I was in no mood for this and considered explaining anatomy to him, but said this: "Well, you certainly have a good grasp of the obvious, but if you are going to do that, why don't you use both hands?" I know. Very stupid. Expecting him to raise his other hand and reveal a hook in it which would probably hurt much worse if he followed my advice. But luckily his other hand simply held up a long neck beer bottle from one of the yacht's coolers. He let the ice slide off onto my left nipple, which nicely rose to greet the mid-day sudden cold front.

"Ah, you freckled she-devil, you like this, eh?"

I slightly spun on my toes, my fingers already growing numb from the tight rope around my wrists that held my arms over my head. In the background I watched as one of the other girls from the beach party was walking naked onto a wooden plank stuck out over the railing. A rather large man holding onto a double coil of rope stood off to the side. He held the coil up as if about to deliver a bowling ball down an alley, but instead suddenly did a marvelous full turn and smashed the rope directly into the girl's very cute ass cheeks causing her to stumble forward and totter for a second on the edge of the plank before falling into the sea below. A round of cheers came from the others watching from the front deck chairs. The girl's scream was cut off with the splash, but followed by lessening calls for help.

"Any sharks around?" the man trying to rearrange my skin yelled to his co-worker. A simple "not yet" was the answer. "Then bite the next one's nipples to draw blood." He turned back to me, rubbing the cold bottle against my nip. "Maybe I bite these, eh?"

"Look, I came to Barbados two nights ago with the others and last night we had a party and all got drunk until this morning when you sad pirates showed up, looking for girls to rape, here on your movie set old boat." I was trying for the high ground, but I'd been at that party trying to break into a computer for its corporate secrets.

His hand dug in harder and I could feel my skin over my ribs stretching upward. "Who are you?" I asked, trying to squirm away from one pain to actually get at the other refreshing one.

"I can assure you that this ship can out run anything your law enforcement people can provide. We have a particular type of 'Stealth Mode'." He drank long and steady from the bottle as I felt his grip on me raise me off my toes. I suppose I should have screamed for mercy, pleading for him not to hurt me, I'd be his slave forever. All that tommyrot. No, not me.

"Aren't you going to offer me a beer?" I don't know why I said that. Maybe hoping he'd steer the long neck up into my pussy to see if my belly bulged. Or maybe just not to give him much satisfaction in his rudeness. But I think I really wanted to know what the hell he would do next. He released his grip and stepped away for me to watch one of the girls take a wonderful two full somersault dive off the railing. Noting she was wearing a rope around her waist and drawn between her legs to haul her back on board. Saved from the sharks I suppose to be thrown to them again. I looked down at the indentations on my right breast and also watched one of his men tying a rope to each ankle. Oh, good. I'd hate to think they had forgotten the exact purpose of my being here.

"I want this one whipped. Until either every one of her freckles are whipped off, or her body is so reddened I cannot find a freckle. Understood?" His men certainly seemed happy with the order, even neglecting to haul the last girl back up on board. He smiled and picked up another bottle. "My name is William Van der Dekkan, and I am Captain of this ship. What do you have to say to that?"

"You're a myth. So you really don't have to whip me since whatever I say now will probably be a lie just to get you to stop."

"I am sure of that. But now I want to have some fun." And he leaned over and bit my left nipple. "If I don't have fun, I throw you to the sharks, eh?"

For a myth, his bite was causing a definite stream of blood down my chest. From then on what was the purpose of pleading for mercy or screaming out every profanity I knew, and some I made up, let alone telling them about who their parents were, or how puny or smelly or ugly they were. And spitting was only going to wash their faces. Nothing was going to stop my being whipped.

And so as his men lined up to use whips, coiled rope, their pants belts, even the cord off the oscillating fan from the captain's cabin, I did what any self respecting young woman with a desirable body would do. I screamed until I was hoarse, I struggled trying to climb up to the crow's nest, I bled and had a terrible headache.

They were determined to do as fine a job as possible. One took a knife and cut the hair that hung over the back of my neck to allow that area to be whipped. Another held up the others while he dry shaved my pussy area, though I had waxed it only days before, but they wanted to be sure, of course.

They worked on every area, soles of feet, fingertips, and every spot in between. And of course the more feminine shapes received more exertions, more discourses, more 'fun'.

