Work Text:
The ship rocks gently as it moves further out to sea, and Clarke watches the familiar view from the small window of her cabin, endless blue ocean spread out in front of them as they leave the bay and start for a new destination.
It’s one of those moments she aches for the comforts of her old life the most, because if this were any other trip, she’d be sitting in a comfortable chamber with a large, unencumbered view allowed by a long, spotless window. She’d have a sketchbook in her arms, and those nice, coloured pastels Wells would always pick up for her on his overseas voyages, and bring home as small, thoughtful gifts.
Now, she has nothing to immortalise the memory of this view — although, she supposes, it’s likely she’ll be seeing the same one for the foreseeable future, which, while not diminishing its beauty, at least eases the greed in which to capture it.
Sighing, Clarke steps back from the window, watches the sun move towards the horizon, not quite setting yet, but soon to be. Probably somewhere between six or seven, although nothing that specific really matters on the ship. Things seem to happen just when they happen, or of course when they’re demanded to by the captain.
Which is why she’s currently holed up in her cabin, thoughts turning a little dull as she waits to be summoned to dinner just as she is every night.
If someone had told Clarke two months ago that she’d be not only captured by pirates, but would go on to negotiate a place on their ship for herself, she would’ve giggled and called them daft, the notion so ridiculous it sounded like one of those children’s novels she used to sneak into the library to read.
However that’s exactly what happened when the ship she was travelling with was commandeered, the small crew of her people taken alongside her.
Theirs wasn’t a royal ship, her travels a closely guarded secret at the time, but it didn’t take long for the pirates to realise just who they’d captured — not with the official letters on her desk, stamped with the royal seal and signed by her name, nor the jewelled tiara that was locked away in her dresser, only brought with her on the rare chance it was needed abroad — and it didn’t surprise Clarke in the least that they recognised the value that held immediately.
Capturing the princess.
Other men might’ve feared retribution, saw a future in which they’d have been hanged for their crimes, but Clarke’s immediate impression was that her captors weren’t inclined to think that way. No, these pirates were trained to be opportunistic, to be greedy and cocky, tricks all the way up their sleeves so they were never left with a bad hand to play.
And with not only Clarke, but Princess Clarke of Arcadia, in their company, they suddenly had a prize, something they could barter with, or use for leverage; however they felt she best served them.
What they were unaware of at the time, however, was that Clarke possessed those skills, too. That her cunning was something she prided herself on, as was her fierce determination to protect her people.
So when an idea formed in her mind as she sat huddled in a large room with the frightened, praying group that had been loyal to not only the royal family but her her whole life, hands fastened behind her back as it bloomed then into a plan and a mission, she was quick to force her way to the guarded doors and demand the captain’s presence.
Was smacked across the face for her efforts.
But eyes stinging, cheek burning, her resolve did not waver, and she stood her ground until finally the guard was no longer amused by her presence, and, with a hand wrapped hard around her arm, dragged her out of the room of her people, towards the man who had decided to capture them.
The ship was surprisingly nice — from what little Clarke could appreciate of it as she was pushed none too gently across the deck, lewd shouts following her as the pirates allowed themselves a moment to appreciate the sight of the fallen princess — not what she was expecting from the loathsome group that held her captive — though, she realised stupidly, it had almost certainly been stolen from another group of ill-fated people. After all, wasn’t that what pirates did?
Whatever the hell they wanted?
When they reached a different section of the ship, coming to stop at a door Clarke recognised to be the captain’s quarters, the guard gave her a mean, warning look before knocking.
A deep voice answered. “What is it?”
“We’ve got a bit of a…situation here, Cap,” the man holding her drawled, squeezing her arm with what could only be described as a leer.
Which was just about enough of these pirates Clarke could take. “Get your hands off of me,” she’d hissed, yanking herself away from his grasp and pushing through the door in front of them, only to find a man with golden skin and dark, messy curls leaning over a table, hands planted on a scattering of maps and paper, his face tipped up as he stared at her with a hard gaze.
Her first thought was that he was far too handsome to be a pirate.
And her second was a sharp mental scold, because it was such a ridiculous and irrelevant thought. The same notion that all princes were attractive, and Clarke knew first hand that that wasn’t true.
Still, she couldn’t help but allow herself a moment to take him in, catalogue the man who’d called for her capture.
Probably only a little taller than she was, but his presence felt large and commanding. Demanding of respect. His chest was broad and his hair wild. A scar slashed above his lips and his face was dotted with a constellation of freckles.
A man who’d spent his life with the sun beating down on his skin and salt-filled air filling up his lungs. A man who’d probably obtained his impressive form with years of laborious work on this very ship. A man who’d likely killed for the title he now bore, along with everything else he told himself he earned.
Pirate.
“I demand to negotiate the terms of my people’s release.”
The man laughed, the sound jarring, derisive. “You demand, do you?” He asked, pushing up from his work table, holding himself even larger. “You’re in an awfully interesting position to be making demands, princess.”
Her jaw worked, but she’d been taught long ago the advantages of hiding one’s emotions. So she did not snap, as much as she wanted to. “Clarke.”
His brow arched. “Princess Clarke,” he amended, and she ignored the mocking tone to his voice. It didn’t surprise her that he held no respect for royalty.
“And may I be given the decency of knowing who it is I’m speaking with. Who it is holding me and my people prisoner?”
His smile was dangerous, as was the way something within her chest thrilled at the sight. Nerves, she told herself, but she wouldn’t let him see them. “That would be Captain Bellamy Blake, princess,” he answered, and before she could stop herself her mind swooned with the prettiness of the name.
Bellamy.
But Bellamy was not a pretty man. Not when he walked around his table with commanding, deliberate strides, coming to stand only a few feet from her. Not when he folded his huge arms across his chest and lifted his jaw, eyeing her with such a hard gaze Clarke could feel it prickle across her skin.
“Now, speak,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative, the kind she imagined struck fear in the hearts of those who’d have unwillingly crossed his path. “You were rash enough to interrupt me from my work and demand I give you the courtesy of my time; I’m almost intrigued to hear what you believe will convince me to release you.”
