Chapter Three: Dinner Frustrations

Characters: Lord Beckett and Elizabeth Swann

Pairing: Elizabeth/Beckett

Rating: M. Yes that's right, I wrote a smut! First to be put in a story, but not my actual first...*whistles, turning away* hehe

Warnings: Sexual play at the table.

Word Count: 2,891

Chapter Summary: Beckett Is very pleased with the way Elizabeth looks, and is still not pleased with her attitude. Attitude isn't something that he will tolerate and Elizabeth's actions wont go without consequence. Dinner with a surprise quest and smut!

Disclaimer: POTC and it's characters are not mine, I just like to write them = ]

Note: This would have been up quicker but I had to write an essay on WWI and Gallipoli though it was very interesting. Had some computer troubles when sending for an edit. Stupid Microsoft Works Word Processor *mumbles* Researching this was fun, 18th century clothing and hair care was very interesting, they didn't have much shampoo or any at all, talk about gross. I'm glad I have my shampoo and daily showers.

Dinner Frustrations

Elizabeth lay her head back, her hair fanning across the snowy white pillow. She heaved a sigh as she recalled the day's past events, and although they were quite boring, they gave her something to do whilst waiting for Lord Beckett to return and fetch her for dinner. Well, it was either him or Mercer. He had been gone quite a long time, but it was not like she missed him or anything. She turned her thoughts to the conversation which she had had earlier with Beckett when he first introduced her to her room…

"Don't bother changing until you're clean. There are some clothes in the wardrobe and chest, find something that makes you look somewhat decent for now. As for tonight, I will assign something for you,'' he'd said, then motioned his left hand towards a bath.

"You're not going to watc-'' she'd asked, looking down at her body in a way that had made her look shy and scared.

"No,'' he'd answered. "I will return, or send for someone nearer to dinner. When you're ready and waiting feel free to do whatever you like with the possessions in here. Clearly this isn't much,'' he had said, inspecting some dust on top of a book case, filthy. He had then rubbed his index finger against his thumb and the dust had fallen to the floor.

"Yes, sir," she'd said, with that tone of mockery in her voice.

"Oh,'' he'd said, turning from the door to face her. "I know there isn't much in here, but please, try not to break anything or make a mess,'' he'd spoken down to her like she was some child.

He hadn't waited to hear her response, he didn't want to hear it. He opened the door and locked it behind him quickly, then the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway.

That was the last she had heard of or seen of him. Since then she had bathed and dressed, and was now sitting around waiting for him. She recited in her mind what he had meant when he said, 'Clearly this isn't much.' He'd most likely given her the one of the worst rooms on the whole ship. It was small, ugly and not much light. She then thought that there had to be something she could do to pass the time.

She sat up. The time was marked by an extremely well made clock on the wall opposite the bed. With gold markings in swirls, something from somewhere far away no doubt, China, India, she wouldn't have a clue, it was just pretty to look at. It read 7:30pm in roman numerals. This meant it had been five or so long and boring hours since she had any word from her fiancé - if you could call Lord Beckett that.

Her stomach growled for something to slide down her throat sometime soon. It had been at least two days since she'd eaten, and the signs of this were clear: her stomach was aching and her skin looked something of the colour yellow, it wasn't that she hadn't bathed, she was definitely starved. The cream dress patterned with blue florals that she was wearing made a swishing sound as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A single bed, hard like a rock, but beating the floor when it came to comfort any day.

She stood and moved over to the mahogany vanity. It looked ancient, and needed a new coat of paint. She dragged the chair backwards and sat. She removed a piece of hair from her face, pushing it behind her ear. Elizabeth being the bored and curios woman that she was, just had to open the draws of the vanity to see what was kept in them. She hoped for something to pass the time, a book perhaps. She pulled open the top left drawer - nothing - it was empty, excluding the amount of dust of course. She opened the bottom left drawer, but it was empty, again. She moved the chair back a little and opened the long middle drawer, and as luck would have it there was a quill and some ink hiding inside towards the back. She took them out and placed them on the desk in front of her. She had her right hand on the right top drawer, it looked more used with scratched all over. She pulled at it harder than she had with the other drawers. It clunked open, showering splinters fell to her lap. She brushed them off and used her feet to kick them to the back of the vanity and out of site. Inside the drawer she found a grey, leather covered book - nothing pretty to look at - also, some more quills, powdered make up - which didn't look at all inviting - a face towel, and some other pots of old make up. She carefully took out the book, realising as she held it that it wasn't grey at all, it was black, but covered in dust. She blew and wiped the dust off, then sat it in front of her. She opened the last drawer and once again, nothing but dust.

