| General Fiction posted August 13, 2017 |
  |
nasty little boy pirate fantasy
Yo ho ho and all that
by LIJ Red
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
The author has placed a warning on this post for sexual content.
The shapeless London sow, nanny and handmatron to the Governor's comely daughter, cursed us and bawled loud gusts of weeping, but proved herself a most worthy prize as she doctored our wounded in the sick bay. My hunch about her was correct, she was a better healer than the Governor's leech, whom we hanged to the same tree as the Governor, himself, also with his gonads in his mouth.
The Governor's son, pretty as a wench, broke under the crew's buggering and the cat o' nine, and swore allegiance to our black flag. Then he pulled a dagger and slashed the second mate, so we swabbed and charged his rectum with powder, fuse, and four-pounder ball, and shot his lofty stepmother with him. Most untidy.
Most of the convict slaves and nigras leapt to join us. No back among them was free of scars or stripes from the overseer's lash. That hulking overseer sounded like a colicky tittybabe as he died under his own whip, wielded by those stringy striped fellows. We put the torch to the Governor's plantation house, loosed the horses into the cane fields, and butchered and smoked the kine for our ship's stores. The long chowlines of buccaneers and former slaves leading to the battered orifices of the Governor's plump, dainty daughter and her handmaidens toiled day and night as the house and barns burned and his Excellency's redcoats and whip men screamed endlessly until they died. We had many French and Greeks among us, if you get my drift. My crew of boucan hunters gone to sea were naturally as bloodthirsty as the vengeance-crazed former slaves and serfs,and a good deal hornier.
The sound merchant brig, Martha Grees, was anchored in the harbor. We hanged her officers and crew, added four eight-pound cannon to her existing eight fourpounders, manned her with a few able officers and a crew of ex-slaves, and left Port Cockney with her sailing in the wake of my liberated Spanish Galleon, renamed the Lumbrough Lass.
The young wife and daughter of the dangling captain of the Martha joined the Governor of Port Cockney's daughter and her three maids in our fo'c'sle where we, ah, laid them board and board and ran them through.
The sea was glorious under the sun of freedom. The swells were long and gentle, the puffs of cloud sailing as happily as my pirate fleet. I had the still arrogant blonde daughter of His Excellency roped by her heels and dragged naked in our wake to wash away the peckertracks. Then I took her to my cabin and ordered her to hit her silky knees. As she played the skin flute, she paused to beg for the lives of her nanny and maidens. Her blue eyes and pink nose, both streaming tears, plucked a string I thought broken ages ago.
The crew was sated, and did not mutiny when I put the seven naked women in a rundown skiff with a basket of beef and biscuit, a cask of water, and two oars. From the maintop a lookout had hailed of a smudge on the skyline, due west, most likely Cuba.
"Keep the sun on yer left shoulder and ration the water," I said and laughed as they drifted away.
They made rude gestures and squealed blasphemies to freeze a parson's blood. Old sorry ruint women.
Flying dutchmen indeed, we were the most pathetic pirates on the seven seas. Farmers, freed slaves, mournful souls wanting to go home to mother. We rambled across the Caribbean, seeking ships to loot and plunder, finding hulks full of lumber, copra, fish and whale oil. They hove to and let us look, and we let them go. No virgins, no gold, no rum. We did let one cargo of slaves loose on the ship's crew. More fun than a dogfight.
Then the Royal frigate Mellington, with two sloops of war accompanying, caught us dragging our barnacles toward the Virginia Colony coast.
The tars were well-armed and superbly trained, but my rabble knew what it meant to be a convict slave or dine with Davy Jones.
A calm sea, a working breeze, maybe seven knots, the sun high, the Mellington's snowy sails fat as she crossed the weary tee of my former merchantmen. The bugles sounded and her flank erupted a great thundercloud of powder smoke. There was the rushing hum of grape and chain, and our yards and tops crashed down on men ripped to pieces by the grape. The John Bulls were master gunners. The ragged old Lumbrough, dragged to a stop by her own broken wings, turned slowly and my surviving farmers and slaves took their only shots from the few cannon we had left.
'Twas the fury of the damned. Mellington's main and foremast went by the board. A deck submagazine exploded. Her captain said "Oh, shit."
With her mizzen, the frigate kept headway enough to come about, and her second broadside, all ball to the waterline, sent the Lumbrough to Davy Jones's locker in ten minutes.
But Mellington was done with aggression, her crew fighting fire and clearing decks and giving Lumbrough a hurrah as she vanished..