“Not me,” she responded, and she was emboldened by the surprise that briefly flashed across Bellamy’s face. Good. Let him be surprised. “My people. If you allow them their freedom, I give you my word that I will remain on your ship willingly. Those are my terms.”
Bellamy frowned. “And why would I agree to terms that cost me two dozen free labourers?”
Clarke swallowed, heart hammering within her chest. But she lifted her chin, and when she spoke, her voice was clear, powerful. Certain.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll throw myself overboard and let the sea take me to my death.”
Heavy silence filled the room as Bellamy considered her words, and Clarke had to hold herself back from wringing her hands together, a supposedly unbecoming habit she was scolded for constantly as a child.
After a long moment, his mouth tipped up. “You’ve just shown your hand, princess. It’d now be simple enough for me to arrange a guard to remain by your side at all times,” he said, and just like so many before him, Clarke could hear the thread of amused pity that laced his words, at her apparent naivety.
A mere, delicate princess, trying to negotiate with a cunning and ruthless pirate.
She’d rather enjoy watching as he realised she was so much more than he anticipated.
“Maybe,” she allowed, tilting her head as though in contemplation. As though she hadn’t already repeated her proposal again and again in her head, considered it from all angles and readied herself for his counter arguments. “But it only takes one moment of distraction for me to escape a detail. One mistake by your crew and I’ll be gone, and you’ll have lost your princess.”
“My people don’t make mistakes.”
“Yeah? Would you like to bet your life on it?” She smiled, stepped forward. “Better yet, would you like to bet mine?”
His jaw worked again, and it was oddly satisfying to see the small muscle there jump. He hadn’t anticipated she’d be so bold, and she was enjoying watching him struggle to stay ahead in the conversation. “Why would I be bothered by your death?”
Clarke smiled; this, she was thoroughly prepared for.
“A dead princess is worth nothing to you. I assume you plan to keep my people to work, and hold me for ransom,” she said, allowing finally for a glint of calculation to enter her gaze. She saw the moment he recognised it, recognised her for what she was. She’d planned it as such, to ensure these next words were taken with the severity they deserved. “If I die, you will not see one penny. And I can promise you this: once word of my death reaches the kingdom, you’ll be the most sought after criminal this side of the world, being responsible for the demise of the most beloved princess. My family will offer rewards greater than you’ve ever dreamed possible, and they will not stop until they see a noose around your neck and the life drained from your body.”
She stopped herself there, let the words settle as she held Bellamy’s gaze, and it was another weighted silence before he spoke again.
“Nobody will know who captured you.”
“I saw the flag you raised on our ship. It’ll be recognised as yours soon enough.”
“Even so, word would never get out if you perished.”
“Coin always opens a person’s mouth, I promise you that.”
Bellamy uncrossed his arms, stepped forward to meet Clarke’s stance abruptly, a mere breath from her. “Then it appears there’s no use to hold you captive, either. If the kingdom holds as much admiration for you as you believe, surely they’d attempt to track us down and reclaim their princess.”
“Not if you let my people go. I’ll have them deliver a letter to inform the kingdom not to pursue this, that they’d only be putting me in danger by doing so.” When Bellamy didn’t say anything, Clarke went on. “It’s the only arrangement I’ll agree to. If you try to hold me hostage and negotiate my release with the kingdom, I’ll jump. If you don’t allow my people to leave, I’ll jump.”
“And why wouldn’t you let us negotiate the release of you and your people?” Clarke looked away, knew it was a mistake when Bellamy let out a derisive laugh. “Because you know they wouldn’t pay for them, only you. Christ, you royals are a predictable lot.”
She had to bite back a retort; he was correct, after all. It was her motivation for negotiating with him in the first place. Her people were deemed dispensable; she was not.
“It’s a good deal,” she said instead, attempting to refocus the conversation, to continue to coax Bellamy into the position she needed him in to agree to her proposition. “Stop at the next port that’ll grant you clemency, allow them to leave with enough coin to return to the kingdom, and I give you my word that I’ll remain here willingly.”
“And if I want to sell you back to the kingdom when the time comes?”
“Whatever your wishes are, I’m yours to comply,” she said, and she knew she had him now. “After my people are released.”
The intensity of his stare had the boldness that’d swelled within her chest wavering, but she held her ground. “Leave us,” Bellamy said after a long beat, and Clarke looked over her shoulder, having forgotten completely about the guard that had escorted her to these chambers.
“But, Blake—”
“I said go,” he said, his voice hard and commanding, leaving no room for discussion. The man left the cabin quickly, and Bellamy started stepping forward the moment he was gone, forcing Clarke to move in kind until her back hit the wooden door, a quiver of fear surrounding her heart as he loomed over her. “And what good are you on my ship? Because I doubt a princess like you is accustomed the work we require.”
It was the most difficult thing she had to respond to yet, because she knew he was right. She didn’t possess the skills that Bellamy would appreciate on his ship, was not trained to endure hours of laborious, physical work.
No, there was only one thing Clarke would be of value for here, and when the idea first sparked in her mind, she knew exactly what it was she would be offering him.
From the look on Bellamy’s face, he knew as well.
He just wanted her to say it.
Herself.
“Whatever it is you require of me, it’ll be my duty to uphold.”
She saw the fire this lit up in his gaze, a lovely brown darkening to black at her submission. “Oh, princess,” he murmured, his voice thickening into something low and rough. “You force yourself in here and interrupt me from my work, have the audacity to demand I grant your people freedom when you hold no real power over me, and now you’re offering to be the ship’s resident wench?”
She flinched, swallowing past the tight ball of humiliation wedged in her throat. “Do you have to be so improper?”
He laughed, a dark, mean sound. “My apologies, princess. I must’ve been mistaken. What exactly were you referring to by that?” When she didn’t respond, he smiled dangerously. “Exactly as I thought. My, you’ve definitely got a fiery spirit somewhere under all those frills and flounce, don’t you, princess?”
