“Ever cataloged a pirate’s plunder, scholar?” Captain Mad Molly Tugg loomed over Timothy Tiddleton like a thunderstorm laced with sin. Her wide-brimmed hat tilted rakishly, shadowing her wicked grin. Her red leather coat—unbuttoned above her jeweled navel—swayed, nearly toppling a candle. A rhinestone-studded scar snaked from her bellybutton, curling into tight, salt-stained trousers, gleaming faintly as if inked with moonlit secrets.

Timothy fumbled his spectacles, one lens fogging with terror and heat. His cravat dripped sweat, fingers twitching for a book. “I—er—read about it,” he squeaked, voice cracking like a mast in a squall. “In a treatise on nautical metaphors, I cataloged wave patterns and—wind thrust—”

Molly’s briny laugh rattled rum bottles, shaking the tavern’s rafters. She slammed her mug down, splashing spiced rum across Timothy’s lap, the sticky warmth seeping through his breeches. He yelped.

“Wind thrust?” she purred, voice molten honey. “I’ll show ye a thrust to rearrange yer stars. Ten minutes, and ye’ll beg to swab me decks.”

Timothy blazed crimson. “That’s not anatomically feasible—though I diagrammed a crosswind that looked suspiciously like—never mind.”

“Shush, pet.” She seized his chin, calloused thumb brushing his lips. Her rum-hot breath grazed his ear. “This mouth’s too pretty for prattle. Let’s test it with a pirate’s plunder.”

The tavern erupted. One-legged sailors pounded mugs, a peg-armed barmaid tossed coins, and a parrot on a chandelier squawked, “RAIL THE RIGGING, RAIL THE RIGGING!” A fiddler struck a lewd shanty, lyrics too filthy for sober tongues.

Timothy’s pulse hammered in uncharted places. “I might be allergic to ... plunder. Or ropes.”

“Ye’ll crave it,” Molly growled, licking rum from his jaw to his mouth’s corner, her tongue a promise, her teeth a threat. “Below deck, I’ll teach ye the Tongue of the Tempest—for starters.”

Before he could sputter—”I’m prone to seasickness!”—Molly gripped his waistband, yanking him from his chair. His breeches slipped, flashing pale hip. The tavern cheered as she slung him over her shoulder, palm cracking his rear.

Outside, moonlight gleamed on dockside muck and The Lusty Barnacle’s swaying silhouette. Its mermaid figurehead, curves suspiciously detailed, winked.

“Wait!” Timothy flailed, glasses askew. “My knot index—”

“Knots?” Molly’s laugh was wicked. “I’ll tie ye in the Lash of the Lusty Leviathan.” Her fingers brushed his thigh, sparking a gasp.

“That sounds ... deeply unsafe.”

“Educational,” she said, slapping his ass with a caress. “Yer gettin’ a tour of me library.”

Whistling What Shall We Do With the Drunken Virgin?—raunchier verses—she carried him up the gangplank. The crew raised tankards as Molly kicked open her cabin. Silks hung like sinful clouds, a four-poster swayed, a whip coiled on the wall.

“Welcome aboard,” she purred, tossing Timothy onto the bed. “Time to meet Mad Molly.”

Sprawled, breathless, he stared at her towering form. “I need a safeword.”

She grinned, unbuckling her belt. “Try ‘barnacle.’ Let’s see how fast ye scream it.”

Timothy awoke to creaking wood, gull shrieks, and the phantom burn of Molly’s teeth on his collarbone. His skull pounded with rum-soaked fog—glimpses of her cabin, silk sheets slithering, her whip’s crack, and her husky growl: “Let’s see if ye can handle the appetizer, scholar.” Then, darkness swallowed him.

Now, a hammock rocked beneath him, his wrists bound to the rigging above, ankles lashed to railings, splaying him like a sacrificial offering to a very perverted sea god. His trousers? Vanished. A crimson sash—Molly’s, reeking of leather and her musky, salty scent—clutched his hips, so tight it sculpted his every twitch into a scandalous bas-relief. Something hot and syrupy oozed down his thigh. He prayed it was sweat. He dreaded it was ... passionfruit syrup, spiked with grog.

