“Come aboard milady. The cap’n spied you from the foredeck. He thinks you’d make a fine plaything aboard the Jolly Roger.”
Elizabeth began to protest but the man pushed her roughly forward. Elizabeth soon found herself on the gangplank, being loaded on board behind carcasses of salted beef and barrels of rum.
“Why me?” cried Elizabeth.
“The cap’n don’t like whores. He likes ladies. And he likes to give the men a good time.”
Elizabeth gasped in horror.
“You don’t mean…?”
“You’ll find out what the cap’n means when he’s ready for you,” answered the man. "Until then you’ll have to wait.”
He indicated a ladder that went down to the hold of the ship. “The ladies cabin is the small door on the right.”
As he said the word ‘ladies’ the man’s voice took on a sneer.
Elizabeth steadied herself against the ladder as the ship creaked and groaned away from shore. She could hear the sound of men’s voices shouting and issuing orders. The thought of what she might have to do for them was frightening but it was too late to run away. She was a prisoner of the captain, whoever he might be.
The cabin Elizabeth was assigned to was extremely small, with barely enough room for her bed and a piss-pot. She lay down, wondering what was going to happen next. The gentle rocking of the vessel soothed her panic and eventually she felt herself dozing. She started awake at a loud knocking on her door. The man who’d taken her aboard shouted, “Remove all under things and go to the top deck. The cap’n wants to see you. I mean, really see you. Don’t be shy.”
Elizabeth did as she was told. A stiff breeze was blowing on deck. The vessel clipped though the water under full sail. Just then, a gust of wind lifted Elizabeth’s skirt above her head. She tried frantically to push it down, aware she was completely exposed. The crew was all examining her private parts.
“Aye, the capn’s done well,” said a raspy baritone.
Another added, “I hope ‘e lets us have a good look at ‘er.”
“She’s got some fine tits on ‘er.”
“I’d like to ‘ave a good look at ‘er arse.”
The wind blowing her skirt up was impossible to manage. Elizabeth felt the stares of several men and thought she’d die of embarrassment.
A soft yet menacing voice behind her said, “Don’t be shy my pretty. God has blessed you with many gifts. You can’t blame my men for wanting to see them.”
Elizabeth turned, knowing she was getting her first sight of the captain. His eyes completely captivated her. They were a deep and haunting colour with a dark edge sharply outlining each blue iris. His hair, long and black, curled against well-defined shoulders hidden beneath a ruffled shirt and waistcoat. A wry smile twisted against his perfect teeth.
“I’m afraid sir,” said Elizabeth, casting her eyes downward.
The captain lifted her chin with a pistol then pressed his mouth to hers, first gently then ferociously. Elizabeth could hear men cheering and whistling.
“The choicest cuts of meat on board are kept for me,” said the captain, breaking off his kiss. Elizabeth felt on fire.
“But you cannot deny men food, even if it is of lesser quality. Go ahead, lift up your skirt and reveal yourself to them so tonight they may dream. And,” he added giving her a small bite on the lip, “you must do it so that I am pleased, or you’ll be punished.”
Elizabeth felt a thrill run through her. The captain was handsome, exciting, and clearly in charge. She wanted to please him.
This time, when a gust of wind carried her skirt high, Elizabeth made no attempt to lower it and opened her legs for the crew to see her.
“More, more,” cried the men. “Open it up for us.”
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth pulled herself apart so she was now completely exposed.
“Back door,” yelled one of the men. Elizabeth wasn’t sure what he meant. The captain whispered in her ear, “hey want to see your arse.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. Wanting to please the captain was one thing but this new demand was outrageous. She turned defiant. “They may not see my arse. It is enough they have seen my cunny.”
At first, the captain was taken aback. He raised his dark eyebrows in surprise then spoke in a menacing voice, his words tinged with anger.
“I’m in charge of this ship. I’m in charge of every arsehole on it, including yours.”
The captain beckoned two crewmembers over. “Take her to my cabin. The lady chooses to remain modest,” he said in a mocking tone. He pushed Elizabeth towards them.
“You know what to do with her.”
“Aye, cap’n,” said the men. They each took one of Elizabeth’s arms and dragged her, kicking and struggling, to a cabin at the rear end of the ship.
The captain’s cabin was significantly bigger than her own, sufficient to contain a double bed and a writing desk. It was dimly lit with an oil lamp. The light was bright enough for Elizabeth to see an object on the bed that both frightened and thrilled her. It was a whip with many ends, a cat ‘o’ nine tails.
The two men hoisted Elizabeth onto the bed and trussed her up with rope so that she was face down on bent knees with her hands tied behind her haunches. One of the men lifted her skirt up and flung it over her head. Her backside was completely exposed. She’d never felt so humiliated. Each of the men gave her ass a slap and left. There was no point in struggling thought Elizabeth. The slaps of the men still tingled. She wondered what would happen next. She didn’t have to wait long before she heard the click of the cabin door followed by voices.
“One at a time,” said the captain.
Oh God, thought Elizabeth. What were these men going to do to her? She imagined the worst but nobody touched her, nobody came near her. She had simply been put on display.