She got a hand between them and shoved him away, ignored the way something ignited in her chest at the feel of his hard chest under her touch. “Do we have a deal or not?”
He considered her for a long beat, eyes dropping to allow himself a slow, heavy perusal. “We have a deal,” he said finally, as he once again met her gaze, but when Clarke held out her hand for him to shake, he only laughed again. “That’s not how I like to agree to a contract at sea, princess. On your knees, and you can show me what I’m working with.”
Shock and fear slid through her at once, as well as something headier she couldn’t recognise within herself, and Clarke had to swallow again before she could find her voice. “But I thought—”
He caught on immediately, chuckling as he brought a hand up to her face, running a finger over a lock of her hair, tucking it behind her ear with a deceptive gentleness. “Oh no, princess. You’ll be serving nobody but me. Your Captain. The rest of the crew can look, but only I get to touch.”
She wasn’t sure if that was worse. It was obviously a relief to know she’d only be dealing with one man — wouldn’t be subjected to the desires of his whole crew — yet it felt almost more shameful to be tied to the one who captured her, as though she was betraying her people, her kingdom.
But she had to remind herself she wasn’t.
She was doing this for her people, and so with one last moment to accept the closing of what she was already coming to think of as her old life, Clarke picked up the skirt of her dress and dropped to her knees.
+
A knock sounds on the door, interrupting Clarke from the memory that had filled her mind so swiftly, so completely, and she has to press a hand to her chest to slow the rapid pace her heart has begun to beat. After allowing herself a moment to draw in a large breath, release it slowly, she turns to face the entrance of the room, attempting to compose herself as she does.
“You may enter,” she says, twenty years of propriety and etiquette lessons still proving difficult to overcome, despite her weeks on a ship with ill-mannered pirates.
The door opens, and surprise flutters through Clarke at the sight of Bellamy, his familiar frame filling her doorway.
“Captain Blake,” she says, trying to ease her voice, lest he think he’s shocked her as much as he has. Or worse, that she was just lost in the memory of her first meeting with him, when their arrangement begun.
Pushing the thought away, she instead focuses on his presence in her cabin now. He’s never sought her out like this before, instead always sending one of his men to request her company on his behalf, and she ignores the betraying thrill that runs through her chest with the possibility that he’ll be escorting her to his chambers personally tonight.
It’s simply not something one should thrill at.
“Princess,” he says, the name he’s so fondly taken to calling her, his derisive tone only ever easing when she manages to cloud his mind with pleasure. He closes the door behind him, steps into her room properly, and gives her his usual weighted stare, eyeing her up and down like she’s a prize he’s won and he’s now here to claim. A fair likening to their relationship, though Clarke still disdains to think of herself akin to a possession. “I apologise for interrupting what appears to be some stimulating sight seeing. A skill so valuable for your prior responsibilities, I assume.”
The mockery is now as familiar to her as the lecherous gaze, and she doesn’t allow herself to rise to the bait of his words.
He’s not wrong, after all, and she’d much prefer he believe her thoughts were only on the view of vast ocean before them, rather than the far more improper ones that’d been quickening her breath.
“Your apology is accepted,” she says, allowing a certain false sweetness to enter her voice, and surprisingly, a flicker of amusement seems to dance across Bellamy’s features, though, it’s cleared before she’s able to convince herself it was real. “May I ask what I’ve done to earn your company in my chambers, Captain Blake?”
It’s a thinly veiled affront, and Bellamy’s no fool. However, just as she has, he’s learnt that it’s more satisfying to scandalise than it is to snap back.
“Of course, princess. I again apologies for my rudeness in the presence of royalty,” he says, mouth tilting up with irritating conceit. “I’ve sought you out as I’ve had a difficult day, and could really use a good cock sucking before my meal.”
His combination of brashness, manners and profanity is something that still perplexes her, but Clarke’s mind sticks with the latter, and before she thinks the better of it, she scoffs, forfeiting her place in this little game. “Must you continue to use such foul language?”
Bellamy laughs, edged with victory, and makes his way forward with slow, commanding steps, stopping only once he’s looming over her, as she’s found he’s fond to do. “Just calling it what it is, princess,” he drawls roughly, his gaze positively debauched as he shamelessly stares at her mouth, as though already imagining the sight of her lips surrounding him. “Cock sucking. And my, you’ve gotten so good at it; so much dirtier than the prissy little princess I first met.”
“Simply lowering myself to the immoral standards that surround me,” Clarke bites back, wishing that his words didn’t fill her chest with a confusing sort of pride, make a silky warmth bloom between her thighs.
It’s not praise, she recognises.
His intent is to humiliate. A taunting reminder of the power he holds over her, that just as she promised him, his every wish and want is hers to satisfy.
And yet, a shameful excitement swells throughout her body, with not only Bellamy’s permission but his encouragement to act so sinfully. To not adhere to the strict standards that royalty demanded of her.
It’s a thought that she detests herself for having, a guilty betrayal of her previous life. However there’s no denying the difficult truth that even as a prisoner on this ship, she’s allowed greater freedom than she was as a princess. Bound to her captain, and required to serve him as he pleases, but free in a way she’s never been before.
Not that she’d ever be willing to admit to such reflection; though Clarke suspects it’ll be something Bellamy will attempt to have her confess soon enough. A paradoxical claim to her liberty, along with her body.
For this moment at least, he seems singularly interested in the latter.
“It brings me such pleasure to hear you talk about lowering yourself, princess,” he says, so clearly finding enjoyment in her scorn, his dark eyes alight and his mouth tugging up dangerously. Unfastening his breeches, he holds Clarke’s gaze as he moves to her reading chair, lowers himself into it. “Not quite as much as it will to receive your cock sucking, certainly, but I’m pleased you’re finally feeling comfortable on your knees. Now come.”
His voice is firm, the commanding kind he favours when giving orders to his crew, and Clarke’s learnt better than to disobey it by now, despite her desire to protest his deliberate misinterpretation of her comment. Swallowing past the challenge that rises in her throat, she forces herself to submit, stepping forward and settling between his spread legs.
