FREE STORIES 2012(42)
The captain of the sloop was using one shapely but powerful hand with neatly painted nails to hold the wheel against the current while the other wielded a twenty foot pink bullwhip.
“Taut that jibsheet!” the captain cried. The whip cracked out, leaving the outline of a heart on the buttocks of one of the sailors. “Haul away you scurry dogs…!”
“Scurvy, cap’n!”
“Scurvy dogs! I want to see some rippling muscles and gleaming sweat!” The whip cracked out again leaving an incredibly detailed and erotic sketch on the back of another sailor.
Describing the captain from deck up, and why not after all, should start with the boots. These were boots that had been around the block a few times. But less, a discerning viewer of some thoughtfulness might surmise, because the captain couldn’t afford new boots but because in a day and age of sailing ships and cyclops sea serpents it was just gods-damnably hard to find six inch platform, broad-heel, thigh-high patent-leather boots that fit so gods-damnably well and were so damnably comfortable while walking around the block. The discerning and thoughtful viewer would probably get the impression that if the captain of the sloop ever happened upon some poor person wearing a similar pair of boots that would probably fit as well that person had better be willing to hand them over or suffer the consequences. In the meantime, a little patching, a little polish, a few dozen, okay hundreds, of rivets and they were still hanging in there.
The next description, for the discerning reader’s viewing pleasure, should probably be the flash of upper thigh above the boots. A close, circling pan, quite close, as the discerning reader metaphorically tries to tilt his or her head to the side for possibly just the teensiest flash under the inordinately short skirt you little perv straighten up and look at the thigh, damnit! would in a word association test in seventy percent of respondents probably provoke the word “tan.” An additional ten percent would be unable to say a word as their mouth was too dry. The next ten percent would probably be saying something like “Lick! Must… Lick!” The last ten percent, almost all gay males, would probably say “Oh, dear. Look at those scars. Doesn’t she know there’s creams for that? How barbaric!”
And indeed, the brief flash of thigh and, as the mental cameraman that the writer is quite upset with pans upwards at one point to reveal a bit of firmly muscled buttocks underhang, the thigh I said! shows extensive and curious scars. Some are clearly from blades, probably wielded in anger. Others, however, mimic the hearts, moons and stars that lovingly grace the backs, thighs and buttocks of the captain’s fearless crew. This captain has not simply been around the block. This captain has cruised every block in every major city in the known world to the point of wearing grooves in the sidewalks. Street vendors know this captain’s name and scantily clad women leaning against lightposts bow to this captain as to a goddess.
Mention having been made of the skirt we shall continue upwards. Were it not for a construction of narrow strips of hanging leather with iron plate riveted on thus giving the impression of the most laughable piece of armor in history, the word “belt” would be more appropriate. And not a wide belt at that. The only way that it could concede to any sense of modesty was, as the captain wore it, by being pulled so far down the upper bulge of the mons venus could be discerned by, well, just about anyone, male or female, with the slightest interest in the fairer sex. Because the vast majority would, at first sight of the captain, simply stop dead in their tracks and not quite know where to look first.
It’s worth noting that wearing a “skirt,” hah! in such a manner led to less of an issue with firmly muscled underhang than silky-smooth, gloriously-tanned, firmly-muscled overhang. And quite noticeable butt crack. In the vast majority of cases, indeed in virtually all cases, butt crack is something to be avoided. In this case, crowds would be unable to resist following it around the block, their eyes transfixed, for simply hours.
An additional circling pan would be appropriate, cameraman we’re moving up… up I said… at this point to examine the captain’s corset. Again, some concession to “armor” was made by riveting small iron plates to the black leather. But most would, again, pay this little attention. What did tend to grab attention was that the corset was, gosh, just a bit too small. Laced front and back, the back joined but the front… not so much. Thus the eye tended to travel up past the revealed pierced navel, the firm, tanned and beautiful abdomen, to…
In another day and age at that point many would be forced to exclaim…