CHAPTER 341: GIVE TO A SLAVE A GUN [II] [18+]

[• Violent and sexually intense scenes are depicted in this Chapter, packed with a lot of adult language •] | [#nudity #femalehumiliation #snuff]

THE ORIGINAL NAME OF Pirates Haven was Röthmandu, and before it was your typical isle of fuckery, it was a gentle forest; the only animals doing any fucking on it were the fast tigers. In the Corynthian lore even, each island had a governing dwarf-man: a little green spirit who did oversee the island and its creatures. If Pirates Haven did have a Röth—for this was the idol’s name—she’d be a naked midget.

"I hate this place." Eotigan growled, funneling the brief history-bone his system had granted him to the recesses of his skull. These pirates didn’t give a shit about earth idols – if it was a dwarf it better be a thick one, with a real pretty snatch.

Inaia read the scowl on his face. "We don’t have to be here. We could wait on the ship for the cunts and just drop all of them then. You’re a patient man, Lord host. It shouldn’t be a hassle." Eotigan pushed into the tavern; for him the door was low. "You’re going to suggest you do the recon alone next, aren’t you?" Inaia forgot what she was going to say when his big arm went around her and pulled her in. She gave a little yelp but didn’t resist as she moved into his side. "See," Eotigan growled, his gaze boring into the total chaos of the bar. Everyone had fallen quiet, like that, "if you think I’m about to let you interrogate a bunch of evil bastards in this foul, pussy-slinging joint, then I oughta find the nearest bathroom stall, strip you and spank you good."

Inaia was blinking fast. Because of her Host’s growling words, not because of the three pig-fat sailors choking down a bitch in the corner.

Pah!

Eotigan claimed her butt in a loud sound; the wonderful skin-slapping rap let all the hungry-eyed whoremongers know who was in charge of this one. Inaia would’ve been red in the face with embarrassment but there was a large woman sitting on a man’s face—in the other corner. This big-boned madame had ’some’ of her clothes on as she ass-smothered this cuck, but getting her own butt slapped in public couldn’t beat that. Shit. Inaia could see the man’s nose up in that gigantic ass-crack. And no one gave a fuck.

This was Pirates Haven, competing with old Babylon for the most depraved motherfuckers to exist.

"Whoo-eee!" Someone whistled in their direction. And Eotigan’s palm clasped her harder. She decided to tease him—as his yellow eyes was answering every damn look sent her way,

[Jealous, much?]

She spoke this telepathically. Eotigan moved a finger between her cheeks; Inaia jumped in her denim tight. "Don’t test me, Subserviená," he warned low, "I see you’re thirsty for these hands. I can still strip you right here." Inaia blushed at the same time she gulped. Public sex was. . .a lot.

They walked like that—Eotigan’s right hand firmly on her white ass—with her tottering on beside him through the midst of staring people to the high countertop.

Inaia didn’t fault her [Host] for being so with her; in Röthmandu you’d had better dominate your chick—and in public too—or a goddamn pirate be doing it for you in the fucking loo. Or worse, some dyke bitch who had spent more than her fair share of time in the sun was gonna make her rethink her gender preference. Eotigan told her as he dragged in high chairs for the both of them. "This entire island is full of groupies, gangbangers and groomers. I am NOT letting you out of my sight.

"We just need the name and face of the captain of the Red Virgin. . .so we make sure he eats enough bullets."

’I know that’s right!’ Inaia’s mook eyes conveyed. Under the warmly lit interior of the tavern, her look of resolve was untouched by the hedonism. As the pre-scient god-doyenne she had seen a multitude in her immortality living as Peitho, however she still couldn’t grasp that some wanker inside here had parked off three hundred people chained to his goddamn barrels a mile away. This thought made her burn. ’Arse!’ she cussed—directed to the picture of the slaver she had in her dreadlocked head.

"Oi! Ginger boy and his Rasta bitch! Ten gold for a showing, eh..?" One burly woman yelled. She had the colors of the [Kala Domoni], but Eotigan guessed she wasn’t true crew with the Black-flaggers. The Domoni didn’t talk like they just came off getting their pussy ate by a poodle; only Eldorian pomp could materialize that shit. The uggie shouted more. "What say ye?!"

Eotigan grinded his jaw. He squinted at her, and though he wasn’t exactly going for sexy, his hard stare was impeccable—dark, smouldering, shadowed in tufts of vibrant hair. He agreed with himself he was going to ignore that this woman—whom was probably out drunk during a safari tush, stupid enough to rock the black of a super murderous cult—had just offered to pay to watch him fuck Inaia. He got they were a ’popping’ couple but. . .damn woman! He was just going to give her the real devil horror eyes—the one that would send her skidding for the pub’s door, when—

"That’s a no, bleached vampire-looking BITCH!" Inaia hurled. "I’d rather eat vomit than allow you to see my naked body. And you should find better friends who’ll tell you not to be a stupid cunt and wear the fucking Domoni. Like are you simple? Or just looking to get beheaded tonight? Go change that shit! And no one needs your money, BITCH! Fuck outta here." Inaia ended in a hiss.

"—where the fuck is the barkeep anyway?"

As the uggie rose, mellow-headed, and flew out the door, laughter erupted behind the woman as some bad-toothed men even doffed their hats for Inaia.

That braggart ashy bitch was probably crying her way back to her safari. It was good. Inaia had probably saved her life; [Kala Domoni] don’t play.

In the still guffawing tavern Inaia sidled into her sire on the stool. "And that, my Lord host, is how you draw in a big shark." She winked long, shaped brows.

