I am with her. I know it. I can feel it. That is her hand upon my erect flesh, stroking me. It is not my hand. And that is my tongue now exploring her...moist and hidden recesses, not her own hand or some object penetrating her. That is my mouth, those are my lips sucking her labia into my mouth, caressing them with my tongue. That is my tongue drawing designs upon her clitoris, writing letter by letter upon it to spell out my silent messages to her. I have no need for words as my tongue writes. I’m afraid the account of their vile acts would be much too shocking for your delicate sensibilities,’ the Captain warned. ‘Have you ever heard of the buccaneer Antoine Renoir, Captain?’ she asked. ‘It is said he is particularly diabolical in his treatment of female prisoners. And I’ve heard he is quite a formidable maitre des armes.’ ‘Well, I don’t know about his swordsmanship, but most of the tales of pirate exploits are highly exaggerated, Madame. My guess is that if this Renoir exists at. More

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