As the door closed behind them, Flint held Bess by the arms, forcing her to focus on him.
"Are you drunk out of fear of what I'm going to do to you for daring to call yourself captain?" his tone was ominous.

She nodded, hiccupping. "A li'l. But moshtly embarra..." hic, "embarra..." hic, "sshhment. 'N'shtronger ale..." hic, "'Ale, man, ale'sh th'shtuff to drink, for fellowsh whom it hurrrrtsh to shink[1]!'" hic.

"Getting drunk merely delays your punishment, dear Bess." Flint sat her on the couch and poured a glass of water. "Drink this." She did, as the hiccups settled. "Now lie down and I shall deal with you later, once you've had time to sober up."

"Ysh, cap'n," Bess replied meekly.

After running a few errands, Flint returned to the hired room a few hours later, finding Bess still sleeping. He woke her and brought her downstairs to a pair of horses he had hired to take them to the Barlow estate. He helped her up side-saddle, but took her reins as he galloped them up the road.

Miranda was waiting for them on the porch, having tea in the shade.

Flint introduced them with the same stiff formality as he had in town, "Miranda, this is Miss Elizabeth Greenwood; Bess, this is Mrs. Miranda Barlow."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Barlow," Bess smiled.

Miranda's return smile was even more friendly, "Likewise, Miss Greenwood." She looked quizzically at Flint. "You finally found her, James?"

Flint shuffled his feet.

"You were looking for me?" Bess asked, puzzled. "Is there something you know that I don't?"

Flint saw the suspicion and curiosity in her eyes to know more about her situation. "No," he replied quickly. "Mrs. Barlow is speaking generally. Of finding someone like you whom we've talked about in the past." Turning to Miranda, he nodded. "Yes. She even quoted Marcus Aurelius to me," a knowing look passed between them. "That is why I have brought Bess here. I trust the two of you will become good friends."

Miranda motioned to Bess to sit down while she fetched more teacups and bade Flint to set out chairs. Flint recounted the story of finding Bess on the Prize and subsequent events on deck and in Nassau with a more subdued manner, still eliciting amused smiles and increasing admiration from Miranda, but less embarrassment from Bess. They spent the evening speaking on various topics, including literature and philosophy.

Later, while Bess was luxuriating in a bath in the guest room, Flint and Miranda spoke outside.

"She is delightful, James."

"Too delightful, I'm afraid," he replied, brooding.

"Nonsense. She is exactly who I have wished for you. I know you have done your best to service my needs after Thomas was taken from us, but it's not what you need yourself. We're both needing to be masters in bed, and she can be submissive to you where I cannot."

Brooding, Flint continued, "She reacts in many ways that I cannot fathom. You should see how willful she gets when she wears breeches, clambering up into the ship's rigging; when I take her to task afterwards, it's as if she enjoys it even more when I am rough. Sometimes I don't know who is mastering whom..."

"I envy you; I have been working on the local preacher, but he isn't nearly as exciting a prospect. From what you describe, she appears to be the most naturally submissive lover I have ever met, needing almost no training to respond to your mastery." Miranda thought for a moment. "She is the Epictetus to your Marcus, dear James. Marcus Aurelius was a powerful Emperor, ironically learning philosophy from the discourses of the slave, Epictetus, who rose from nothing."

"But the more I push her to submit, the more power I think I give her," Flint observed.

"Ah, yes," Miranda nodded sagely, "the true power lies with the submissive one, not the master. She gives that power to you and could just as easily take it away by simply not submitting to it. Based on what happened with Smitty and Captain Vane—I say she chose you, even as you bent her to your will. She did not give herself to them, and my God, Captain Vane? Who but Eleanor Guthrie could handle him? But by the same token, she feeds off the submission you force her into taking; it strengthens her. She craves that submission to you just as much as you crave it from her. Take the chest into her room. I am certain she will be ready for more intense amusements."

As he brought the chest into the guest room and placed it on the table, Flint found Bess had crawled between the fine sheets, naked but for a short shift and fallen asleep. Opening the chest, he selected several items for use on her. Careful not to wake her, he bound each of her wrists with leather cuffs, and then tied them together around the bed post. Then roughly he pulled her hips down diagonally across the bed to tighten her arms straight as her shift bunched up to her armpits; she did not struggle, but her eyes opened wide. "As I said, my dear Bess, your punishment was only delayed," he sneered softly, kneeling between her legs as he opened a wrapped item he had taken from the chest.

Inside the oilcloth was a glass wand with a knob handle; the wand was fat and undulating, phallic but not nearly as big as Flint's member, Flint watched with satisfaction as Bess stared with roiling emotions. Confusion, curiosity, apprehension... thrill. He laid the cold glass on her stomach, knob resting heavily on her belly button while the tip rested between her breasts. It amused him to see the goose pimples as he removed his breeches.

"Who is the only Captain here, Bess?" he teased. He wasn't only thinking of 'Captain' Bess, but also of Vane who had nearly duplicated his own sword fight with her, minus the actual fight, the surrender and the kiss, although he doubted Bess' interest in anyone else, let alone that smelly bastard. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"You are, Captain," she gasped as the goose pimples spread.

Then he proceeded to prepare her with his fingers and tongue, finally sliding the glass wand inside of her, as she moaned and wriggled. He massaged her buttocks and the space between her legs and openings, relaxing the muscles as she continued to enjoy the light wand thrusts. When the wand was thoroughly coated in her juices, he pulled it out and switched openings. Her euphorically-closed eyes flew open as she realized what he was doing. He savored the moment, slowly pushing in and out, ever deeper as he captivated her shocked gaze, which became lost in his power, feeling her submitting to him completely and utterly. Her moans had changed to a raw, primal whimper. Her nipples were tight as she strained against the leather bonds; he tweaked them in turn with his free hand, as she gasped and choked in pure ecstasy. Finally, he added his own member to the primary opening, pressing into the tightness as he felt the wand against him through her flesh. He thrust into her countless times, as she shuddered and whimpered, losing control over her breath and consciousness. He felt her throbbing, robbing even himself of complete control, as he bucked into her. Once fully released, he pulled himself and the wand out of her slowly, feeling her shudder with each inch. When he was completely free, she curled up into a shivering ball around her bound wrists in the corner of the bed. He covered her with a blanket and sprawled across the rest of the bed.

"Who is the only Captain around here, my dear, sweet Bess?" Flint mused.

She moaned piteously in wordless reply.

"I thought as much."

Ten minutes later, he untied her from the bedpost, but keeping the cuffs on, and she curled up against him, still unable to talk for another quarter hour. He stroked her hair while he waited.

"Thank you, my one and only Captain," she croaked eventually, "may I have another?—But...maybe not for a little while..."

He laughed. "Still not inclined to bitterness?"

"Never, Captain." And what Flint heard was: Never will I want another captain.

[1] Alfred E. Houseman, A Shropshire Lad "Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink/For fellows whom it hurts to think."