There’s no way to miss the satisfied glimmer that shines in his eyes, nor the way it threads into his words. “Very good, princess,” he says, leaning forward to reach for her, and though Clarke’s surprised when his hands land on her bare ankles instead of her waist, it’s only a momentary confusion, understanding filling her as he trails his touch up beneath her skirt — as does the dishonourable warmth that curls within her core in response.
He brings her undergarments down with ease, and Clarke steps out of them as he wordlessly commands, bare and vulnerable now between her legs.
“Now place a foot right here.” He indicates the chair’s arm rest, and again she complies, lifting her leg and resting her foot where he asked, the action opening her up for him, though she still remains covered by the skirt of her dress. “That’s it,” he says, voice dropped low and pleased, meeting her gaze with a heavy one of his own. “Now I’ll be touching your sweet, little pussy shortly, princess. But I’ll ask that you first please repeat our rules, as I want to ensure they’re at the very forefront of your mind.”
Clarke’s breath catches in her throat, a fresh wave of embarrassment bringing heat to her cheeks. She loathes when he speaks of her with such sinful language.
Loathes herself to an even greater degree as her body betrays her with its excited tinglings.
After allowing herself a moment to draw in a breath and clear her throat, she begins. “Unless given explicit permission, I must not…reach climax,” she says, and his lips tip into a pleased smile, his hands moving to her skirt to draw up the fabric slowly, a teasing sort of act he seems to enjoy.
“Yes,” he says. “Next.”
“It is my duty to fulfil your every desire and fantasy,” she continues, holding Bellamy’s darkened gaze even as she feels herself flush further. “And I must do so with the enthusiasm and skill you’ve educated me with.”
“And lastly, princess?”
Swallowing past the weighted anticipation that now wraps itself around her throat, she closes off his list as he gathers her skirt at her raised hip, her heat now completely exposed to him, though he does not break his gaze from hers. “Finally, I must not stop until you allow it.”
A victorious glint enters Bellamy’s expression, one that’s earning increasing familiarity with Clarke each time she submits to him.
“Such an excellent effort, princess,” he says, words roughened with satisfaction. “A vast improvement over the first time I had you repeat the words, and I believe more than adequate to warrant a reward, wouldn’t you agree?”
Fluttering warmth vibrates at her core in response to his words, an echoing beat mirrored by her heart, but Clarke doesn’t allow herself to indulge in the wicked yearning of her body. “Only if you’re so inclined to provide one,” she says, attempting to cool her voice, appear unaffected by his offerings. “I neither require nor seek reward for upholding my word.”
Bellamy laughs, and it’s clear to her even before he responds that he’s not convinced.
“If telling yourself that allows you some peace, princess, I won’t take it from you,” he says, before drawing himself forward in his chair, his eyes going alight with something close to mischief. “Not yet, anyway. Now despite your protests, I do believe your cunt is aching for some attention, and I’d much prefer I ease its needs now, so you can focus entirely on my cock later.”
“If that’s what you—”
Her words catch in her throat, replaced by a high whine she almost doesn’t recognise as her own, as Bellamy’s free hand presses between her legs, two thick fingers parting her folds to meet her sensitive flesh.
He growls, and despite her best efforts Clarke can’t tear her gaze from the dark, pleased expression that clouds his face. “Already fucking wet for me, princess,” he says, fingers trailing along her slit steadily, his other fist tightening at her hip, her dress still gathered within his grasp. “Did it turn you on, knowing you’d be on your knees, taking my cock between your pretty, red lips?”
“No,” she bites, but her voice comes out with a slight waver, his touch affecting her in ways she wishes it didn’t.
“Whatever brings you peace,” he echos his taunt, and she detests the ease in which he’s able to see through her facade.
But Clarke knows that despite his words, he’ll still be holding hope that she’ll admit aloud to the shameful ways her body aches for him. It’s a small claim to power she still holds, her word remaining solely her own, and she’ll not be forfeiting it if she’s able to.
Though it appears Bellamy will be attempting in earnest to have her do so.
He continues to hold her gaze with his own heated one, as his fingers play with her expertly, rubbing first between her folds, and then focusing on the hot and sensitive nub above her opening, and Clarke feels the way each heated pulse draws slick arousal from her, pooling in a spot that aches to be filled.
She assumes from her spread position over his seated form, it’ll be by his fingers, but with the way Bellamy favours his mouth, she can’t be sure. Her only certainty is that it won’t be by him; he’s been perfectly clear in his assertions that he won’t be bedding her unless she asks for it, and as an unrelenting pressure at her core blooms, Clarke tries to push away the yearning her body aches with to be filled in that way.
Thankfully, Bellamy’s impatience seems to mirror her growing need, and that yearning eases as his fingers finally slide inside of her.
“Do you like that, princess?” He asks, and Clarke shakes her head despite the whimper that catches in her throat, not allowing him to find satisfaction in the pleasure he’s drawing from her. He curls his fingers inside of her, his amusement of her soft whine clear in the rough laugh he lets out. “You sure about that? Because I think your pretty, little pussy likes to be fucked by my fingers.”
“Shut your mouth,” she snaps, feeling humiliation wrap all the way around her, his words too close to the truth, and once again Bellamy laughs.
“Oh, princess, I think you can do better than that,” he drawls, shifting himself closer to her, his head tilting back to hold her gaze. “Now, let it out properly this time; it’s one of the benefits of living on a ship with the immoral standards of pirates. No one to play good, little princess for. No one you can offend with your impropriety.”
It’s too much, his words and his touch clouding her mind with hot frustration, his permission to indulge in previously suppressed urges, and the words bubble up before she can stop them. “Fuck you, Bellamy.”
His eyes go alight, his mouth tugging up dangerously “That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, fingers fastening their pace, palm shifting to once again rub at her sensitive, aching nub. “Feisty little thing when you allow yourself to be. I can’t wait to learn just how dirty you can get.”
