Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book4

“Best that they don't since it spares the pretty creatures the anguish of leaving familiar persons and places.” He picked the girl up in his arms and stepping over the gunwale of the rocking boat, put her firmly on her feet atop a flat boulder. “My grateful thanks to you for the pleasure you gave me today, pretty one.”

No sooner was she deposited upon the rock than she began hysterically pleading again, dropping to her knees in supplication.

“Be merciful, sir! Please don't steal my poor cousins! They'll perish from fear and homesickness, being only simple country girls who have known nothing but our village life!”

Ignacio clambered back into the boat, his handsome features a stern mask of determination. Casting off, he went to the drugged girls and covered their bodies with a large piece of canvas. Then he stepped to the tiller – ignoring the girl still crying and begging him – where he brought the craft around in the river's current and soon was heading downstream, the figure kneeling on the rock growing smaller, her entreaties becoming fainter until we rounded a gentle bend in the river's course and she could no longer be seen or heard.

“Por Dios!” Ignacio swore softly. “That was a good thump or two, planting my heated seed into her little garden of delight! Now if only these two pretty ones are as untouched as their lovely cousin was – my task is completed!”

He began softly humming one of the Spanish ditties and there was a note of homesickness in his voice. Considerately, I deferred luncheon out of respect to my host's sad mood.

Weeks later we were still on the billowing seas as the great ship plowed over the endless waves on its course toward Spain, there to deliver the cargo of twelve frightened, helpless virgins quartered below decks in a large compartment that was most comfortably furnished.

Once Ignacio had brought the last two girls aboard – still unconscious from the powerful drug slipped into their wine – and the woman-doctor had examined them carefully, confirming the virginity of each inert girl, the captain ordered the female crew into action and we departed upon the next tide.

Now that the voyage had settled down to a rather tedious, day after day, sameness and everything was going satisfactorily to the aged captain's experienced eye, he began sharing his wine and company with my host each evening.

“Here, have another glass, my boy!” The ruddy-faced old master generously refilled their goblets nearly to overflowing in his tipsy hospitality. “Even though we're out of that uncivilized chilly English weather and well into the humane warmth of a decent climate, we have yet hundreds of watery miles to traverse before sighting our native island! So drink up! The wine of home will lighten your heart and ease the ache in your balls!” He gabbled with laughter as Ignacio glanced up, sexual tension starkly reflected in his dark eyes. “Oh, yes, I was young once! I know the hunger that gathers in a young man's loins at sea – after weeks of enforced celibacy! And I definitely recall the damnable agony of wanting a woman's warmth and wetness when there was only my calloused sailorman's fist to fuck!”

“Yes, old man, but you weren't at sea with an even dozen virgins stowed below!” Ignacio sounded sullen. “It's like starving with a feast of food stored in a nearby room!”

The captain nodded, an expression of sympathy on his weathered face. “I know, my boy, I know. Well, thanks be to the wisdom of God, I'm beyond that craving now and no longer bothered by the presence or the absence of cunt. But I appreciate your fitful condition. Why don't you tumble with a few of the crew? Granted that they're hardly a desirable group of flabby old cows but cunt's cunt even on a shapeless unwashed sailor-woman!”

Ignacio shook his head. “Not on your hoary old beard, my captain! When you gave them shore-leave in London, they must have hoggishly opened their thick legs to every diseased degenerate on the waterfront because several of them have already begun showing the juicy running sores of the sex-pox – and I would sooner jam my one and only prick into a shark's toothy maw than stick it into their hairy nests of pestilence!”

“By the sainted sunken wrecks of time!” bellowed the captain drunkenly. “You are no fool, my boy! You have a fine head on your shoulders! So you'd best rape your fist and content yourself with visions of Majorcan wenches spreading their firm thighs to offer their hot little holes up to you!”

Ignacio nodded, moaning softly as he envisioned the captain's words.

“But however you cool your heated lust, I implore and advise you, my boy, to constantly remember that our delectable cargo is not for your virile thrusting! They belong to our employer right down to the last nipple, bellybutton and clitoris! Continue refraining from even thinking of them and you'll live to my ripe age with your lusty penis still wholesomely rooted in your crotch!”

Ignacio stared dully into space.

Mildly bored by the evenness of the days and nights, I left my host and proceeded to explore the ship from stem to stern – taking care not to be wafted overboard in my cautiously estimated leaps from hither to yon, knowing that even a creature as tiny as myself could not survive in that salty turmoil of foaming waves very long without being swallowed alive by some voracious form of marine life. When I had finished roaming the length of the surging, rolling vessel and had even sampled the blood of several sailor-women – finding it quite tasty indeed, spiced as it was by their fondness for huge amounts of garlic – I hopped below decks and began seeking the compartment containing the virgins.

Finding and entering it via a keyhole spacious enough to accommodate one as small as myself, I jumped to the safety of an overhead beam from where I studied the girls in the thickly carpeted room that was strewn with cushions and pillows.

Each girl had been fitted with a short tunic of thin material, its flimsiness covering their flesh but hardly hiding their outlines beneath its nearly transparent quality. And since the hemline of the tunics barely reached to their shapely mid-thighs when they were standing, the rise of the material when they crouched, sat or moved about exposed many a rounded pair of white or tanned buttocks, many a softly tufted thicket of pubic hair – the tints ranging from jet-black to pale gold – as well as the varying plumpness of their fat little mounds beneath their cunthair, some of the crevices more firmly lipped than others. This assortment would indeed be torture to any male, much less a young man in Ignacio's needful condition. I began to understand the locked door, the female who stood guarding it armed with a pistol and the fact that only other female crew-members served the prisoners their daily food and drink, or exchanged the stinking toilet pots for clean, empty ones.

The virgins seemed listless. Their conversations were conducted with the hopeless air of girls who had despairingly accepted their fate in the stifling knowledge that they could not do otherwise. But, here and there, a girl would speak longingly of her home and her loved ones until her own words brought a flood of tears from those around her and herself. They comforted each other most sympathetically, and had my nature been equipped with human empathy, I might have found their emotions distressing.

Leaving through the keyhole, I had no sooner cleared it and was preparing to hurl myself neatly to a nearby railing on the hatchway when I saw a woman-sailor descending the hatchway stairs, a grim smile wreathing her masculine features as she went to the fat crew-member guarding the virgins. I hurtled to an overhead lamp where I sat watching with immense interest as the woman with cropped hair sidled up to the female guarding the compartment, deftly patting the guard upon her massive behind which made her simper coyly.