Chapter 9: Ruby and the Galley Slaves

I wish I could see and hear what is going on. The thick leather hood over my head is blocking nearly all the light and sound from entering my personal prison. The slave market overseer had me shackled and hooded before my new owner arrived to collect me. A man with rough hands has guided me through the streets of Puskin to where I stand now. As far as I can tell I’m now on board a ship; but not the Red Hawk. Captain Jack’s ship smelled like a summer meadow compared to the stink of this ship. The reek coming from all around me reminds me of the slave galleys which sometimes visited the harbour back at home.

I hear voices, but my hood muffles the sound so that I can’t make out any words. Then suddenly I’m standing in daylight as my hood is suddenly pulled off my head. I go weak at the knees as I comprehend my situation. The man standing on the raised quarterdeck before me is none other than the self-proclaimed King Mathias. I’ve only seen him at a distance before, but I’d recognise him anywhere. His bare chest ripples with muscles and he looks every bit the barbarian warrior his reputation portrays. If only half of the stories about him are true then I’m in the presence of one of the most brutal and savage warlords ever known on the northern continent ... possibly on the southern continent too.

“Turn her around,” orders the king to the sailor who removed my hood. “Let her see the men she is here to encourage.”

The sailor turns me around so that I am looking along the length of the ship’s main deck. There before me sit row after row of naked men chained in pairs to the oars that power this galley. They look at me with dull eyes as though they are too downtrodden to admire the sight of the naked young woman shackled and helpless before them.

“See how my slaves lack any enthusiasm for their job,” says Mathias from behind me. “The journey here was slow and tedious. Painfully slow as all of my slaves learned to their cost. My slave-master has worn out three whips in as many days, but still I receive no enthusiasm from these men. So I shall try a different approach to encourage my slaves to work harder.”

“Listen up, slaves!” interrupts the sailor who must be the man Mathias refers to as his slave-master. “Your lord and master is talking.”

A few of the slaves raise their head in response, but I can easily see that these are defeated men who have lost all hope. The stories I heard while I worked at the Dead Parrot said that a galley slave has a notoriously short life. I dread to think how many of this ship’s slaves have died at their oar, and their body thrown overboard for the sharks. I notice a few empty seats among the forty or so slaves seated before me.

“This fine specimen of womanhood is here to encourage you to do better,” continues Mathias. “Earn my slave-master’s favour and you can each take your pleasure of her body. Perhaps if your cocks receive some exercise you might perform your labours with more enthusiasm.”

I stand mesmerised by the king’s words. Surely he doesn’t intend for me to be fucked by forty men. The thought of it is simply ... um ... mind blowing. I know I didn’t want to be restricted to having sex with just one man, but forty is going to extremes. Whatever the king’s intentions regarding me are, they look as though they are going to be reserved for later. The king leaves his position on the quarterdeck and disappears from my sight. The sailor standing near me lifts my arms above my head and attaches the chain linking my wrist shackles to a hook above my head. There’s enough slack in the chain for me to be able to kneel on the deck, but sitting or lying down is out of the question. I’m effectively in the same situation I was when I was chained to the foremast of the Red Hawk ... naked and on display for the ship’s crew to admire.

Despite all this rough handling I’m very aroused. It’s my guilty secret. By rights I should be terrified. But I’m not. I feel as though I’m living in a dream world where my darkest fantasies rule everything I think and do. So far I’ve been lucky that nobody has discovered how moist my cunt has become since boarding this vessel. The stink of the slaves easily masks the perfume of my arousal. Unfortunately for me my secret doesn’t escape everybody’s notice. The slave-master comes over to me and promptly gives me a close view of his latest whip. It’s a nasty single tail plaited leather instrument which I know will leave welts and cause lingering pain to its victim. I’ve never felt the effects of such a whip on my body, and my guilty thoughts make me wonder how I would react to its wicked kiss. While my attention is on the slave-master’s whip his other hand is thrust between my legs and his fingers are delving deep into my slit.

“Good and wet,” observes the slave-master. “It makes a change to have a slave eager to undertake their duty. Don’t fret, my pretty. You’ll get to know the loving caress of my whip soon enough and, if you are lucky, you’ll get fucked good and hard as well.”

The slave-master chuckles to himself as he returns to his duties, licking my juices from his fingers in the process. Orders are shouted from someone on the quarterdeck behind me that we are to set sail. The single sail is unfurled and it soon catches the breeze. The ship moves forward, but at a barely noticeable pace.

“Lower the oars!” comes the order once we are clear of the inner harbour.

The slaves adjust the angle of their oars so that the blades are dipped into the water. A sailor with a drum takes up position near me and he starts to beat a slow and monotonous rhythm. The slaves pull their oars to the beat of the drum and galley picks up speed. Even with the slaves straining every muscle, the ship doesn’t move as fast as I’ve experienced on the Red Hawk. After an hour we are past the fortress at the outer harbour’s mouth and into the wide channel that leads to the open sea. A few moments later the sound of cannon fire from the fortress behind us causes the sailors a moment of alarm, but I can hear the officers on the quarterdeck laughing.

“That’s the Red Hawk the fortress is firing on,” comments someone behind me. “One-eyed Jack must have overplayed his hand for once. Helmsman, pull into the bay on our port beam and we’ll watch what happens.”

The ship veers to the left and the slaves heave on their oars as we head for the bay. For twenty minutes the steady boom-boom of the fortress’s cannon competes with the beat of the drum on board the galley. While I can see the fortress from my position, the Red Hawk is out of my line of sight. The occasional cheer from the quarterdeck suggests that the fortress guns have struck their target.