Eotigan nearly applauded her. He chuckled though, asking,

"A shark like the captain of the Red Virgin?"

Inaia smiled wide like a sinner and dipped her head.

In an island of depravity like Pirates Haven, cuss enough and you might just make friends with a corrupt Naval Admiral. These people valued debauchery as much as gold. They were good ’ol sons of a gun; not as the dickless whelps up in Titans Landing. This part of the seas, Eotigan loved. A sudden shadow fell over him and Inaia, both of them still locking eyes, and they had to pull apart from leaning in to each other to observe the owner of this large shadow. They did, and both their smiles dropped.

"Did someone call for the Barkeep?" came the strong voice.

"Uh???" Eotigan did a doubletake... because he was looking at a woman. And the voice did not match the face. Nope. Or did it? He looked her over again: a triple-take.

It was the big-boned woman from earlier; the one who’d been face-sitting that little fuck of a man. She was a cow; and no, not an insult. She was a cow. Curved horns, smooth as stalks pushed out the sides of her head, just above her ears. Her nose was broad, and her eyes were gold loops. She was farm pretty: tall as a goddamn okra plant and wide across like a packer, the flesh on her was stupendous too. And Eotigan for sure knew those titties had milk in ’em. The pervert in him was dancing a jig, already ready to resonate his [Sin Class XXX], but his vampire blood was strongly hinting; something ain’t right, boy.

He shifted his amber eyes to Inaia. They shared that one glance but no thoughts, and then as one looked back again to the imposing cow-lady.

It was then they noticed the sack of flesh being slowly dragged out behind her. It was that little, ass-munching freak. He was dead. . .the little cuck! Killed by ass. "Ooh—" Eotigan went back, slipping into telepathic dialogue with his [Subserviená]; he spoke without turning his head: ’Is it just me or did that lil’ bitch get his air cut by this huge cow-woman’s bunda?’

Inaia responded in effect, without missing any second of that fresh corpse being dragged out on the messy gray floors, too. ’It ain’t just you, Lord host. He really got snuffed by her big buttocks. His head look weird to you?’

’Yeah. Like... fucking mashed potato."

’That face ain’t got no more bone structure. Damn,’ Inaia sighed, "murdered by fat ass. What a PUSSY way to go.’

Eotigan wanted to laugh, but it was just too much. Too in the face—so to speak.

"Do you want anything?" The strong voice was back. Inaia and Eotigan jerked their heads. "Oh, y-yes. Water. Water will do. Ahem—" Inaia cleared her throat. The colossal cow-lady was the bar-tender. Wow! Eotigan swiveled in his high chair, still eyeing the door and watched her pour. He tasted—strong, acidic. "Strangler—?" Inaia coughed, tears in her eyes. The horned server nodded as Eotigan briskly took away Inaia’s drink. The barkeep shrugged. "We’ve got no water. But...if you want milk—"

"That’s it!" Eotigan grabbed Inaia’s hand and stood raptly, pounding for the door. He’d had the absolute brink of it. He’d had enough of acrid bars and piss-smelling patrons, enough of big-breasted cow mixologists that crumpled the faces of little fucking men with their humongous asses and served fucking Strangler—vile throat-scarring liquid—as water. And enough of air that smelled like fucking farts. Fuck! At the last second, he grabbed off a gaunt hog of a man half-crashed at the rusty doorpost. "You!" He shook him. "—I have business with the men of this flag," he flashed the Sickle-and-Hammer of the Red Virgin, "where’s the Captain?"

The withery man looked up and pointed to large tent – where, besides the sounds of blighted screaming and slapping, a cloud of men feathered around a young harlot, laughing, pushing; forcing her to drink from a puddle of urine – the withery man’s hand stopped on the tallest man.

Eotigan took note of one thing and one thing only: the fucker’s mad long silver earrings.

Then he vanished with Inaia into the rising mists of Röthmandu.

He did not sleep that night. As his lovely [Subserviená] folded herself on a bench and cradled her head on his thigh, Lars Eotigan sat straight throughout, staring out into the ocean from the ports, listening to nature sounds from his [Gladorium] rather than the incestuous folk playing on the isle; he sat stroking Inaia’s fine dreads under the silver moon as she slept, yellow eyes catching the dark night, and he, waiting for daybreak.

Inaia awoke sometime past to find her [Host] standing before a glorious dawn. She sat up on the long bench. He had given her his chiffon doublet for a blanket during the cold night, and while she was going pink over the thought, the man himself walked over, handsome as heav’n. He held two mugs—stretched one over to her. "Good morning, sire." she greeted and sipped. Where the shit had he gotten this on an island like Pirates Haven? It was perfect tea. Perfect! How wonderful? Inaia thought. She was supposed to be doing him breakfast.

Shit.

Then again, he was always thinking of everything. Exactly her point when he said, "here they come."

And she looked from the bench on the docks, beautiful sun rays in her locs, over the rim of her teacup, to find the same men who’d been kicking that harlot last night striding up the port; the tall man was in the lead—his studded ears like a fucking Chebao diamond.

[Ding!]

Eotigan heard when she did it. A wicked smile played onto his lips. "That’s right, fine wine. We gat the motherfucker now. Let’s go." Inaia was already on her feet. They tossed their teacups and the frothing sea claimed it. In ten heartbeats, two new crewmen joined the tussle of men ascending the planks to the deck of the Red Virgin; Eotigan and Inaia walked directly behind the earringed Captain, into his vast slaver ship—the poor fool unawares.

[to be continued.]