FicWad

Dedication: for Puddle of Pel, randomredsleep, and especially BDSM, for leaving such encouraging reviews, and, as always, for Chris: O Captain, My Captain.



The second time I set out for the island it was deliberate, and I thrilled with trepidation and with guilt, no matter how I tried to convince myself that I was returning only to search for my fanfiction notebook. I grounded the boat as before, dragging it well above the tideline, and set out hurriedly for the far shore, my heart pounding in terrified anticipation.

The far beach was deserted. I stood, sweating slightly in the late afternoon sun, caught between relief and disappointment. There wasn't a single bone in sight.

No, wait: that wasn't true. Half-embedded in the sand, there they lay, two long lines of bones. They were matte, ivory, unmoving. They were lifeless. Someone had, macabrely, laid them out in two rows, as if edging a garden path.

I stepped onto the bone-outlined 'path' where it began, halfway up the beach. The first bones, I saw, were tiny, heaped like off-white pebbles. God, but there was something pathetic about them! For a moment I felt overwhelmed with sorrow; my throat tightened, and I almost wept.

But what had /happened/? Had the sun deranged me, the last time I was here? Why did I have such vivid memories-no, not memories, I berated myself; fantasies-about this island? I walked the bonepath, confused and saddened, and at the point where it reached the shade of the forest I shivered.

There, at the end of the path, just before the reach of the trees blocked the sunlight, lay a skull, and underneath it, sand-obscured, my fanfic notebook.

I stooped to snatch up my notebook and paused, driven by some irresistible impulse to stroke the skull, gently, tenderly tracing its contours with my fingertips. Unexpectedly, my body responded. As soon as I was aware that my breath had quickened and my pulse begun to pound, as soon as I felt myself growing slickly wet with perverse excitement, I pulled my hand away. Rescuing my notebook, I was careful to avoid further contact with the skull.

I stood up, notebook in hand, and was thankful no one was there to see me. What I needed, I decided, was to harness my clearly overactive imagination and do some writing. With any luck, that would give me a much-needed outlet for these fantasies. I stepped into the forest, my skin instantly covered in goosebumps at the change in air temperature, and settled down with my back against the trunk of a white birch. This far into summer, the moss covering the forest floor had dried out to produce a patchwork carpet of velvety shades of green. I pulled my pen from my cargo pants' pocket, and opened the notebook.

And waited. Sometimes, it's hard to get started; you just can't summon the energy. Even though I still vaguely wanted to begin, I felt lethargy settle over me at the sight of the blank pages. It felt impossible, tiring, frustrating. I had to force myself, finally, reluctantly coaxing the first few penstrokes.

But, as always, once I had begun I enjoyed the process. After the first few awkward, fumbling sentences the words and ideas rushed in, flowing easily, faster and faster, spilling across the page. I don't know how long I was self-absorbed in the joy of creating, but it was getting almost too dark to write when a noise made me look up.

I recognized the noise. I recognized it instantly, with a leap of my heart, with a throb of excitement between my legs. It was the hollow rattle, at once threatening and exciting, of bone, and it came from the beach, where the path began. No longer bathed in sunlight, the bones were harder to see now, but I followed the line of the path to the point where the parallel heaps of those first small bones lay.

They were moving. They popped into the air, dancing, in what looked at first like a random, Brownian motion. When the larger bones rose from the sand and moved into place above them, I knew what was happening: the skeleton was reassembling itself in the moonlight. My heart raced, and I was afraid. /Please, let this not be happening/, I thought, and in the very next instant, /please let it be him/.

The skeleton, reformed, stood closer now. It reached down and, horribly, picked up its own grinning skull, setting it jauntily atop its vertebrae. For a moment it paused, standing in the silver light, terrifying and fascinating. I held my breath, instinctively trying to prevent discovery, even though I was so wet with involuntary arousal that the tops of my trembling thighs felt damp.