“Rise and rut, me trembling treasure!”

Crusty Peg straddled a barrel nearby, his leather apron flapping like a war flag, smeared with gray slime that smelled of oysters and regret. His bloodshot eye gleamed, his rum-soaked beard a briar patch of depravity. He brandished a butter knife, sharpening it with lewd, rhythmic scrapes. “Stamina like a randy kraken,” he boasted. “Outlasted a narwhal and its cousin. Twice.”

Mad Molly sauntered forward, her red coat flung wide, corset barely containing her heaving curves. Her cutlass glinted, but her smirk—sharp as a shark’s fin and twice as hungry—promised far worse. She raked her gaze over Timothy’s sash, lingering where it strained. “Mornin’, lad,” she purred, licking her lips with a tongue that could knot a cherry stem from ten paces. “Ready to hoist me mainsail?”

Timothy whimpered, the sash betraying a mutinous twitch. “Is this ... the poop deck? I read it’s unsanitary—”

A cackle sliced the air like a cannon shot. No-Hands Nancy swung from the rigging, landing with a thud that jiggled her ... attachments. Her hook flashed; her other arm ended in a silicone shaft that throbbed with ambitions so unholy it could’ve captained its own ship. “Wrong, petal,” she purred, twirling her hook through his sash’s knot, tugging just enough to make him yelp. “This is my bunk, stickier than a siren’s knickers after a full moon.”

Molly clapped, her rings sparking like cannon fire. “Enough jabber, ye bilge-sucking deviants! My scholar’s greener than a landlubber’s guts, but he’s mine to break. Peg, Nancy—train him for me, but if ye untie my prize, I’ll keelhaul yer naughty bits.”

What followed was a training montage so debauched it’d make Poseidon file for early retirement.

First, they lashed Timothy to the mast for “bondage buoyancy,” blindfolded with Molly’s own lace garter, still warm from her thigh. Her breath scorched his neck as she growled, “Name the knot, lad, or I’ll bind yer other mast.” He tasted hemp, jute, and—oh gods—her perfume, choking out “Clove hitch!” as she grazed his nipple with her teeth, leaving him gasping like a beached cod.

Next, he oiled cannonballs, thighs splayed under the blazing sun, Peg’s shouts booming: “Shinier, ye bookish barnacle! I want me beard’s reflection in yer quivering cheeks!” Molly, perched on a crate, flicked oil onto his chest, her fingers trailing the slick path to his sash’s edge. “Messy,” she teased, sucking a droplet from her thumb with a moan that made the sash salute. When he fumbled a cannonball, she straddled his lap, “correcting” his grip with hips that rolled like a ship in a squall.

Finally, they tossed him a compass, a mango, and a quill dripping with passionfruit grog. “Chart me curves, scholar,” Molly commanded, sprawling on a net, one boot propped to flash a thigh that could sink navies. “Map every inch—or ye’ll lick the route from stern to bow.” Peg chugged rum, belching a shanty about “plunderin’ buns,” while Nancy’s hook etched lewd runes in the deck.

“I—I prefer parchment!” Timothy squealed, the sash now a traitor, throbbing in time with the ship’s sway.

Molly’s laugh was pure sin, her fingers plucking the mango and squeezing it till juice splattered his bare chest. “Parchment’s for prudes. Paint me with that.” She smeared the sticky mess across his lips, her nail scraping his tongue. Nancy whooped, Peg roared about narwhal orgies, and the parrot—now drunk on spilled grog—shrieked, “RAVISH THE RUMP! RAVISH THE RUMP!”

As the ship pitched and Timothy’s quill shook, Molly leaned in, her corset creaking, her voice a velvet lash. “Pass this, lad, and tonight, in me quarters, I’ll teach ye why they call it the Stern-Chaser’s Delight.”