Clarke whines, the tension at her core growing, and despite her best intentions, her body begins to chase the pleasure it seeks, hips rolling to meet Bellamy’s hand, legs trembling in the effort to keep herself both upright and close to him. Overwhelmed, her head tips back to allow herself a sliver of modesty, but she’s met with a hard, lingering grind in response, a sharp pulse of pleasure making her breath stutter.
“Did I say that you could look away?” Bellamy asks, his voice rough, almost mean, and Clarke forces her gaze back to him, can only imagine the indecency of her expression — her cheeks flushed, her eyes heavy — though Bellamy seems to simply revel in it, no doubt greedily drinking in the sight of his princess, pushed so close to breaking point. “That’s it, princess. You’re right there, aren’t you?”
Biting at her lower lip, she smothers a whimper that rises, and once again, Bellamy growls.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” she says, hardly able to recognise her own voice now, the high, desperate quality of it. “Yes, I am.”
His expression flashes with pleased satisfaction, an amused glint entering his gaze as he suddenly slows his hand. “Good,” he says, before drawing his fingers from her completely, and this whimper, Clarke cannot smother, the abrupt emptiness between her legs making her gasp, the heated pressure that’d wound itself tight from his fingers easing into something that’s somehow worse. A desperation that feels too overwhelming to bear without release.
“But—” She starts, forgetting for a moment her place in this game of theirs, and worse, her dignity.
Bellamy arches a brow, leaning back again in her chair. “Did I give you permission to come?”
Swallowing her protests, she forces herself to comply, not wanting him to reduce her to the pathetic mess she currently feels. “No.”
“Exactly right, princess,” he says. “Despite your sweet cunt’s desperation, it’s not allowed unless I say so. And right now, I have something with more importance in mind.”
With the hand he used to torture her, Bellamy pulls himself from his unfastened breeches, his length slightly thickened within his grasp. He begins to give himself a few slow strokes, keeping his entertained gaze locked on her, and understanding fills Clarke at once. He never intended to allow her release, simply wanted to draw out her arousal for his own benefit.
To slicken himself up.
If there was any doubt in her mind, it’s dwindled when he shamelessly moves back for more, fingers sliding between her folds before again wrapping around his length, coating himself with her arousal, and Clarke’s eyes drop to the movement without thought, her throat working when she sees the slight glisten to his tightening skin.
His laugh brings her back to him, her cheeks heating further with embarrassment as he speaks. “That’s okay, princess, step back and let yourself have a good look. Despite our time together, I’m sure the sight of a nice, big cock is still new and exciting to you.”
She eases her foot to the ground, her skirt thankfully once again covering her where she’s bare and aching. “It would be if I saw one,” she manages to snap, though the taunt lacks her usual bite, her body still running too hot with a need that won’t subside.
It’s clear Bellamy notices, a knowing spark to his eyes as he again laughs. “I’m sure the princess has seen many impressive cocks in the midst of her royal duties,” he mocks, and before she’s given the chance to respond to the crass affront, he continues. “But it also appears that she’s underdressed for the occasion, and whilst I can condone the first offence, as your captain, the latter is simply unacceptable.”
The abruptness to which he changes topics does nothing to ease the curling, heated tension writhing within her.
She’s dressed in the clothing Bellamy himself presented her with once she negotiated her place on his ship: a simple sun-bleached navy dress, with fastenings at her breasts, and a skirt flowing plainly to her ankles. Attire more appropriate for her new life at sea, as he’d put it. No embellishments, no laced trims, no hoop skirts; nothing that would clue anyone into the high ranking of her birth.
And to her understanding now, there’s no reason as to why it’d be any less appropriate today than any day she’s spent with him prior.
It’s clear his intention is to unnerve her, and despite Clarke’s desire not to allow him, she’d rather wrap herself in the indignation she’s sure will come than think of the warm and heavy ache that’s still pulsing between her legs. So she takes his bait. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Satisfaction sharpens Bellamy’s grin. “It’s been exactly one month since I first laid eyes on you, princess. Since you first forced your way into my chambers and proposed what’s become a very enjoyable agreement,” he explains, continuing to stroke himself shamelessly, no doubt in anticipation of her mouth. “And I believe that calls for celebration. Which means you’re currently underdressed.”
A beat passes as she holds Bellamy’s amused gaze, and understanding blooms within her, as does the expected indignation.
It’s another attempt at embarrassment, she knows, but she won’t allow him the gratification of protesting. If his desire is for her to redress in the ostentatious gown he first claimed her in, she’ll comply with as much dignity as she’s able.
Raising her chin, she forces herself not to shy from his attention, making quick work first of her dress, tugging it up and off, and then moving to the corset fastened at her chest. Not that he specified to remove the undergarment yet, but Bellamy’s fascination with her breasts is awfully conspicuous, and Clarke knows it’d be demanded of her soon enough; she’d rather allow herself the semblance of autonomy now.
Unfastening the ties and pulling the corset away, she frees herself from the remainder of clothing covering her, completely exposing herself now to the whims of Bellamy’s gaze.
Despite his familiarity with her body, it remains hooded, heavy with lust and perhaps a hint of pride, and Clarke feels its weight on her bare skin distinctly, wishing she could ignore the ways in which her body responded to it: the heaviness of her breasts and the stiffening of her flushed nipples; the heated wetness that continues to throb between her legs; the shameful emotions that swell within her, a pleased flutter within her chest, to have earned his admiration.
His hand continues to move over himself as he drinks her in greedily, lustfully, and tension thickens between them as Clarke moves to the dresser that holds her clothing, pulling the familiar crimson gown from the bottom drawer.
Silence continues to cloak the room as she holds it up to unravel, as she slips it over her arms and allows it to settle familiarly against the curves of her body, and Bellamy’s amusement clears her of any doubt as to the motivation behind his request; following a month with the liberty to dress both simply and sensibly, the extravagance of her previous daily attire is almost embarrassing. Even in the absence of the usual layering she’d have to endure, the dress feels excessive, with its laced frills and ruffles trimming the sleeves, the ornate garniture arranged over the skirt.
