He had had many women. Short ones, tall ones, ones with legs forever,
ones with tiny waists, thin ones, robust ones, ones with curves, blondes,
brunettes, redheads, one with tiny hands that clung to his matted hair, and
ones with long fingers to graze over his smooth tanned skin. He had had
screamers, moaners, groaners, hair-pullers, back-scratchers, bed-breakers,
cooers, whiners, meowers and even women whose pleasure only needed to be
written across their contorted faces.
None, however, compared to her.
She was not at all like the others. It always seemed to him that she was with him for her own pleasure, not the few gold coins he left on her bedside table. She sat astraddle his hips, her long dark brown hair spilling down her arched back, riding the waves of ecstasy that racked her body. The last wave broke and she was drowning in a delicious pleasure that soaked every inch of her skin. And then he was there with her, bathing in those same beautiful waves, his lips parted, a low guttural groan escaping from his lips. She collapsed against his chest, panting, their chests rising and falling in unison.
A few moments later, she rolled off of him to lay on her side with her back to him. They laid there in silence for what seemed like a comfortable forever.
"You can show yourself out, Jack," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "You should know the way by now."
Her words, which from any other mouth would seem venomous, stung at him more than he knew he should allow. She was right. He had dragged himself down those rickety stairs more times than he could possibly ascertain.
He didn't leave, though. He laid there beside her, a sheet covering only what was necessary for propriety's sake. He studied her, the line of her back, the sinuosity of her breast, the curves of her hips, her soft pale skin, creamy and unblemished, which was remarkable for someone of her profession. Nothing about her was hard or rigid. Everything was smooth, flowing. She slept silently, her lips moistly parted, oblivious to the odious pirate who studied her like he studied anything: intensely, noting every detail, drawing any conclusion that could be used to his advantage.
'It's not right,' the raspy voice in his head said. 'Nothing good will come from a woman.' Jack nodded in agreement. 'Women were bad luck. They were the bane of all man's existence. They latched on and sucked all of the life out of them.'
'Tormenters,' he grumbled back. 'Existing only to make our lives more difficult and produce more of them. Nagging. Ye gods, the nagging. Insatiable. Quenchless. Bitching. Complaining. Dissatisfaction makes their collective world go 'round.'
'The sea is your only love, Jack, and even she's always got a hankerin' to be beggin' off you.' He smiled as he thought of his true love: the wide open plethora of aqua-marine freedom that never stopped calling to him. She was as acquisitive as any woman could be, yet her nagging didn't scratch at his ears. Her nagging pulled at his chest until he couldn't possibly sit still any longer, and he was sashaying through the streets to the port, across the dock and into the Pearl, the source of all his liberty. His kohl-rimmed eyes would focus on the horizon, and often without words he would demand to have it brought to him.
And without another thought about it, he got up from the bed, slipped into his worn clothes, and gathered his effects and walked to the door. He stopped, however, and turned to look back at her lithe sleeping form. He stood there staring for a few moments, bouncing his leg anxiously, wanting nothing more than to run back to the warm bed and warm woman who slept in it. However, he heard his name being called in the wind and with one last longing glance, he plopped his hat on his head and slipped down those rickety steps and out into the cool Caribbean night.
None, however, compared to her.
She was not at all like the others. It always seemed to him that she was with him for her own pleasure, not the few gold coins he left on her bedside table. She sat astraddle his hips, her long dark brown hair spilling down her arched back, riding the waves of ecstasy that racked her body. The last wave broke and she was drowning in a delicious pleasure that soaked every inch of her skin. And then he was there with her, bathing in those same beautiful waves, his lips parted, a low guttural groan escaping from his lips. She collapsed against his chest, panting, their chests rising and falling in unison.
A few moments later, she rolled off of him to lay on her side with her back to him. They laid there in silence for what seemed like a comfortable forever.
"You can show yourself out, Jack," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "You should know the way by now."
Her words, which from any other mouth would seem venomous, stung at him more than he knew he should allow. She was right. He had dragged himself down those rickety stairs more times than he could possibly ascertain.
He didn't leave, though. He laid there beside her, a sheet covering only what was necessary for propriety's sake. He studied her, the line of her back, the sinuosity of her breast, the curves of her hips, her soft pale skin, creamy and unblemished, which was remarkable for someone of her profession. Nothing about her was hard or rigid. Everything was smooth, flowing. She slept silently, her lips moistly parted, oblivious to the odious pirate who studied her like he studied anything: intensely, noting every detail, drawing any conclusion that could be used to his advantage.
'It's not right,' the raspy voice in his head said. 'Nothing good will come from a woman.' Jack nodded in agreement. 'Women were bad luck. They were the bane of all man's existence. They latched on and sucked all of the life out of them.'
'Tormenters,' he grumbled back. 'Existing only to make our lives more difficult and produce more of them. Nagging. Ye gods, the nagging. Insatiable. Quenchless. Bitching. Complaining. Dissatisfaction makes their collective world go 'round.'
'The sea is your only love, Jack, and even she's always got a hankerin' to be beggin' off you.' He smiled as he thought of his true love: the wide open plethora of aqua-marine freedom that never stopped calling to him. She was as acquisitive as any woman could be, yet her nagging didn't scratch at his ears. Her nagging pulled at his chest until he couldn't possibly sit still any longer, and he was sashaying through the streets to the port, across the dock and into the Pearl, the source of all his liberty. His kohl-rimmed eyes would focus on the horizon, and often without words he would demand to have it brought to him.
And without another thought about it, he got up from the bed, slipped into his worn clothes, and gathered his effects and walked to the door. He stopped, however, and turned to look back at her lithe sleeping form. He stood there staring for a few moments, bouncing his leg anxiously, wanting nothing more than to run back to the warm bed and warm woman who slept in it. However, he heard his name being called in the wind and with one last longing glance, he plopped his hat on his head and slipped down those rickety steps and out into the cool Caribbean night.
