An Unfinished Story (M+/F, M/?)

[Beaumains]

Isolde slid through the pirate’s legs as his scimitar hacked through her golden locks and cleaved into the ship’s wooden deck. The small woman dashed up the stairs to the helmsman to the ship’s wheel and threw one of the many gold coins in the face of the greedy old man. Distracted, one well-aimed high-kick put him to sleep. She returned the coin to the bag and turned around. Six pirates surrounded her, pointing pikes and dirks at her.

Orin Blacksalt, the plump one-eyed captain, waddled up the stairs. “Surrender, you scoundrel. Then we spare you a slow, painful death. Or do you prefer keelhauling?”

Isolde dropped the bag of gold and jewels, and a foul-reeking pirate roped her hands behind her back tightly as another pressed a torn cleaning rag between her jaws. It was nasty, tasting like sand and salt. “Brave little Isolde Rabenfels, how did you end up on my ship. You cannot talk? How cute. And you desired to steal my riches?” the captain roared.

Orin paraded his latest prisoner on her knees in front of his devilish crew before leading her to the lowest deck. He roped her legs together and bent her legs behind in a tight hogtie. He then rolled her into a fishing net and locked her in a chest that soon would be filled with booty as well. Orin stored the only key behind his eye patch. Now Isolde smelled dust and sea, heard the waves and rats, and saw a flicker of light through the keyhole.

Isolde groaned. The ropes cut into her skin, and they would not be removed for hours.



“Isolde’s in trouble again, isn’t she?” Michael laughed. Wine glass in hand, he read over my shoulder. “How’s she wiggling out this time? She’s outnumbered 50 to 1 and stuck on a ship a 100 miles from the nearest port.”

“I know, I know,” I sighed. I loved my gorgeous, heroic Isolde, but why was my protagonist so reckless? A young woman sneaking on a pirate ship to steal their valuables was too audacious. But with Orin in the harbor, hiding on his ship seemed a logical choice for my daring character. “I could scrap this chapter.”

“That’s what? 2000 words? Two nights of work? Don’t throw that away!” Michael encouraged. He always did. “We’ll find a solution. What about not tying her up this strictly? Can you let her escape somehow?”

I bobbed my head. “The readers want strict bondage. If she were to escape easily, Orin would again appear incapable and stupid.”

“Then let others fight Orin and free her,” Michael spoke. “Perhaps there is a French, English, Dutch, or Spanish warship in the area. Or she could make a deal with Orin. Or maybe she has a secret ally on the inside.”

“Isolde blew up a Spanish fort, and she rammed a Dutch warship into a French merchant ship. Oh, and she kidnapped the princess of Wales four chapters ago. She stole Orin’s hat and left him on an islet near San Juan, didn’t she? Isolde is not good at making friends, let alone keeping them.” It was half past ten already, and I still had planned to post this chapter tonight. I loved my carefree swashbuckling Isolde, but I did not plan my story and had no satisfying, overarching plot in mind.

Michael often found a fix when I wrote myself in a corner. “Let her be tied up in the captain’s room. Then a hurricane hits, and she escapes on flotsam.”

I grinned, eyeing the document on the screen. It was a cheap cop-out, but I had not used a storm before. It was adequate for this chapter, but I had to start outlining my chapters in the future. I should set something up in case Isolde ended up in such situations. I deleted the last paragraph.



Orin paraded his latest prisoner on her knees in front of his devilish crew before leading her to his private quarters, a private room at the back of the ship with large leaded windows. The helmsman removed the nautical map from the table. Four pirates spread Isolde’s limbs to separate corners, removed her perfectly polished black boots, and used thick, wet ropes to force her body into a spread-eagle tie.

Isolde cried in her gag. It was unfair! It was only one small bag of gold and rubies, and it had not even left the ship. This was a proportional punishment.

“You foolish little goose, Isolde Rabenfels. The pirate princess’s luck has run out. You bested me in Havana and Tortuga, and burning your ships in Portobelo should have taught you respect. Now ya are here. How delightful.” Orin directed his crew out of his quarters and locked the door. His chair barely held his weight. He grabbed a bottle of rum and poured some onto the rag gag. Isolde did not drink, and the scent and taste of alcohol burned. “What do we need to do to you? I could let the great empires of our age bid for your head. Who have you angered more? The English or the Dutch?”

Isolde struggled against the ropes, but the bilky pirate captain was in charge, and he had all night to decide her fate. Or, well, he had already started, tickling her bare feet with his greasy fingers. Orin was cruel and merciless, and maybe, a voice inside told her, this defeat was deserved.

“Captain, captain!” a young seaman exclaimed, knocking on the door as the sun set. “Storm incoming. Brace yourself!”

Isolde cracked a smile. The entire ship sinking would be a poetic end for her and Orin. The sea got rougher, causing Orin’s bottle of rum to shatter. The one-eyed pirate cursed. A bottle of ink flew through the room, ending on Isolde’s favorite white petticoat and causing a stain. A cabinet opened, and expensive Indian ceramics broke on the floor. Orin screamed and raged, but before he could rise from his chair, a massive wave pressed him into his chair, and its legs gave. He landed on his tailbone and rolled against the china cabinet, which collapsed on him.

Isolde smirked. Her situation remained miserable, but at least Orin was embarrassing himself once more.

Another gigantic wave hit, and the ship swung vertically. The enormous table slid over the floor, crashing through the leadlight into the dark ocean below. Isolde caught a shard of glass in her left hand as the table floated to the surface while she remained spread-eagled on top. The currents played with the heavy table like a cat plays with a bird: slowly killing Isolde, even if it was unintentional. It was the nature of a storm. Meanwhile, Isolde prayed to all gods, spirits, and saints who helped seafarers that Orin’s table would not flip over. Otherwise, she would drown.

An hour passed before the storm settled, and it was one of the scariest of Isolde’s life. When the sea calmed, she began to rub the shard of glass against the rope holding her left hand. She was soaked and freezing, almost drowning with a wet cloth in her mouth, and her limbs had been stretched on the table for hours. Bruises covered her back from the repeated slamming against the wood. Yet, instead of complaining in despair, she had to work and free herself. Carefully and patiently, she moved the shard, cutting the shards one by one. If she dropped it, she would be stuck to the table forever.

When the sun rose, Isolde was three-quarters through the rope. Staring through her legs, she saw a red sun rise, and small pieces of wood float on the calm waters. One piece, two hundred yards away, was bigger. Orin was clinging to the porcelain cabinet. He had weathered the storm. Narrowly. Luckily, Orin was fast asleep. Isolde had to escape soon. Their story was not yet over.



“So you’ll force them to work together to escape? Or will she kill Orin?” Michael queried, toothbrush in hand.

“I’ll worry about that next week,” I smiled. I copied the text, ran it through a spell checker, and pasted it on the forum. It was bedtime. I shut my laptop and joined Michael in the bathroom, giving him a sneaky peck on his cheek.

Michael reached for the top cupboard. “Close your eyes, honey,” he whispered, and pressed a small rubber ball-gag in my mouth.

I complained.

“Shhhh, don’t wake the girls.”

I rolled my eyes. Without gag, I would have remained quiet. My husband linked my thighs together, led my arms in front of me, and bound my wrists together in front of me. Pulling one end of the rope like a leash, he guided me into the bedroom and covered me with the blanket. Then he tied my wrists to the rope between my thighs.

I grumbled once more.

“Shhhh. Sleep. Or do you prefer to be tied like Isolde was all night?

I rolled my eyes before closing them. I was too exhausted to fight my husband and best friend.