Then it took one step, crossing the terminal line where the moonlight ended and the darkness of the forest began, and the transformation was complete. Now he stood before me, splendidly arrayed in his Captain's coat and hat, curls tumbling down past his shoulders. Almost as I had seen him before-but, I realized, gasping with shock, now the breeches stretched taut over muscled thighs, instead of hanging loosely to cover bare bone. Now the white linen shirt fell open to reveal, not breastbone and ribs, but a string, well-fleshed chest. Now, I saw, the grinning skull wore the face of a swarthy, ill-shaven, coarsely-grinning man.

"I see you're impressed," it said mockingly, "and rightly so. I am a handsome brute, am I not?" It bowed with a flourish, and straightened to resume grinning at me. He was, actually, a very handsome brute, with perhaps more emphasis on "brute" then on "handsome." But my mouth was so dry that I couldn't speak, and anyway, I'd gladly be damned before I'd have voiced my agreement.

"I owe you my thanks," he continued. "Milady author has, by some means, strengthened me. Since your last visit, I've been able to assume this form-arrayed in all the former glories of my flesh-whenever the sunlight passes."

"The only question," the Captain said, and my body tensed for flight as he took a step nearer to where I sat, "is how you effected the change. I can't decide whether I've been empowered by the gift of your words-and I see you have obliged my by further outpourings-or by," he licked his lips, "the generous draught of that sweet, lustful nectar from your spread thighs. And by the scent of you, you're eager to oblige me once again."

I'd sprung to my feet to run before he finished that last sentence, but the fiend laughed out loud, and had caught up to me easily in a half-dozen strides, grabbing a fistful of my hair and then clasping le in his arms.

"Why do you run?" he asked, sounding both amused and genuinely puzzled. "I can smell your excitement, lady; why try to feign reluctance when you've been eager for me since you set foot on this shore?" He caressed my face with his fingertips, and I blushed deeply, realizing that he traced the same patterns on my flesh that I had traced on his skull. He smiled delightedly, seeing my understanding.

"Come," he said, his voice deep and coaxing, "let us be comrades. You have only one choice before you, anyway: whether you will lie willingly on your back, and part your legs for me, or whether I need call my crew to restrain you. But I warn you," he continued, eyes narrowing, "if I require their assistance to subdue you, I'll grant them permission to use you as they will once I am done."

Shivering, wordless, I undressed when he released me, torn between arousal-God help me: a deeper arousal than I had ever felt-and the fiercest shame over the secret excitement I felt at complying. Gently he helped lower me to the ground, swiftly and firmly pushing me to lie on my back, insistently forcing my thighs apart to admit the width of his shoulders. His tongued stroked me, probing, lapping at me over and over until I ached with arousal, then drawing back so he could fasten his lips on me and drink my wetness. Again and again he brought me to the brink of orgasm, only to stop each time to drink from me at his leisure, until, driven beyond endurance, I cried out, "please..."

He chuckled, and I squirmed with embarrassment. "My poor pet," he said, in amused sympathy, "you want your own pleasure. It's fair enough that your desire be satisfied. But," he said, rising to his knees and unbuttoning his breeches to release his bulging erection, "if you are to spill, you will spill on my cock, and pay for your pleasure by servicing me."

I wanted him too badly to object, though I gasped with pain when he first drove himself inside me with one single, uncompromising stroke. Soon enough, though, the pain of accommodating the full width and length of him was lost in sheer pleasure as he pounded me. He slipped his hands beneath my ass, lifting me higher, but I was already tilting my hips, hungrily rising to meet his thrusts, enthusiastically riding him.

Soon, all too soon, I began to come, coating him, gushing for him, my head thrown back. "Captain," I moaned as the throbs subsided, and he thrust one last time, straining to push his cock even deeper inside me, and I felt it pulsing inside me when he came. It stung, slightly, when his hot come met my probably-bruised flesh; and then I regained awareness of the weight of him as he collapsed on me, and the tang of his sweat-drenched clothes. I tried to wriggle out from under him, but I was pinned. Eventually he propped himself on one elbow to look down at me, his grin now more self-satisfied than ever. "You'll return to the island?" he asked, teasingly, and I smiled slightly when I admitted that yes, I would return.