The fast sloops bored in on the old brig, and my young brother and his nigras and Indians taught them not to get grabby. It was tooth and nail for a quarter hour, one of the Martha's overheated guns exploding from too hasty charging and firing. One sloop was dismasted, the other taking water, as the Martha lumbered over the bubbling grave of the Lumbrough and picked up myself and a score of other swimmers, all wounded, some badly. We made like shepherds and got the flock out of there.
There were enough men left to muster a crew. We patched the holes, stitched the sails, and limped into Hispaniola. We left our black crewman there in Haiti, and swapped our cannons for copra, and the skeleton crew of former english convicts held the Martha together barely long enough to stagger into Savannah. We sold the copra and the hulk of the Martha and scattered like startled birds into the Colonies.
My lay of the take kept me in Rum for a few weeks, then I left Savannah and rode Shank's mare inland, through virgin forests, into wild and beautiful mountains. I had truly found paradise. I did odd jobs from farm to farm, in a pleasant aimless ramble. A new start, a new countryside, a new world.
Old O'Hara was putting the finishing touches on his magnificent manor house. His young bride and he fed me well, and said he would deed me a small tract at the edge of his vast plantation if I would work for him as a carpenter, which had been my trade before my, uh, seagoing career.
My first task was building a gazebo in the middle of the sprawling lawn. I was laying out the footing, when the sturdy lass appeared. She swayed her long, wide skirts lazily, shading her blonde hair with a lacy parasol, approaching me. From talk, I knew she was O'Hara's niece, who had been shipped to his new world estate after some traumatic and scandalous affair no one would talk much about.
I stood up, bowed slightly, and said, in my best Sunday voice, "Good morning, my lady."
She twirled the parasol from in front of her face and replied, with a nasty sparkle in her big blue eyes, "Hit your knees, boy."
Been there ever since. Paradise enow.
The shapeless London sow, nanny and handmatron to the Governor's comely daughter, cursed us and bawled loud gusts of weeping, but proved herself a most worthy prize as she doctored our wounded in the sick bay. My hunch about her was correct, she was a better healer than the Governor's leech, whom we hanged to the same tree as the Governor, himself, also with his gonads in his mouth.
The Governor's son, pretty as a wench, broke under the crew's buggering and the cat o' nine, and swore allegiance to our black flag. Then he pulled a dagger and slashed the second mate, so we swabbed and charged his rectum with powder, fuse, and four-pounder ball, and shot his lofty stepmother with him. Most untidy.
Most of the convict slaves and nigras leapt to join us. No back among them was free of scars or stripes from the overseer's lash. That hulking overseer sounded like a colicky tittybabe as he died under his own whip, wielded by those stringy striped fellows. We put the torch to the Governor's plantation house, loosed the horses into the cane fields, and butchered and smoked the kine for our ship's stores. The long chowlines of buccaneers and former slaves leading to the battered orifices of the Governor's plump, dainty daughter and her handmaidens toiled day and night as the house and barns burned and his Excellency's redcoats and whip men screamed endlessly until they died. We had many French and Greeks among us, if you get my drift. My crew of boucan hunters gone to sea were naturally as bloodthirsty as the vengeance-crazed former slaves and serfs,and a good deal hornier.
The sound merchant brig, Martha Grees, was anchored in the harbor. We hanged her officers and crew, added four eight-pound cannon to her existing eight fourpounders, manned her with a few able officers and a crew of ex-slaves, and left Port Cockney with her sailing in the wake of my liberated Spanish Galleon, renamed the Lumbrough Lass.
The young wife and daughter of the dangling captain of the Martha joined the Governor of Port Cockney's daughter and her three maids in our fo'c'sle where we, ah, laid them board and board and ran them through.
The sea was glorious under the sun of freedom. The swells were long and gentle, the puffs of cloud sailing as happily as my pirate fleet. I had the still arrogant blonde daughter of His Excellency roped by her heels and dragged naked in our wake to wash away the peckertracks. Then I took her to my cabin and ordered her to hit her silky knees. As she played the skin flute, she paused to beg for the lives of her nanny and maidens. Her blue eyes and pink nose, both streaming tears, plucked a string I thought broken ages ago.
The crew was sated, and did not mutiny when I put the seven naked women in a rundown skiff with a basket of beef and biscuit, a cask of water, and two oars. From the maintop a lookout had hailed of a smudge on the skyline, due west, most likely Cuba.
"Keep the sun on yer left shoulder and ration the water," I said and laughed as they drifted away.
They made rude gestures and squealed blasphemies to freeze a parson's blood. Old sorry ruint women.
