The next evening, she is summoned to his cabin once more. The ever present Pintel and Ragetti escort her to the door and the thinner man raps sharply with his knuckles. The door swings open, even though the captain is on the other side of the cabin.
“Miss Turner,” Barbossa leers, but she has had long to think upon the nature of this pirate captain, had time to gain his measure. There will be no poison here, not this night, and she is feverishly hungry, a gnawing pain in her belly and a weakness to her limbs.
She attacks the meal with little grace, and the captain watches her with an almost indecent pleasure. She drinks cup after cup of the sweet wine, even as it leaves a dry, almost painful sensation in the back of her throat. She bites into an apple to soothe the sting. Seated across from her at the table in the great cabin, she glares at her captor.
“Should I take off my clothes?” she asks him, as tart as the apple juice dripping down her chin. “Would that increase your pleasure at the sight of me and your blasted apples, Captain?”
The captain’s lips have parted, but his lips clamp shut at her jab. Almost unconsciously, his hand goes to the heavy cutlass belted constantly at his side. “Miss Turner,” he warns. “Is this the way young ladies have begun to speak these days in port? I may have to make port more often, and partake of whatever other unusual boldness has taken hold in them.” Elizabeth laughs, a dark, derisive thing, and the captain’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“Hollow words,” she scoffs, emboldened by the wine. “What would you do with said ladies? It’s my understanding your… sword. That it is ten years without a scabbard, and indeed incapable of even rising to attention.” Far from fury, her words merely seem to invoke a wry amusement in him, and he settles back in his chair, his hand slipping from his sword.
“Ye be mixing your metaphors, my dear girl,” he informs her, a grin coming over his weathered face. “I think ye’ll find my sword,” and here he pats the cutlass at his hip, “Is in complete working order.”
“And what of that one?” she asks, pointing to the heavy crease a few inches below his belt.
“Ah,” he replies dryly. “That one. It is, how do ye gentle ladies put it, out of commission?”
A strange recklessness comes over her. “In all situations?” she asks curiously. “Fair winds or foul? Regardless of the… stimuli present?”
“Regardless,” he says tautly, fingers curling hard around the hilt of his sword. “Whether it be Ragetti in here with his trousers down or yer lovely self with drawers around yer ankles, the reaction ‘twould be the same.”
She may die here. And if she’s bloody well going to die, she might as well die like a pirate, not a primping, blushing, prancing maiden.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she tells him, and she can tell she’s surprised him from the way one eyebrow arches just a tiny bit. Her body is burning like someone has poured fire into her veins. No man has ever aroused her like this. Not beautiful Will nor dangerous Sparrow nor dutiful Norrington. Barbossa is an animal clad in human flesh, and rotting flesh to boot. He is undoubtedly the most terrifying man she has ever met. And that terror mixes with a strange desire in her bones.
“That’s quite a promise, Miss,” the Captain tells her, heedless of her inner monologue. “Ye know what happens to those who renege on bargains with pirates?”
“I can imagine,” she drawls, even as images of death and torture spring into her mind. Abruptly the captain stands, walking around to her side of the table with heavy footsteps. One hand is already fumbling at the laces of his breeches, as faded and unkempt as the rest of him. He comes to rest a scant few paces away from her, as he pushes his breeches down to below his knees.
Barbossa’s prick is heavy and thick, dark bushy hair surrounding the unfamiliar organ. She studies it, even as the captain begins to swell before her eyes. She gasps at that. She would have thought him incapable.
The captain chuckles darkly. “Have ye not seen what a pretty maid can do to a man, Miss Turner?” he asks, hand straying to his hip as though to reach down and take himself at hand. But he stills.
Elizabeth peers at him in fascination. “Your heart does not beat. How then does it fill with blood?” she asks, tilting her head to the side to better study him. The captain’s prick is almost at full hardness under her scrutiny. “If you cannot feel, how does it react?”
“Ye be very curious about the workings of men,” Barbossa tells her. “Ye have a suitor back from whence you came?”
“No!” she tells him firmly, heat working its way down to her breasts.
“At that she blushes,” he taunts her. “Not at the sight of a man with his breeches around his ankles.”
“Shut up,” she tells him furiously as he pulls his trousers back on. He only smirks and Elizabeth, burning with impotent ire, makes to rise from the table. “You brute.” But Barbossa does not let her leave.
“Ah, ah,” he warns her, drawing the heavy blade. It remains in his hand, but he does not press it to her throat. “Miss Turner. Ye owe me something, I believe.”
“Pirate,” she accuses him, but she will not renege. It is not in her nature.
“Never claimed to be anything otherwise,” Barbossa retorts. She hates how he never lets anyone else get the last word. Slowly, she draws up her skirts, leaving herself clad in just her pantalets. The captain leans back against the wall of the cabin, gesturing with the strong, battered hand still holding his sword. “Come now,” Barbossa drawls. “Don’t tease a man, girl.”
“You act as though I’ve done this before,” she flares at him.
“Of course not,” she bites back. “I’m a lady!” He laughs hoarsely.
“Ye be Bootstrap Bill’s daughter and no mistake,” he informs her. “’E was always giving himself airs.” She has no idea who Bootstrap Bill is, except - Bill. William. Will’s father.
“I’m sure they were justified,” she tells him, and shucks her drawers completely, letting them drop to the floor, letting her legs part.
It’s worth it, to see the captain’s grizzled face go slack, to see his mouth open and close as though words have completely deserted him. Such an eloquent man as this demon pirate captain, and utterly lost for words.
“Do you like it, then?” she asks, her voice husky and low. The captain parts his lips, his tongue moistening them like a serpent tasting the air.
“Like it?” he echoes. “Such a pretty little cunt as I’ve never seen, swear by the seven seas.”
“Well,” she replies, becoming accustomed to the coolness of the air on her bared legs. “That’s hardly faint praise, coming from you, Captain Barbossa.”
“Quite,” he retorts, giving her one last lingering look between her thighs. “That’s enough now, lass. Put yer drawers back on.” And it would make a liar of her, to pretend she’s not disappointed.
“Don’t you want to…?” She trails off at the self-deprecating smile on the captain’s face, restraining a wince at his terrible teeth.
“I could pound away at ye til Doomsday, lass, and it would make no difference,” he informs her. “I’d have more chance of gainin’ Calypso’s favour than I would of coming between yer lovely thighs.” The compliment makes her blush, even if there is no warmth in his crackly voice.
“I’m not sorry,” she tells him, defiance stiffening her spine and raising her chin to him. “You’re a monster. You deserve to suffer.”
“Not for much longer,” he tells her, eyes burning like coals in a skull, and hastily she gathers her skirts. “Aye, run back to your cabin, Miss Turner,” he calls, his accent thickening in his anger. “By the time we make port at Isla de Muerta, ye best face the thought of servicin’ me whole crew. Has been a time since they had feminine company, and if they’re anythin’ like yours truly, they’ve a hankerin’ to see the rest of ye.”