his raw flesh until finally he whimpered Please and spread his legs as she demanded.

She reached down behind herself and he thought in a panic, Oh God please don't squeeze, but she just closed her hand firmly and paused, staring into his eyes. His stomach was heaving and his crotch burning and he was shaking, and here was this woman leaning over him holding him helpless with one hand. He tried halfheartedly to buck her off but she didn't budge, and he knew then that he was through and he just looked at her and cried like a baby.

So awash in humiliation he for a moment forgot to fear the grip she had around his balls, and she took that opportunity to begin kneading firmly, rhythmically, just a little too hard. He couldn't even squirm away from her. He closed his eyes. He cried harder.

She began to roll her hips forwards and back, grinding his abraded manhood against the noxious walls of her witch's pit, and stepped up the torture she was inflicting with her hand. "You t'row up an' I make you eat it," she purred, just before clenching her fist violently. He moaned and retched but kept his food down. The success of that experiment led her to repeat it several times more, without advance warnings. He tried again to thrash around and again had no success. From somewhere the thought came that if he couldn't escape the clutches of a woman for God's sake, he deserved what he was getting. Immediately afterwards came the cold certainty that he would never be able to look into the mirror again.

She took in everything, finding him an excellent victim with powerful feelings that continued to satisfy her long after his spirit had broken. Even when he lay still, in a haze of misery punctured periodically by sunbursts of pain from his brutalized testicles, his sense of shame that he could do nothing to help himself was so intense and delicious that she tortured him well past what she normally considered the limit of endurance for a human man.

Eventually she felt full.

He had pleasured her so well, satiated her so completely that she offered him an unusual kindness at the last: she wiped the tears from his cheeks (savoring that final delicious jolt of self-loathing) and then told him, "Go on finish how you want – no'ting hurt you now."

She got off him, spread herself out on the bed seductively, and waited to see what he would do. She knew her witchcraft would compel him to finish; drained as he was he needed to spill inside her or he would never be able to rest, but she didn't tell him that. She let him have his sense of agency back – men's dignities were delightful to munch on but she always felt queasy if she swallowed one down for good.

She had assumed he would go for her back passage again, but instead, as soon as he was able to stand up, he shuffled slowly around the bed, grabbed her by the hair and yanked her down on her back so that her head dangled over the edge of the mattress. Without a word he put himself in her mouth and drove in all the way.

She arched up off the bed involuntarily, gagging, and he slapped her face and shifted his hips to make her gag harder. She put her hand up to her neck and found that when he thrust in she could feel it from all the way outside her body. The position was extremely uncomfortable and only got worse when he closed his hand around hers, squeezing the column of her throat to give himself a tighter passage.

Thanks to her powers, pain or not he was inflamed and ready to climax quickly. "Witch, witch, witch," he gasped. His hand clenched, his hips jerked and her nose was mashed hard against his pubic bone as he spilled deep down her throat.

When it was over he was afraid to look down at himself, having no idea what damage she had done to him and not feeling strong enough to find out. He crawled into bed and pulled the covers over his head and dropped into a deep sleep immediately.

Satiated as she had not been for many years, she rose slowly and left the room, reminding herself to thank him in the morning.

Review this, willya? I know it's creepy. It sort of came to me in a dream. The Sandman and I are going to have words.