Flying dutchmen indeed, we were the most pathetic pirates on the seven seas. Farmers, freed slaves, mournful souls wanting to go home to mother. We rambled across the Caribbean, seeking ships to loot and plunder, finding hulks full of lumber, copra, fish and whale oil. They hove to and let us look, and we let them go. No virgins, no gold, no rum. We did let one cargo of slaves loose on the ship's crew. More fun than a dogfight.
Then the Royal frigate Mellington, with two sloops of war accompanying, caught us dragging our barnacles toward the Virginia Colony coast.
The tars were well-armed and superbly trained, but my rabble knew what it meant to be a convict slave or dine with Davy Jones.
A calm sea, a working breeze, maybe seven knots, the sun high, the Mellington's snowy sails fat as she crossed the weary tee of my former merchantmen. The bugles sounded and her flank erupted a great thundercloud of powder smoke. There was the rushing hum of grape and chain, and our yards and tops crashed down on men ripped to pieces by the grape. The John Bulls were master gunners. The ragged old Lumbrough, dragged to a stop by her own broken wings, turned slowly and my surviving farmers and slaves took their only shots from the few cannon we had left.
'Twas the fury of the damned. Mellington's main and foremast went by the board. A deck submagazine exploded. Her captain said "Oh, shit."
With her mizzen, the frigate kept headway enough to come about, and her second broadside, all ball to the waterline, sent the Lumbrough to Davy Jones's locker in ten minutes.
But Mellington was done with aggression, her crew fighting fire and clearing decks and giving Lumbrough a hurrah as she vanished..
The fast sloops bored in on the old brig, and my young brother and his nigras and Indians taught them not to get grabby. It was tooth and nail for a quarter hour, one of the Martha's overheated guns exploding from too hasty charging and firing. One sloop was dismasted, the other taking water, as the Martha lumbered over the bubbling grave of the Lumbrough and picked up myself and a score of other swimmers, all wounded, some badly. We made like shepherds and got the flock out of there.
There were enough men left to muster a crew. We patched the holes, stitched the sails, and limped into Hispaniola. We left our black crewman there in Haiti, and swapped our cannons for copra, and the skeleton crew of former english convicts held the Martha together barely long enough to stagger into Savannah. We sold the copra and the hulk of the Martha and scattered like startled birds into the Colonies.
My lay of the take kept me in Rum for a few weeks, then I left Savannah and rode Shank's mare inland, through virgin forests, into wild and beautiful mountains. I had truly found paradise. I did odd jobs from farm to farm, in a pleasant aimless ramble. A new start, a new countryside, a new world.
Old O'Hara was putting the finishing touches on his magnificent manor house. His young bride and he fed me well, and said he would deed me a small tract at the edge of his vast plantation if I would work for him as a carpenter, which had been my trade before my, uh, seagoing career.
My first task was building a gazebo in the middle of the sprawling lawn. I was laying out the footing, when the sturdy lass appeared. She swayed her long, wide skirts lazily, shading her blonde hair with a lacy parasol, approaching me. From talk, I knew she was O'Hara's niece, who had been shipped to his new world estate after some traumatic and scandalous affair no one would talk much about.
I stood up, bowed slightly, and said, in my best Sunday voice, "Good morning, my lady."
She twirled the parasol from in front of her face and replied, with a nasty sparkle in her big blue eyes, "Hit your knees, boy."
Been there ever since. Paradise enow.
The Governor's son, pretty as a wench, broke under the crew's buggering and the cat o' nine, and swore allegiance to our black flag. Then he pulled a dagger and slashed the second mate, so we swabbed and charged his rectum with powder, fuse, and four-pounder ball, and shot his lofty stepmother with him. Most untidy.
Most of the convict slaves and nigras leapt to join us. No back among them was free of scars or stripes from the overseer's lash. That hulking overseer sounded like a colicky tittybabe as he died under his own whip, wielded by those stringy striped fellows. We put the torch to the Governor's plantation house, loosed the horses into the cane fields, and butchered and smoked the kine for our ship's stores. The long chowlines of buccaneers and former slaves leading to the battered orifices of the Governor's plump, dainty daughter and her handmaidens toiled day and night as the house and barns burned and his Excellency's redcoats and whip men screamed endlessly until they died. We had many French and Greeks among us, if you get my drift. My crew of boucan hunters gone to sea were naturally as bloodthirsty as the vengeance-crazed former slaves and serfs,and a good deal hornier.
The sound merchant brig, Martha Grees, was anchored in the harbor. We hanged her officers and crew, added four eight-pound cannon to her existing eight fourpounders, manned her with a few able officers and a crew of ex-slaves, and left Port Cockney with her sailing in the wake of my liberated Spanish Galleon, renamed the Lumbrough Lass.
