Dungeon Crawl: A Hint of Piracy

Hello, crawlers and welcome to the dungeon this week. Apologies for my erratic participation, but those spuds don't water themselves, you know. I talk of my allotment, clearly. Anyway, as promised in my Smut by the Sea write-up, here is the extract I read, which is from A Hint of Piracy, contained in the forthcoming Smut by the Sea Volume 3. More news on that very soon. Happy crawling. 

*****

It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when I sat Danny down in a quiet corner of a cosy pub and decided it was time to tell him I liked a little more than missionary in my sex life. He was way ahead of me, it turned out. And that’s how I came to be sitting there in our room in a rather sumptuous guesthouse, wearing a pirate hat from a kids’ costume, perched on an antique oak chest and sipping tea from a fine bone china cup. And that’s how Danny came to be curled up inside said chest, while I scoffed all the complimentary biscuits.

It started in Britain’s Smallest House: that hunch that he had something to tell me as much as I had my own confession to make. “I quite like small spaces,” Danny said, peering into a storage space filled with folded blankets beneath the bench seating. I didn’t know if he was talking about the house we were visiting or actually referring to the cupboard.

I’d wondered aloud how anyone could live here for real. “It’s ridiculously tiny, even for me,” I said. I’m five two. In heels. “It’s cute and everything, but there’s no room to... swing a cat.”

“Swing a cat, huh?” he murmured, still staring into that narrow hole, holding up the hinged lid that doubled as fireside seating. And my mind ran through a series of half-formed images that started with actual small, furry animals being swung in the manner of a Monty Python sketch and ended in the brig of a sailing ship, a bit like the one moored off the quayside that had been done up for the pirate festival the following weekend. I was the captain, of course, in this pleasant little fantasy, and Danny was my captive, of course. Although in the couple of months I’d known him I hadn’t yet worked out how to convey the fact that my favourite view of him was when he was on his knees in front of me. And that I’d rather liked it that time he’d half-jokingly said, “Yes, mistress.”

When I was asked to go to Conwy to do a couple of travel pieces by a magazine I freelance for, I invited Danny along to make the most of the free digs. It was perhaps a little early for romantic weekends away, but this was semi-work. And, I thought, maybe a bit of “getting away from it all” would give me the opportunity to come clean. It’s not like I’m a raging dominatrix or anything, but I really needed to find the time to mention that I had certain preferences, before our internet dating relationship turned any more serious. Certain preferences I had never found myself in quite the right relationship to express before, and which I certainly wasn’t ready to add to my online profile (Interests: tying men to my bed and fucking their brains out). But I had this inkling Danny might not be so very shocked at the things I hadn’t listed.

“You look like you want to climb in there yourself,” I said. I mean, seriously, the man was staring intently into that dark space while there was a queue of folk outside waiting to pay their £1.50 each to explore this curious tourist attraction. It’s so tiny—officially the smallest house in Great Britain as verified by The Guinness Book of Records no less—that only two or three people are allowed in at a time.

“Hmm,” he said, glancing at me, with that look. I mean, That Look, with capitals and bells and knobs on. That Look that might have meant, “Please keep me in a cage in your bedroom because I’d very much enjoy being your sex slave.” Or was it, “What the hell are you getting at, woman”?

“Ok, Mr Terse. We’d better get moving; there’s about a hundred people waiting to get in here. And if we’re doing the castle before I have that interview, we need to hurry.”

In fact, we were probably inside for ten minutes at most. It’s only two rooms, after all. And the narrow bed in the loft space creaked loudly. Yes, we tested that, me pushing him down for a quick cuddle and kiss the way you do when you’re still only weeks into a relationship that holds great promise. Back on the quayside, the breeze was pinging halyards against the steel masts of little yachts to play that classic seaside tune that’s usually accompanied by the squawks of herring gulls about to swoop on your fish and chips.

“I wonder what it’ll be like here next weekend when the festival’s on,” I said. “I think I prefer it now while it’s a bit quieter.”

“I dunno, it could be interesting. I wouldn’t mind being taken prisoner by a beautiful pirate captain.”

Hmm, wavelength alert. Was he on the same one as me? “Are you saying I’m not beautiful and cruel enough for you?”

“Beautiful enough, certainly, but you haven’t been very cruel to me. Yet.” Oh, how corny. He leaned over me for a kiss. And yet, despite his superior height and his broad shoulders, there was a tiny dip of his head that suggested something. Gentleness. Deference. Submission?

“No. Not yet.” I decided it was his turn to wonder. “That’s because we haven’t been to the castle dungeon yet.” Yeah, yeah, I know, it was all getting silly. He was there joking about being locked in confined spaces, flogged and tied to the mast of a pirate ship (or did I make that bit up?), while I was offering to be mean to him in the dungeon of a medieval castle. I should really have just come out and said it: “Danny, I would actually like to do all those things to you. For real. In fact, I have this pair of handcuffs at home that I ordered over the internet but then shoved to the back of my sock drawer because I was too embarrassed to even open the box. I’d very much like to see you wearing them.” I should have said it—although I’d perhaps have to make it clear I meant the cuffs and not the socks. But I was still worried we could be having a serious wavelength malfunction and he might have run away to escape my evil clutches.

I really didn’t want him to run away. He was too delicious for that, all dark eyes and floppy fringe and scruffy air about him even when he’s in a shirt and tie for work (Occupation: logistics manager and tea lackey). All squeezable and pliable and eager to please, especially with his tongue.

I strode off up the hill to the castle, leaving him to follow and hoping the sway of my hips was giving off just the right air of confident allure.

Anyway, the castle was busy on this sunny Saturday lunchtime and, of course, the dark, damp doorway to the lower levels looked highly inviting to a never-ending stream of kids and their weary parents. I snatched a quiet moment to back Danny into a gloomy corner. I stood so close I was penning him in—and he let me—and whispered, “So now I’ve got you in the dungeon, what should I do to you?”

He pressed his back into the damp stone and his fingers curled around the cold iron grid at his side that was blocking off some dangerous underground nook from accident-prone tourists. It was as if he’d very much like his wrist to be chained to that iron. Or maybe I was making things up again.
He only managed to whisper two words—two words that sent a rush of blood to my pussy—before we heard shrill voices getting closer and had to move on. “Dastardly things,” he said, in a delightfully breathy voice.

An InLinkz Link-up