The men were allowed in one by one to stare.. After a few seconds the captain ushered each man out, laughing and joking.
“That’ll do you for tonight Willy,” he said, or “you’ve got your hands full now Johnson.” Finally, the parade finished. The captain pulled her skirt down and stood beside the bed. Elizabeth watched wide-eyed as he stroked his erection.
“Well Milady? Have you learned who’s in charge here?” he asked gruffly.
“Yes captain,” she whispered.
“When I tell you to do something, you obey, understood?”
“Yes captain.”
“Just to make sure you understand, here’s your final punishment.”
Elizabeth felt the lash of the cat ‘o’ nine tails sting her backside. She was inflamed. Her buttocks turned fifty shades of pink. The captain fondled her.
“My lady’s cheeks are indeed on fire.”
The captain untied her from her awkward position and laid her on her side before parting her legs.
“What is it my lady wishes now that she’s shown her arse and cunny to every man here, now that she’s driven them mad with desire?” he said softly.
“Fuck me captain,” she implored.
“In the pink meat or the dark?” he asked.
“The pink,” she whispered.
Elizabeth opened herself, feeling the captain’s large tip make its way inside her.
“What do you suppose my crew are doing now?” he asked, thrusting deep inside her?
“Jacking off,” she gasped.
The captain began moving faster and faster inside her.
“What are they thinking about?” he growled.
“Me,” she panted. “My cunny. My arsehole.”
Elizabeth’s orgasm exploded inside her body. As it slowly subsided, the picture of Declan as captain of the ship faded away. Elizabeth turned on her side, hugging her pillow pretending it was him. Declan would’ve loved this new fantasy. Sadly, she’d never get the chance to share it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Joan wondered whether Byron Sparks would turn up. Despite wanting to know about him she’d chosen not to Google his name. She pr
eferred the element of surprise and exploration. Technology had diminished wonder, thought Joan. Nowadays you could find out almost everything about everybody thanks to the overpowering reach of search engines. Gone was the excitement of arriving at a travel destination and discovering its delights. Chances were you’d already visited your room, seen the front of the building, and knew what was on the menu of restaurants in the neighbourhood before you even left home. Joan believed in discovery firsthand. She didn’t want to be warned, or influenced by the perception of others. She could make up her own mind.
Byron Sparks showed up five minutes early. Joan was busy entering the afternoon’s sales into the computer. Several college students had made purchases so Hersh would be happy. She heard the tinkle of the customer bell and saw Byron Sparks striding towards her, a grin lighting up his comfortable face.
“Good day,” Byron said. “Are you ready for coffee?”
“Yes,” replied Joan. “Just give me two seconds.”
“Sure,” he said, . “I’ll just take a wander around until you’re ready. Where are your books on photography?”
Joan pointed him in the right direction and hurriedly set about completing her task. She finished up her last entry, just as Hersh arrived.
“Any sales?” he asked.
Joan nodded. “Several.”
Hersh beamed. Joan thought she’d better get Byron out of the shop before Hersh started going on about the ‘rogering of arses.’ Once something arrived in Hersh’s brain, it tended to stay there for days.
“Byron,” she called. “I’m ready.”
Byron emerged from the stacks with a book on Julia Margaret Cameron, a Victorian photographer.
“I’ll take this,” he said, setting it on the desk.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Hersh jostling Joan to one side.
Joan introduced the two men who shook hands.
“Talented lady,” said Hersh flipping through the book Byron was buying.
“And a late bloomer,” said Byron. “She didn’t take up photography until she was forty-eight when her daughter gave her a camera.”
“Forty-eight. She was a spring chicken,” chuckled Hersh. He looked at Joan and jerked his head towards Byron.
“He your date?”
Trust Hersh to ask embarrassing questions. Joan grabbed her purse and wound her scarf around her neck.
“We just met here yesterday,” she said to Hersh. .
Hersh stabbed a knarled finger into Byron’s shoulder.
“Aha,” said Hersh as if he’d just discovered a secret. “You must be the one who bought the book on Nora Barnacle.”
“Guilty,” smiled Byron.
“She was quite the woman,” said Hersh.“Do you know she….”
“We gotta go,” said Joan grabbing Byron’s arm.
“You kids have fun,” called Hersh as Joan hustled Byron out of the store.
Byron placed a cappuccino in front of Joan and sat down. He’d chosen a small coffee place not far from the bookstore, eschewing a Starbucks right across the street. Joan liked him for that.
“So, you’re a reader with an interest in photography,” said. Joan.
Byron added sugar to his coffee before gazing at her in a disarming way. Joan took a deep breath and a sip from her mug. Why did she have the feeling she knew him? It was most odd.
“How very detective of you,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. Was he mocking her?
“Not really,” she replied. “Anyone with an interest in James Joyce must be a reader. You also bought a book about a photographer.”
“What else can you deduce about me?” he asked.
Joan thought for a minute. His ring finger was unadorned although she thought she could detect the faintest of lines where a ring might have been.
“You’re divorced,” she said.
He nodded.
“You have two children in university.”
Byron made a zero with his finger and thumb.