It’s clear he’s finding enjoyment in reacquainting her with the ridiculous standards she previously adhered to, but despite this, Clarke continues to arrange the dress as it’s intended, first smoothing out the skirt before moving to fasten the front of the bodice.
It’s only then that Bellamy finally speaks again, the low rumble of his voice only adding to the swelling tension between them.
“Not like that, princess,” he says, and her fingers still where they were working to again cover her breasts, as her eyes lock back on his. “I’m sure you’ve noticed my fondness of your tits; I’d rather enjoy seeing them free as you drop to your knees for me.”
Her throat works with a smothered protest, but Clarke simply nods, letting her hands fall loosely to her sides, her breasts remaining free in the unfastened dress. “Of course, Captain Blake,” she says, moving forward to once again stand in front of him; no matter her pride, she knows her place in their game, and with a thought to the two dozen of her people she was able to set free, submission comes with slightly more ease.
Bellamy’s darkened gaze holds her own as he shuffles forward where he’s seated, maintaining the steady stroke of his hand on his hardened length as he spreads his thighs to create a cradle of space for her, and it’s with no more than a nod that Clarke takes her prompt, and, so similarly to their first meeting, picks up the skirt to her dress before dropping to her knees before him.
“So obedient, princess,” he murmurs, shifting his free hand to cradle her face, a moment of uncharacteristic gentleness as his thumb runs along the curve of her cheek, moving to her lower lip. “I certainly got lucky with you, didn’t I? Never met a princess who’s taken to sucking cock so well.”
“You’ve never met a princess at all,” she challenges, though his words rekindle that conflicting pride within her core, something so close to praise that she can’t help the shameful part of her that preens under his attention.
“True enough,” Bellamy says, mirth filling his roughened voice as he looks down at her with a frustratingly charming combination of amusement and desire. “And if all were as entertaining as you’ve proven to be, I might not feel so loathsome towards royalty. Now, come on, princess; I think it’s time you demonstrated the enthusiasm and skill I’ve managed to teach your pretty, little mouth.”
She recognises the mockery in his words immediately, and though they’re spoken with more amusement than malice, they still bring heat to Clarke’s cheeks. An echo of the humiliation that’d wrapped itself around her when he first requested the pleasure of her mouth, when, despite her facade of confidence in the negotiation of, her incompetence in the actual act was plainly clear.
It hadn’t take Bellamy long to realise her lack of experience, nor to criticise it, and his taunts had hit her harder than she wished, a degrading sort that’d curled prickling embarrassment within her chest — both that her performance was not to his standard, and more shamefully, that she craved for it to be. And despite the betrayal it felt to herself, a determination to fulfil her part of their agreement had washed over her, along with a treacherous thrill to have him educate her to do so, and Clarke soon learnt quickly and thoroughly the ways in which he liked to be touched.
Even now — despite the expensive gown that acts as a reminder of not only her royal status, but what he’s reduced her to — it’s impossible to ignore the weighted warmth that sinks into core, the desire to please him until he’s begging and boneless joining the silky wetness still pulsing where she aches with emptiness.
Holding his darkened, expectant gaze, Clarke lifts a hand to replace his own, wrapping it around his hot and thick length, familiar now in her touch. She begins to stroke it the way he’s taught her — with a steady, firm grasp, a slight twist to her wrist at the fattened head — and her throat works with embarrassment when she realises it’s eased by the slickness of her arousal.
Bellamy’s mouth tugs rakishly, his eyes going alight as she works him. “That’s it, princess,” he says, voice a roughened drawl, the intensity of his stare still unwavering. “Just like I showed you. You can feel how much my cock’s aching for you, can’t you? How much it wants to sink into your perfect, pink mouth?”
Her mouth goes dry with anticipation, though she still manages a quick retort. “Is that a request?”
His laugh is deep, another flash of amusement; he always seems to enjoy when she allows herself to be pert with her words. “With cheek like that, how could it not be? Come on, princess,” he says, his voice sinfully wicked, and again his hand moves to cradle her face for another quick moment, thumb smoothing over her jaw, as though preparing her for what’s to come. “Suck my cock.”
His gaze finally breaks from her own, dropping to pointedly look where she’s still stroking him, and without intending, Clarke’s follows, a surge of heat flashing through her at the impressive sight of him — so hard and large wrapped within her small grasp, twitching needily against her touch; thickened veins running over the otherwise smooth length, and gratifying beads of white arousal coating the flushed tip where his skin’s pulled back.
The warmth between her legs again throbs with desire, and the feeling seems to curl and spread into a desperation and greed that quickly overwhelms her. To not just be holding the perfect thickness of Bellamy in her hand, to not just have to take him between her lips until he’s sated with pleasure. To instead let him fill her where she’s aching to be filled, enkindle the heady pressure at her core that won’t seem to ease, allow it to grow until she’s gasping and writhing and crying for the release only he can —
She catches herself before the immoral thought can grow any further, heat rising to her cheeks with the embarrassment of her own vulgarity, and it’s without any further thought than a resolute desire to not allow Bellamy the chance to both recognise the moment and pride himself for it, that Clarke finally leans forward and does as she’s been asked.
Jaw slackening and lips parting, she presses her tongue to him, a soft grunt reaching her ears as she swirls it teasingly around Bellamy’s thickened head, the familiar taste of him heavy on her tongue as she laps up his early arousal.
It’s edged out quickly though, as she flattens her tongue to take him in her mouth properly, her hand continuing to stroke his length as her lips stretch over him — the familiar salt replaced by something headier, and Clarke realises all at once that it’s her; the arousal that had pooled at her core, that Bellamy teasingly drew out before coating himself in.
The hot flutter of both surprise and excitement that bursts within her chest must be apparent, because a low chuckle sounds, and Clarke’s eyes flick up without her intending, finding Bellamy’s gaze hot with an intense focus, staring at her mouth, still surrounding him.
“You can taste yourself on me, can’t you, princess?” He asks, voice a roughened murmur as he finally tears his hooded gaze from her lips, to instead meet her own. “Do you like it? Do you enjoy tasting the sweetness of your pretty, little cunt?”