At each half hour ring of the bell my position was altered slightly, keeping within the necessary parameters for strong arms to wield weapons of choice upon the relentless twistings and struggles of flesh. I found myself moving from an A position to L then a U, to a sideways X, to the very popular inverted Y. My breasts bounced as they had never done before. My sex lips flushed like they had never done before. There were moments when a strap or flayed end touched a nipple that sent an extra shiver thru me. They mistook this for orgasms, and thus made bets on how many, when, and excellence. The honest orgasms shook me violently with occasional squirts. They gave me water to drink, not so much as to keep up my strength but to bet on my release.

There were moments such as when a strap snaked off a shoulder blade to cut under the arm while a rope was being tugged off a calf. My mind wondered at the differing touch and the differing response the differing application of force, and how much fun I was providing these pirates. The fluttering of my labia, the twist of my head, the dulling pain there, the constant pain in another spot, and the expectation of new pain which was never where I thought it might be.

How long I writhed in the rigging, how many strokes, how well I moved against the lashings, how well I made them horny and leaving off me to go fuck one of the other girls. I felt the ropes that cut, the leather that smacked, the cord that stung, the belts, and the sounds of the men's work, their delight at something that brought out my agony, the cheers at my eruptions. I could not remember faces or voices, only those long seconds when nothing occurred, mainly the repositioning of a rope to expose me more, or change my direction, or the men needed to change the ship's direction. And tied to the rear sail rigging, I swung from side to side, sometimes over the fast moving sea.

And the smell of the sea. I wondered what it would be like to be walloped off a gangplank into the warm sea. To fall under the ship and be hauled up the other side. To be hung off the stern like a living ensign.

Then as the light began to fade, I was taken down and dragged across the deck to the bowsprit, there to be tied under it, arms and legs back around, so that I would be the ship's figurehead. And into the sunset we sailed as the sea sprayed its salty warmth onto my aching, lacerated body.

I awoke to find the ship had run aground on an island. Sounds of revelry from behind me, the pirates no doubt, ready for another day of terror. Girls begin chased across the sand dunes, but the men coming to a spot and stopping, and waving politely as the girls escaped. Then I saw a figure walking along the sand toward me. And then I felt a hand on my right breast, giving it a good tug downward. "I wonder if I could pull these out further?" I thought to explain anatomy when I saw the beer bottle in his hand. "Still think I'm a myth?"

He rested his head against the bowsprit taking a drink and alternating the breasts to tug on, which I suppose was a bit more beneficial to them. "I think this one is actually bigger than the other. Maybe in time I will stretch you into double D's." I was too hateful and tired to say anything back.

"I do love your freckles." He sighed and ran the cold bottle against my nips. As refreshing as that was I still tried to shake him off. "Every seven or so years I and my men are allowed to come ashore to seek a romance that will save us all. Been doing that since 1831. We gave up on romance a century ago. And now take a woman to be our pleasure. You can't see now but all your welts and cuts and reddened areas have healed during the morning breeze. The men voted for you and as their Captain I agree. You shall sail with us now for the next seven years, as our 'cabin girl'. You showed great spirit yesterday and was still defiant when we lashed you here to the bowsprit. My crew is returning and our once in seven years day is over, but you will make our days and nights so enjoyable." He took the bottle and broke it against my left shoulder. "I dub you Freckles, the figurehead for the Flying Dutchman." As a new pain erupted in my shoulder, I mustered a good spit in his face. Those Clark Gable eyebrows narrowed in satisfaction. His men roared their approval.

I glared at them as well as I could, knowing that the humiliation and pain they give me each day will be renewed the next. Those who had not had a chance to properly place a leather braid against my open sex will have seven years to practice to perfection. I would get to know each man's hairy belly against my face while his mates learned where my G-spot is. There would not be a single rope on the ship that would not at some time either hold me in some agonizing position or its threads cutting into my body in a momentary caress. And the Captain would never let me have any of his beer.

I suppose I could fall in love with the Captain and end his curse. But I had worked hard to steal those corporate secrets and expected quite a nice monetary reward, not daily whippings and nightly fuckings. This Captain has screwed me in a way I could not possibly find romantic. I'll not give in to him, I'll find a way to escape, or in seven years time I will get thrown off his ship, to the sharks maybe, but in the meantime....shit, another storm on the horizon. Ending what little Internet access I get out here. The men calling for me. Seems I'm wanted up on the topmast. Bets made on when I strike lightning.

So if you are out in the Caribbean or Atlantic this summer, do wave at me if the famed ghost ship passes by. I'll try to wave back but I 'll be tied to the bowsprit, or main mast, or top mast, the wheel, or being keel hauled. You may not recognize me as my whip marks and sunburns cover all but the freckles on my nose during the day. If at night you may hear over the ocean waves my hopefully eloquent screams.