She opened the book, hoping for a good read, something to fuel her imagination. Instead, she found herself quite disappointed when she opened to the first page only to find that it was blank. She then flicked through it to see if it was just that page, but sadly they were all just blank pages. The book wasn't of course a small or large book it was something you might call just bigger than small, but not small enough to hide in the common pocket. There was a bookcase where she could find a book, but it was filled with political junk nothing of interest to her and she certainly wasn't very keen on reading anything Shakespeare, she had his books once and found them quite loveable, she wasn't in the mood for sad romance, she had that in her own life she didn't need to read about that of the made up.

Then it struck her. She remembered that she had always wanted to start a diary before she got married and throughout her married life, to use it as something to look back at when she was older. The diary she had started for Will and herself to look into was at home, gone, something of the past. Even if she did get her hands on that diary she wouldn't want to read all the hopes and dreams that she had wanted to fulfil in her life with Will, it would only make her cry water like a fountain.

She had everything she needed to get started sitting on the desk in front of her. She opened the book to its third page. This was safer than having it on page one and still left plenty of room. She unscrewed the lid of the ink pot and dipped the end of a quill into it. She began scratching away - an introduction about who the diary belonged to. She planned that later in the evening she would write in the day's events.

Later wouldn't be tomorrow, tomorrow she would be wed… wedding, marriage, matrimony, wedding nights… wedding beds. Those things were once things she had looked forward to, dreamt about. Now, they were the things of nightmares, nightmares which she had consented herself to.

As she wrote out her life, she felt a relieved feeling come over her. It was as if writing down her problems and telling them for what they truly were was boosting her self esteem. She also wrote of the good in her life. Her mind was bringing back many memories; her father, the great times she had with Will, her debutante ball and many other things too, like her secret fascinations with pirates, reading her pirate novels at night before she went to sleep.

Her esteem dropped again when she realised that the things she had enjoyed in life, anything that made her even the slightest bit happy, were now going to have much less chance of appearing as often or ever again, with Beckett over her shoulder to edge on the less fortunate events.

She put effort into what she wrote, being careful not to miss any details. She even wrote about her favourite foods, books and colours; the small things.

Time had passed when she next turned to the clock to see it was 8:15pm. She figured that someone would come and get her, or give her that assigned piece of clothing pretty soon and she certainly didn't want them to see her diary. She hid it in the bedside cabinet drawer, and put the ink and quill back into the long middle drawer of the vanity. She made her place at the vanity, so that if she heard someone coming she could pretend to admire herself. Indeed, she looked better than she had done before her bath and change of clothes. Though, her stomach did remind her that she wanted something to eat, the growl was twice as loud as it had been previously. She sat up straight and played with her hair.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Then she heard keys, and before she realised, the door was creaking open.

"Ah, you look much better," Beckett said, as he made his way over to the vanity, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders he continued. "That makes you look quite the temptation, the colour suits you well, therefore, I don't think you're going to need the assigned clothing."

"Must be tempting if you want me to keep it on," she smirked.

"Not really, it makes me tempted to see you wear it with that nice low neckline, so I now want remove it," he whispered in her ear, and a chill similar to the one she had felt earlier that day run through her spine again.

"Tonight? But I though-" she said, an alarmed expression painted instantly on her face.

He whispered once more, this time making a tighter grip on her shoulders. "Oh I wouldn't do that, after all that's what tomorrow night is for, though, I could just remove some of it, say enough to please the wandering eye." He moved one hand to her collar bone, then ran it down until it met with the material that hid the rest of her breasts. "But later, of course. Now come, you must be starved."

She stood and faced him. With a quick fix of her skirts she said, "Must I be starved because you intended it so? Not once did I get fed in the brig or offered while I waited in here."

He gave a short chuckle as he held the door open, offering her a hand - though with the glance he gave her, it was clear it was more like a demand. "You catch on quicker than I had expected."

He took her hand and pulled her close. Skilfully, he kept hold of her and shut the door - he didn't lock it this time.

As he dragged her along behind him she rolled her eyes, ensuring that he didn't see her to save herself from the possibility of a boring lecture in a tease of words.