“No children then.” She examined Byron’s clothes. He wore a thick black sweater with large buttons that ran from neck to mid-chest, dark jeans, and black casual lace-ups. His attire was expensive but tasteful.
“You’re self employed and you drive a Lexus,” said Joan decisively.
Byron’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Why Miss Sherlock,” he said, “bingo on both counts. How did you know?”
Joan was enjoying the flirtation. “You’re not wearing a watch for one thing,” she said, “that means your time is your own. Secondly, you have a Lexus key ring.”
Byron glanced down to the set of keys he’d placed on top of his photography book and laughed.
“Well spotted,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Go ahead.”
“You told me you were widowed and taught literature at University College in Dublin so those things don’t count,” said Byron. “But one thing I don’t know is …how long you’ve been interested in baseball.”
“What?” Joan almost spilled her coffee. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Elementary,” he teased. “Despite the fascination of my company, your eyes occasionally flicker over there.” He nodded towards a television playing silently in the corner. It was showing highlights of last night’s Blue Jays game.
“You got me,” laughed Joan. “For a minute I thought you were psychic.”
A comfortable silence hung between them as they sipped coffee and smiled at each other.
“So what sort of person are you?” asked Byron putting down his cup and leaning back in his chair.
The question took Joan by surprise. No one had ever asked her that before. In her experience people were more interested in talking about themselves.
“Well, I’m er…reasonably intelligent,” said Joan.
“Modest,” added Byron.
“I enjoy life. I have interests. I’m sensible.”
“So not a risk-taker then?” asked Byron.
Joan looked into Byron’s hazel eyes but there seemed to be no hint of disapproval.
“I wouldn’t say I never take risks,” said Joan, “but I’d say they were calculated.”
“So you calculated me?” said Byron.
“What?” asked Joan confused.
“You must’ve decided I was worth the risk of a coffee.”
“I don’t think there’s too much at stake over coffee,” said Joan.
“Ah but you never can tell,” said Byron. “A snowball begins with a single flake.”
“True enough,” smiled Joan. “I’ll keep that in mind for future calculations.”
The next hour passed in a flash as each painted their life, in broad strokes, for the other. Byron was exceedingly sympathetic when Joan told him about the loss of her husband and son. At the mention of Declan Thomas, Byron was surprised.
“He’s a big star. I read about him in the papers,” said Byron.
“Yes, he was a big star,” sighed Joan.
“Hugely talented. I liked his music a lot,” said Byron.
He reached across the table to give Joan’s hand a squeeze. His touch was extraordinarily warm and comforting. She wanted to change the subject.
“Tell me more about you.”
Joan learned about Byron’s early life, growing up on a farm in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Much as he loved the natural beauty of the countryside, he ached to get away from small town provincialism. He’d joined a rock band and achieved moderate success as a bass guitarist but quit after the lead singer committed suicide.
“What was the band called?” inquired Joan.
Byron looked sheepish.
“Ballsack”.
“You’re kidding,” said Joan.
“Youthful immaturity seeks shock value,” said Byron. “Plus, we thought we were being clever with our word play on the French writer Balzac.”
“I remember ‘Ballsack’…they played the El Mocambo downstairs. My God, I think we might’ve seen you there.”
>
Joan had a flashback of being nineteen years old, waiting impatiently for her twin sister to meet her beneath the famed neon palm tree sign of the club on Spadina Avenue.
“Wouldn’t that be a coincidence?” laughed Byron. “Maybe that’s why I feel I know you.”
“You too? I get the same feeling,” said Joan. The way he tilted his head when he looked at her gave her a strong feeling of déjà vu.
“Maybe we met in a previous life,” said Byron.
“Possibly,” mused Joan. “I do feel like this has all happened before.”
“Maybe it has,” said Byron. “Some theorists think there are infinite parallel universes where every possibility is played out in other dimensions continuously: Time as a mobius strip rather than a straight line, and time travel a definite possibility.”
Joan wanted to pursue her own line of thought.
“So, women?” she inquired. “I take it there was a different one every night… back in the day?”
“Sometimes two,” said Byron. “I guess you could say I was a pretty bad boy.”
“Hard to resist if they throw themselves at you,” said Joan thoughtfully. “So then what? After rock ‘n’ roll?”
Byron shrugged. “The usual shit jobs, construction, bartending. Then,” he tapped his photography book, “just like Julia Cameron, I was given an old camera. Like her, I fell in love with the idea of being able to capture beauty. So, back to school I went. I learned all the old techniques of how to develop photos in a darkroom. Learned all about chemicals and lighting. Then, everything went digital and now everyone’s an expert. Skill no longer required.”
“Yes,” agreed Joan. “But there’s still the art. Just because you can take a photo doesn’t make you an artist.”
Byron chewed his lip thoughtfully and stared at her.
“True enough. I’d like to know what you think.”
“About what?” asked Joan. His eyes were hypnotic.
“I’ve got a show opening at a gallery on Dundas on Thursday evening. I’d be delighted if you came and gave me your opinion.”
“I’m not an expert on photography,” said Joan flattered by the invitation.
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