The young wife and daughter of the dangling captain of the Martha joined the Governor of Port Cockney's daughter and her three maids in our fo'c'sle where we, ah, laid them board and board and ran them through.
The sea was glorious under the sun of freedom. The swells were long and gentle, the puffs of cloud sailing as happily as my pirate fleet. I had the still arrogant blonde daughter of His Excellency roped by her heels and dragged naked in our wake to wash away the peckertracks. Then I took her to my cabin and ordered her to hit her silky knees. As she played the skin flute, she paused to beg for the lives of her nanny and maidens. Her blue eyes and pink nose, both streaming tears, plucked a string I thought broken ages ago.
The crew was sated, and did not mutiny when I put the seven naked women in a rundown skiff with a basket of beef and biscuit, a cask of water, and two oars. From the maintop a lookout had hailed of a smudge on the skyline, due west, most likely Cuba.
"Keep the sun on yer left shoulder and ration the water," I said and laughed as they drifted away.
They made rude gestures and squealed blasphemies to freeze a parson's blood. Old sorry ruint women.
Flying dutchmen indeed, we were the most pathetic pirates on the seven seas. Farmers, freed slaves, mournful souls wanting to go home to mother. We rambled across the Caribbean, seeking ships to loot and plunder, finding hulks full of lumber, copra, fish and whale oil. They hove to and let us look, and we let them go. No virgins, no gold, no rum. We did let one cargo of slaves loose on the ship's crew. More fun than a dogfight.
Then the Royal frigate Mellington, with two sloops of war accompanying, caught us dragging our barnacles toward the Virginia Colony coast.
The tars were well-armed and superbly trained, but my rabble knew what it meant to be a convict slave or dine with Davy Jones.
A calm sea, a working breeze, maybe seven knots, the sun high, the Mellington's snowy sails fat as she crossed the weary tee of my former merchantmen. The bugles sounded and her flank erupted a great thundercloud of powder smoke. There was the rushing hum of grape and chain, and our yards and tops crashed down on men ripped to pieces by the grape. The John Bulls were master gunners. The ragged old Lumbrough, dragged to a stop by her own broken wings, turned slowly and my surviving farmers and slaves took their only shots from the few cannon we had left.
'Twas the fury of the damned. Mellington's main and foremast went by the board. A deck submagazine exploded. Her captain said "Oh, shit."
With her mizzen, the frigate kept headway enough to come about, and her second broadside, all ball to the waterline, sent the Lumbrough to Davy Jones's locker in ten minutes.
But Mellington was done with aggression, her crew fighting fire and clearing decks and giving Lumbrough a hurrah as she vanished..
The fast sloops bored in on the old brig, and my young brother and his nigras and Indians taught them not to get grabby. It was tooth and nail for a quarter hour, one of the Martha's overheated guns exploding from too hasty charging and firing. One sloop was dismasted, the other taking water, as the Martha lumbered over the bubbling grave of the Lumbrough and picked up myself and a score of other swimmers, all wounded, some badly. We made like shepherds and got the flock out of there.
There were enough men left to muster a crew. We patched the holes, stitched the sails, and limped into Hispaniola. We left our black crewman there in Haiti, and swapped our cannons for copra, and the skeleton crew of former english convicts held the Martha together barely long enough to stagger into Savannah. We sold the copra and the hulk of the Martha and scattered like startled birds into the Colonies.
My lay of the take kept me in Rum for a few weeks, then I left Savannah and rode Shank's mare inland, through virgin forests, into wild and beautiful mountains. I had truly found paradise. I did odd jobs from farm to farm, in a pleasant aimless ramble. A new start, a new countryside, a new world.
Old O'Hara was putting the finishing touches on his magnificent manor house. His young bride and he fed me well, and said he would deed me a small tract at the edge of his vast plantation if I would work for him as a carpenter, which had been my trade before my, uh, seagoing career.
My first task was building a gazebo in the middle of the sprawling lawn. I was laying out the footing, when the sturdy lass appeared. She swayed her long, wide skirts lazily, shading her blonde hair with a lacy parasol, approaching me. From talk, I knew she was O'Hara's niece, who had been shipped to his new world estate after some traumatic and scandalous affair no one would talk much about.
I stood up, bowed slightly, and said, in my best Sunday voice, "Good morning, my lady."
She twirled the parasol from in front of her face and replied, with a nasty sparkle in her big blue eyes, "Hit your knees, boy."
Been there ever since. Paradise enow.
My hapless captain is a virtual illiterate, his account strewn with SPAG and adolescent humor, with the true grimness of the times barely peeking through his BS.
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