It wasn't long until he slowed and she came almost beside him. "You try anything and you'll regret it, understand?" he said, after he had stopped and turned to face her in front of a pair of doors.

"Yes sir," she said, making no eye contact, looking instead at the glass upon the door and the candlelight dancing across it from either side.

He opened the door and motioned for her to go through. She gazed around the room. It was fairly big, scattered candles alight, book cases, maps and paintings all over the walls. She turned her attention to the middle of the room, to a table, set for dinner with candles food sitting on platters. Beneath the table was a rug, a red and brown rug full of intricate patterns she couldn't make out. The food on the table looked delicious.

He motioned to where she should sit, then took his seat at the head of the table. She took the seat to his left. She wondered who else would be joining them as there was another place set across from her. "Who will be joining us?" she asked.

"You'll see when he arrives," Beckett said moving his chair in closer.

"Mind if I take one little piece of bread now, please, milord?" she asked, pleading from her empty stomach.

"Since you asked nicely, yes, you may," he said passing her a piece.

She held it to her mouth and took a bite, chewed it, then swallowed. She repeated this process twice more, then stopped to look at Beckett. She felt something messing with her skirts, and Beckett's hands weren't in sight. "What are you-"

"Shush, and do as your told with or without words," he interrupted.

Though unsure of what he was doing, she nodded her head. "Yes sir."

He lifted up her skirts, leaving them to rest on her thighs. His hands however were no longer upon her. She felt fabric move up to the front of her knees, the pressure there making her legs spread apart. It was Beckett's leg, and as he pushed onwards, her legs fell wider apart to allow him room.

She was scared now that she knew what he was going to do.

His knee cap pushed between her thighs, it hurt, but something about it felt nice, just a hint, but nothing to excite her. He pressed harder, and this time, although hurt more, it felt nicer. Gradually, the pain disappeared, and it became enjoyable. She felt something rush through her, something… no, she didn't want him to make her feel that good, she wanted more, but she didn't want more.

"Nice isn't it?" he asked, pushing even harder.

She felt a slight moan run up her throat, and tried to fight it but failed miserably. Unsure whether colour was running from or rushing to her face she said, "Y-yes,'' and looked down to where her skirts were piled over her thighs, thinking about what he was doing, and feeling that small gush of fluid her body had longed to release and that she had tried so hard to prevent.

"Good girl," he said, praising her and stroking her face. "Now tell me, do you think you can hold down your frustration while in the presence of another?" he continued.

"What-wait, you mean you're going to keep doing…that, while the other person is here?" she said, alarmed.

"I ask the questions. I thought you were catching on, I guess not," he said, finishing his teasing stroke at her breasts. He took her hand and placed it on the table, holding it within his. "Though if I have really confused you, the answer is yes," he said, with a grin and a quick glance at the exposed flesh of her breasts.

"I-I don't think I can," she replied, watching his hand with a slight pout.

"Well, there goes a rather pleasing evening for me. Because, if I, make your satisfaction obvious it won't just be you with the name to shame. Though, we can easy work on such things. No, I think I will continue… consider this as training,"

"If you want to train something, get a dog," she spat, her eyes wide. She felt insulted.

"I don't need a dog, I already have one and she is quite the bitch," he said. He then pressed extremely hard against her region and squeezed her hand tight. He could see the pain crossing with the pleasure in her eyes. As he pushed on, the push came to feel not good at all, it just hurt.

"Sorry, please stop you're hurting my.." she pleaded.

He pushed up even higher and stronger against her region then moved his leg back to sit in his chair much more relaxed. However, he hadn't let go of her hand. "I only stopped doing that because I want it to hurt tomorrow night more than tonight," he said, being cold and cruel as ever, only then did he let go of her hand.

Elizabeth stood and let her skirts fall, tided them and then took her seat again. She'd felt more hot release run all over the hidden places in her region, when she'd stood and the thought was nice. She set her sore hand in her lap and held it with the other. She looked down at it, showing some sympathy for its pain. Then again, it wasn't the only part of her body to have felt his Lordship's strength.

She thought about him, he didn't look as tough as he really was, she would have to be much more careful now, she didn't want her body to go through that very often. Would her body go through that often? Only time could tell.

Her thoughts were interrupted with a knock on the door. She turned her head.

"Come in," Lord Beckett said, straightening his chair.

Elizabeth's jaw dropped and her heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be, but it was.

"James?"

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