Search and Destroy

[SteveBurke]

*(Golden Age of Piracy, 1718 – aboard the galleon Black Vixen, somewhere in the Caribbean after Blackbeard’s blockade)*

The Black Vixen rolled on the turquoise swell, her black sails cracking like whips. Below decks, the air was thick with rum, gunpowder, and the stink of unwashed pirates. In the captain’s cabin, Scarlett “Red” O’Malley paced like a caged tigress. Thirty years old, flame-haired Irish-English hellcat, daughter of the infamous Captain O’Malley himself. Her emerald eyes blazed, her freckled tits straining against a crimson silk bodice that looked painted on, and her leather breeches hugged an ass that had launched a thousand drunken toasts.

She was also the biggest bitch on the Spanish Main.

“French brandy, my arse!” she snarled, slamming her fist on the oak table. “That flask is mine, you scurvy pack of dogs!”

The ship’s new Articles—posted after a near-mutiny last month—were clear: any suspicion of contraband meant a “complete hull inspection.” No exceptions. Not even for the captain’s daughter.

The man sent to do it was Diego “Dagger” Vargas, twenty-one, Spanish-Moroccan surgeon’s mate with sun-bronzed skin, a wicked scar across one cheek, and eyes that had been secretly painting Scarlett naked on the inside of his sea chest for two voyages now. He stood in the doorway, calm as a shark, holding the rolled parchment of the Articles like it was a royal decree.

Scarlett spun on him, towering even in bare feet, hands on those wide hips. “You? They sent you, you greasy Spanish bastard? I’ll keelhaul you myself and feed your balls to the sharks!”

Diego just smiled, slow and dangerous. “Captain’s orders, Miss O’Malley. Article Seven: ‘Any crew or passenger suspected of smuggling shall submit to full inspection, clothing removed, body searched, cavities probed. Resistance shall be met with the lash.’ Your flask reeks of cognac. Open wide, Red.”

She lunged at him, cursing in Gaelic, English, and the filthiest Spanish she knew. “Pendejo! Cabrón! You filthy half-Moor dog! Touch me and I’ll—”

Diego sidestepped, kicked the heavy cabin door shut, and slid the iron bolt home with a loud CLANG. The lock clicked like a judge’s gavel. He unrolled the parchment and began reading in that smooth, mocking voice:

“‘The subject shall first remove all outer garments…’”

Scarlett’s face went scarlet. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He stepped closer. “I would. And I will. Strip. Or I call the bosun and we do this on deck in front of the whole crew.”

She spat at his boots. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you perverted little shit?”

Diego’s grin widened. “Every second.”

He watched her tremble with rage as she started. First the wide leather belt—tossed at his head. Then the crimson bodice laces, yanked open with furious jerks so her heavy, freckled breasts spilled out like twin cannonballs, pink nipples already stiff from the tropical breeze whistling through the portholes. She tried to cover them with her arms; he just shook his head.

“Hands at your sides, Red. Protocol.”

“Fuck your protocol!” But she dropped her arms, tits bouncing with every angry breath.

Next came the silk sash around her waist—untied with a flourish that made her hips sway. Then the leather breeches. She had to peel them down her thick thighs, ass cheeks wobbling as the tight leather fought her. No drawers underneath, of course. Pirates didn’t bother. Her fiery red bush—trimmed into a perfect landing strip—came into view, followed by the plump lips of her cunt already glistening with a traitor’s sheen of humiliation and, yes, reluctant heat.

She stood completely naked now, flame hair cascading over her shoulders, every curve on display: big bouncing tits, flared hips, that juicy ass, and long legs that could wrap around a man and break him. Diego drank it in like rum.

“Turn around. Bend over the table. Legs spread.”

“You disgusting Spanish dog!” she hissed, but she did it—slowly, because fighting made her tits jiggle more. She planted her palms on the chart table, ass thrust out, pussy and tight pink rosebud on full display. Diego stepped behind her, hands rough from years at sea.

He started the “inspection.” Fingers traced her spine, cupped her hanging breasts, rolled the nipples until she gasped. Down her ribs, over the flare of her hips, then between her legs. Two thick fingers slid along her slick folds, parting them.

“Wet already, Red? For a ‘greasy Spanish bastard’?”

“Shut your mouth!” she snarled, but her hips twitched back against his hand.

He probed deeper, knuckle-deep, searching for the mythical “contraband.” She cursed him in three languages while her cunt clenched around his fingers. He took his sweet time—slow circles, scissoring, thumb brushing her swollen clit until her knees shook and a humiliating little whimper escaped.

“Article Nine,” he murmured, voice thick, “requires full cavity search. Bend lower.”

She was shaking now, rage and unwanted arousal mixing. “I’ll kill you… I’ll—”

A sudden BOOM from outside—cannon salute from a passing friendly sloop. At the exact same second, the drunk gunner topside tripped over his own feet, yanking the wrong rope. The heavy hatch cover over the captain’s skylight exploded upward with a CRASH of splintering wood and iron.

Sunlight poured in like a spotlight. The entire main deck—thirty filthy, cheering pirates—suddenly had a perfect bird’s-eye view straight down into the cabin.

Scarlett’s naked body was framed like a painting: bent over, ass high, tits swinging, Diego’s fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her dripping cunt.

The crew went feral.

“Oi! Look at the captain’s daughter!”

“Red’s getting searched proper!”

“Give us a show, lass!”

Scarlett screamed—a raw, mortified howl that echoed across the Caribbean. She tried to straighten up, but Diego kept his fingers inside her, holding her in place while the whole ship watched her jiggle and thrash. Her face burned crimson, freckles standing out, tears of pure humiliated fury in her eyes as catcalls rained down.

“Get off me, you bastard!” she shrieked.

Diego finally pulled his fingers free—slowly, letting the crew see the shiny wetness—and stepped back. He grabbed his blood-stained surgeon’s apron from the hook (still crusted from yesterday’s amputation) and tossed it over her shoulders. It barely covered her tits and left her ass and pussy completely exposed from behind.

The hatch slammed shut again as the drunk gunner was tackled by the bosun, but the damage was done. Every pirate on deck had seen Captain O’Malley’s daughter stripped, searched, and finger-fucked in broad tropical daylight.

Scarlett spun on Diego, apron clutched to her chest, flame hair wild, eyes blazing with hate… and something hotter.

“You… you filthy, smug, Spanish-Moroccan scum,” she panted. Her thighs were still trembling. “You planned that.”

“Didn’t plan the hatch,” he said, licking his fingers clean right in front of her. “But I enjoyed it. Every jiggle. Every curse. Every drop.”

She stepped closer, bare feet on the wooden planks, apron barely hiding her soaked cunt. Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

“You’re still scum. You’re still going to pay for this.”

Then she grabbed his shirt, yanked him down, and bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“But swab my deck later tonight, Dagger. Bring rope. And that cock you’ve been hiding under those breeches. Because if you think this search is over…”

She shoved him back, turned, and strutted toward the door—ass cheeks flashing under the too-short apron, the crew still cheering outside.

“…you’ve got another think coming, you lucky Spanish bastard.”

The bolt slid open. She stepped out onto the deck to a roar of applause, head high, cheeks burning, already plotting how she was going to make Diego Vargas both worship and suffer for the rest of the voyage.

And somewhere deep in her hate-soaked heart, she was already wet at the thought of round two.

**The End… for now.**

[imreadonly2]

Nice, and wonderfully original, in an era I hadn't even thought of. THANKS!!