Familiar enough with him by now, she knows the question isn’t rhetorical, that he’s again hoping to humiliate her with this admission. She slides off of him, though she doesn’t manage a proper response. “I’m — I don’t—”
“Answer me truthfully, princess,” Bellamy interrupts, a commanding edge entering his words, reminding her of his authority. “I’ll know it if you’re lying to me.”
Swallowing past the embarrassment that claws up her throat, she submits, giving him the answer he’s hoping for. “It’s quite…pleasant,” she says, and an absolutely sinful grin tugs at Bellamy’s mouth in response, further surprise fluttering through Clarke when she recognises it’s not laced with mockery this time, but instead satisfaction.
“Oh, your pussy is fucking divine, princess, as is the sweet come that’s pooled there,” he says, chuckling again when she gasps softly, an unintended response to both his profanity and his praise. “It doesn’t surprise me that you find it…pleasant, as you’ve put it. A month with you and I can already see you’re just a dirty, little princess that’s been smothered into submission by a life that was expected of you.”
“That’s not true,” she denies, though his words tug at a long buried and shameful concern.
“I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself it’s not,” he says, a knowing glint entering his eyes as he stares down at her. “But right now, you’re to be what I tell you, and my precious princess absolutely adores the taste of her own come, almost as much as she adores sucking cock.”
Gratitude in its most outlandish form washes over her at his command. Whilst she might’ve previously believed it to be humiliating and degrading, Clarke now recognises it as an opportunity to play a parallel self; one where she’s encouraged to indulge in the whims of her body, no matter the strict rules of her previous life, and more thankfully, one where the disconcerting emotions his words have drawn from her don’t exist.
Holding Bellamy’s gaze, Clarke allows herself a moment to reconcile the warmth that blooms within her core at the thought, as the fantasy sinks into her, silky and seductive where it settles in her mind, stretches throughout her body, before leaning back forward, and again, without any further words, taking him in her mouth.
Lips stretching over him easily, she watches with what she finally allows herself to acknowledge is heated satisfaction as Bellamy’s expression darkens with pleasure, with nothing more than teasing, gentle sucks around his sensitive tip. But his princess would feel the same impatience she recognises within his hooded gaze, and with his earlier request still heavy in her mind — to have her treat him with the enthusiasm and skill he’s so thoroughly taught her — Clarke doesn’t allow herself to linger.
Relaxing her mouth, she sinks further down his considerable length, with an ease she wouldn’t have thought possible upon her first attempt, and it’s impossible to deny the pleased flutter that wraps around her core in response — the gratification that’s laced into the unique knowledge she’s now privy to.
To be able to please him just as he likes: with deep, hard sucks, an eager tongue, and an avidity to revel in the vulgarity of the act.
Her commitment to fulfil those desires swells within her, urges her onward, and it’s with a prickling anticipation that, whilst continuing to hold Bellamy’s heated gaze, Clarke pulls back up his length before again sinking down, allowing herself to begin on a quick rhythm with the stretch of her lips and slackening of her jaw.
Bellamy’s mouth tips into a pleased, lazy grin as her own takes him. “That’s it, princess,” he drawls, voice low and roughened with encouragement. “Fuck my cock with your pretty, little mouth, just like that. You can take it so well now, can’t you? So much better than you first could.”
His words ring true; despite the heaviness of him on her tongue, inside of her mouth, the intrusion now thankfully comes to her with ease. It’s the headiness that’s unfamiliar here, the lingering taste of herself that’s still coated over him, and though she was expecting it this time, a hot quiver of excitement still bursts within her, as does a keenness to enjoy it with the enthusiasm Bellamy’s encouraged her to.
She allows herself to take him further, tongue swirling around and dragging over his length with each bob of her head, as her hand continues to stroke the base she’s yet to reach, and Bellamy watches her with an increasingly captivating intensity, as her mouth takes him again and again and again, until she’s chased her own taste away and is again privilege to his more masculine kind.
Its familiarity tugs at something deep within her, a coil wrapped tight at her core that unravels with each suck of him, and a sudden hunger and greed floods her, the kind that would befit his princess. And it’s with the permission to play that part that Clarke allows the feeling to sink into her, to entice her on, and, without granting Bellamy any warning, relaxes her jaw and finally works him to the back of her throat.
Expression flashing, mouth dropping, his surprise is gratifying, as is the absolute pride that washes over him. “Fuck,” he growls, hand immediately moving to thread through her hair, tugging it partially from her braid as his fingers tighten around the locks. “Christ, princess, that fucking mouth. Feels so goddamn good around my cock.”
His praise floods through her, sinking into the crevasses deep within her — ones she’s previously loathed for their treacherous cravings of validation, but now cannot deny hum with absolute warmth in achieving it — and running into an encouragement she grasps onto.
She continues to take him as far as she’s able, breathing through her nose and suppressing the urge to convulse around him, just as Bellamy’s taught her, and whilst she’s unable to quicken her pace any further, she is able to feed into another of his desires — allowing herself to become messy with it, sloppy in a way he’s showed her he so immensely enjoys.
Instead of continuing the unbroken strokes of her mouth, she pops off of him to again tease his head, allowing drops of her spit to slicken the flushed tip before chasing it away with the swirl of her tongue and again filling herself with him. It’s a new rhythm she settles into quickly: her throat still fluttering around him with each bob of her mouth, her cheeks still hollowing with deep sucks on each upstroke, but now, refocusing on his sensitive head as her lips draw back, lapping at the salt that greets her tongue as low curses and rough grunts begin to fall from Bellamy’s mouth.
It’s a rare and blissful feeling of control, to have such authority over him, his release completely reliant on her, and it only fans the flames of the greed that’s swelled within her, to get him there, to have him lose himself because of her — apparently one which reflects itself in her expression.
Bellamy’s growl is low and sudden, his eyes flashing at what she can only imagine is the surge of obscenity on her face.