Timothy’s legs still wobbled from the “Stern-Chaser’s Delight”—a rum-soaked haze of Captain Mad Molly Tugg’s thighs, her whip’s sharp crack, and his own cries of “barnacle!” as she charted his limits with her tongue. Slick with mango pulp and quivering with lust and scurvy’s faint shadow, he staggered as Molly hauled him onto the deck.

“Time ye mastered yer ropes, scholar,” she barked, thrusting a coil of hemp into his hands. Her breath, thick with rum and sin, scorched his ear as she leaned close. “Start here—” She seized his wrist, guiding his hand not to the rope but to his cock, throbbing beneath the crimson sash she’d retied tight enough to anchor a galleon. “That’s yer mainmast, lad. Rig it right, or I’ll strip yer rations and yer pride.”

Timothy’s squeak was half “aye,” half “mercy,” and all desperation.

His training turned filthier than a bilge rat’s fever dream.

He swabbed the deck stark naked, mopping in long, sweaty strokes while Molly lounged in a hammock slung between cannons, her corset unlaced to tease sweat-glistened cleavage. The sun blazed. The mop squelched with sinister intent.

On his third pass, Timothy slipped in a viscous puddle—No-Hands Nancy’s “peg-and-plunder” leavings, she’d later crow. He crashed, legs splayed, mop handle jammed between his thighs like a cursed spar. Nancy peered over the railing, hook flashing, her silicone shaft pulsing with glee. “Mind the slick, love! Left that after last night’s divine ramming. Saw three gods and a kraken.”

Crusty Peg, straddling a barrel by the galley, gnawed something gray and gelatinous, his beard dripping. “That ain’t sauce,” he muttered. “That’s ambition.”

Below deck, Molly pinned Timothy to her creaking four-poster, riding him like a stallion filched from Poseidon’s stables. Her thighs slammed his hips, her corset groaning as her breasts broke free. She gripped a rolled nautical chart, smacking his ass with a thwap that rang like a cannon. Her scent—salt, leather, and molten lust—swamped his senses.

“Mark the longitude with yer cock!” she roared, grinding until the bedposts splintered.

“I’m—out of ink!” Timothy gasped, wrists trapped by her ring-laden hands. Desperate, he recalled his knot-tying lessons, twisting his hips to flip her. For a fleeting moment, he loomed, binding her wrists with a clove hitch. “Er ... reef knot, captain?”

Molly’s laugh was pure wickedness. “Saucy bastard!” She snapped free, flipped him, and rode harder, nails raking his chest. His climax hit like a broadside, a wail of “eureka!” or maybe “barnacle!” drowned by her feral howl.

The door burst open. Crusty Peg, unfazed, slammed a bowl on the table, its contents sloshing. “Stew’s up. Five aphrodisiacs, a crab that mouthed off, and regret.” He winked. “Eat up, lad—ye’ll need it for the drill.”

Molly stretched, her corset creaking like a ship in a squall, and straddled the bed’s edge, boot thudding. “Right. Crew needs their exercise.”

Timothy, limp and brain-slushed, croaked, “Exercise?”

Peg’s chuckle was a bilge gurgle. “Morale drill, lad. Loosens limbs, raises ... spirits.”

“And cocks,” Molly grinned, tethering Timothy to her belt with a rope. “Watch sharp, scholar. It starts tame.”

She kicked open the cabin door, sunlight blazing on her like a goddess of debauchery. “Oi! Who’s got dry britches?”

The crew roared.

“Raise yer cocks and wet yer throats!” Molly bellowed, whip cracking like a thunderclap. “Sing, ye deviants!”

The fiddler sawed a filthy chord. Nancy howled. Peg banged a spoon on a chamber pot. The parrot screeched, “TUNE YER RUMHOLES!” and the crew burst into song—

We fuck by moon and we fuck by mist,
With a parrot’s beak or a sailor’s fist!
We knot our ropes and we lick our maps,
We ride the waves and each other’s laps!
Grab yer mast and man the wheel,
Lube the cannon and grind the keel!
No squall can sink our lusty trust—
We ram the helm and we thrust, thrust, THRUST!