1. Pirate Erotica Chapter 2


    Date: 8/28/2015, Categories: Anal, Hardcore, Shemales, Author: buggiebug10, Rating: 67, Source: xHamster

    The captains cabin is well-supplied with moaning, cross-eyed wantons, either masturbating, or having rabid sex in a delirium of excitement. A complete lack of law, an atmosphere of indecency pervade here. The captain’s will is the only truth, and all the crew know how to please and displease him. The captain, I must now mention, has hooks for hands, and pegs for legs. In addition, he has but one good eye, his bad one lies partly hidden under a tattered, ragged eyepatch. The triangular patch is made from the boiled, shrunken scalp of a former first mate, a mutineer, to whom some of the captain’s wounds are due. And it is also due to this same, demised first mate that the captain sports a great gash from forehead to chin. In the lower part of the valley of his ancient facial gash, his coarse grey beard hair grows inward, the hairs facing each-other, crowding, battling for dominance. Thus his beard wages war against itself, governed by the same principle that rules the ship. I’m clad in my sheer and tattered red dress, bound hand and foot in irons, and my guards take me to stand in front of the captain. “How much is yer precious life worth to ye?” the captain asks me, his voice as raspy as a toad’s. I suppose it’s worth everything to me, I say. Death is the ultimate freedom, lass. Do ye fear her embrace? I have death ready and waitin’ for ye, if ye want to know her, give her a kiss. She’ll spread those whore legs of hers, ha, and you— like any of us—are free to kiss that ass, to ...
    kiss the ass of death, to suck the cunt of deep darkness. Ah the easy cunt, that filthy gash, the grinding pit of death. Why, lass, that gnarly cunt opens like a whore to all comers, sinner and saint, small man and great, wastrels, urchins and whelps. We’ll all kiss that ass, that cunt. The time will come for everyone, eventually, lass. Why not go ahead, and kiss the cunt, and suck the ass of death? Why not skip to the dirty and quick end, and get it all over with, this hideous pageant called life? And he says all this with such d***ken vehemence that it’s a spitting of words, a spitting of fury, a spitting of disgust. My life, I meekly say, in an effort to prevail on what little may be left of his sobriety on this good night, is about freedom, not the freedom of death, but the freedom that comes of life. I want to write the poetry of wildness, to explore an untamed world, your world, far from civilization. Here man is a savage thing, pitted against the elements, perhaps living as men were meant— I have, he says, no use for poetry. In fact, lass, I’d rather see ye gutted, for the contemptible English dog you are. The crew, my crew, after yer display of womanly weakness against the savage Pimbodomodo, why the crew are all hungry for a taste of yer bl**d. And I, their captain, I must give them a splash of yer bl**d at least, or they’ll mutiny on me, sure. Do ye see this face? this eye o’mine? Does it look to you like I have a hand to spare to save ye, whelp? Or p’rhaps ye want ...
«1234...6»