“Fucking love it, don’t you?” He asks, voice roughened so deeply she feels it vibrate over her skin, as he drinks her in with an almost wild intensity. “God, princess, the fucking sight of you. Lips stretched so pretty around my cock, eyes completely blown as you take me.” His gaze drops, lingering on her breasts in her unfastened dress, and it again flashes with satisfaction as it meets her own. “Christ, even your tits, princess. Gorgeous fucking nipples so hard right now.”
It hardly seems possible to fight the blush that rises to her cheeks at that observation, nor the warm and heavy weight his words once again bloom between her legs, and it’s without intention that her thighs begin to rub together beneath her dress, an attempt to alleviate the ache.
Thankfully, Bellamy seems too caught up to take any notice, still focused where she continues to work him.
“Such a talented mouth, princess. Feels so fucking good around my cock.” His fingers tighten in her hair, the sting drawing away the warmth of his praise, curling it into something headier, making that ache at her core shift into a more needy throb. “And you love it, don’t you? My princess fucking loves sucking cock.”
His princess.
Despite the reminder of the part she’s playing for him, her words come with too much ease to hold the deceit she wishes they did, submission rolling from her tongue the moment she’s pulled back enough to allow it.
“I love sucking your cock,” she tells him, her voice a soft scratch now, and it’s with embarrassing speed that she provides further validity to the statement, again pressing forward to stretch her mouth back over him.
A laugh falls from Bellamy’s mouth, but it’s quickly broken by a rough groan as she slides down his thickened length until it’s again pressed to the back of her throat, and determination surges within her as she recognises just how close he is.
Tension wraps itself around him as Clarke regains her earlier rhythm, sucking and licking and fluttering around his length. His first groan trails into a series of pleasure-filled sounds that sink into her desire, allow it to stretch throughout her until there’s no more suitable term for her actions than fucking, her mouth drawing him closer and closer towards release, until his gaze blows dark with haziness and his body begins to tighten — so intoxicating that when he finally finds release, she’s not only anticipating it, she’s craving it.
She takes it with ease — not like her first attempt, where she pulled back too early with a gasping cough, thick ropes of his arousal spilling onto her mouth and chin obscenely — allowing his come to spurt down her throat as she milks him of his pleasure, as he swells and pulses heavily on her tongue, and as is customary, Bellamy’s face slacks in a brief moment of vulnerability as release overcomes him.
Clarke drinks in the rare sight greedily, his handsome face softening in a way she never sees elsewhere, but it clears soon enough, his eyes fluttering back open with heavy satisfaction, as his mouth tugs into a familiar, wicked grin.
“Such a good girl, princess,” he murmurs roughly, fingers tightening in her hair as she begins to pull back, though he doesn’t stop her, his hand falling away once she’s eased off, to instead smooth a thumb over her lower lip. “Your mouth is positively sinful, isn’t it? Such a salacious, little thing, and it’s most certainly managed to improve what’s been a god-awful day.”
Curiosity and perhaps something she’s not quite allowing herself to call concern rise within her, though Clarke forces them back swiftly. Her duties go only so far as fulfilling the desires of his body; his emotional well-being is not now, and will never be, any of her business.
Finally dropping his hand from her, Bellamy shifts it to tuck himself back into, and then refasten, his breeches, and the stretching moment of silence as she continues to kneel before him allows her the time to ease back into herself, unsurprisingly to a swelling of delayed embarrassment and shame, though he interrupts her thoughts before they’re able to fully sink in.
“Now, I do owe you an apology, princess,” he says, and surprise catches in her throat as he stands, looming completely over her with the authority befitting a captain. “Despite my own amusement, it was cruel to play with your pretty cunt without letting you come.”
Heat rises to her cheeks, his attention all of a sudden too heavy where it lies on her, despite the sincerity that seems to rings through his words. “I didn’t—”
“Certainly impolite to let you squirm for so long as you sucked my cock,” he continues, and it’s now that an amused edge enters his expression, a taunting sort that further draws out her humiliation.
“I’m unsure of what it is you’re speaking of,” she says, ignoring his deep chuckle and refusing the hand he offers to help her up.
Instead, she shifts herself back and stands on her own, though Bellamy encroaches on the little space she gains immediately, stepping forward once. And then again, and again, moving with those slow, commanding steps that force Clarke to move in kind, until he’s pushed her back against the door to her cabin — so similarly to that first meeting.
“And if I offered the services of my own mouth?” He asks now, shifting so close she can feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, but she doesn’t allow her gaze to drop to his mouth, keeping it fixed on the darkened pools of his own.
“Your mouth will be on me only when it’s to fulfil your desires,” she says, forcing a boldness she does not feel into her words. “I’ll never ask for such things from you. From a pirate.”
His laugh is rough, his gaze turning knowing. “And what about my cock, princess?” He presses his hips to her own, and despite the fact that he remains softened from recent release, it’s impossible not to imagine the thick and hard length she’s so familiar with, filling her up the way she was so desperate to be filled earlier. “I could fuck your pretty, royal cunt right here. Show you what it feels like to be taken care of properly, allowed to indulge in all the wicked yearnings of your body.”
The ache between her legs throbs with his words, and Clarke feels herself hesitate for a mere beat, but it’s enough; Bellamy catches it, his mouth tipping up with a victorious edge.
“Remember what I told you when we met, princess,” he says, shifting to press his mouth up to her ear, the weight of him filled with such warmth it would be so easy to simply melt into him, to surrender and submit. “I’ll be taking you in every way, soon enough. But only once you beg.”
Heart racing and mind swirling with desires she won’t allow herself to admit to, she summons the last threads of strength within her, pressing a hand to Bellamy’s chest and pushing him back.
“That will never happen.”
His smile is mockingly doubtful. “We’ll see about that,” he says, holding her gaze as he finally takes a step back, his hand moving to the handle of her door, and despite her leaning against it, he pulls it open, forcing Clarke out of his way. “I’ll see you at dinner, princess. Be sure to keep the dress on for the remainder of this celebratory day.” Amusement dances across his expression as his gaze finally drops, lingering for a long moment on her breasts, still free in her unfastened gown, before finding hers once more. “Exactly as is.”