Fic: Recreational. PotC (pre-CotBP), Barbossa/Anamaria, NC-17. (crossposted)
Author Name: snowgrouse
Title: Recreational
Rating: NC-17, baby, for rough sex
Pairings: Barbossa/Anamaria and all the inherent bitching therein
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Don't have money, just a dirty mind so 'twould be pointless to sue. They're all Mickey's bitches, I just help them out when they get busy.
Genre: PWP, pure smutty frolicking
Summary: Set before the events of the first movie, when Barbossa and co. first chuck Jack off the Pearl. Anamaria's part of the original crew. There's rum. Barbossa is Barbossa. Recreational activities ensue.
Notes: Barbossa's groanworthy activities are totally his own. He may be the only one to find them sexy. Well, maybe. Also apologies to Jack The Zombie Monkey for cruelly pimping his true love in this way and not even letting the furry fiend join in. Last but not least, massive thanks to pink_siamese for a smashing and quick beta. I owe you Photoshop pr0n by the bucketload. I would've illustrated this but my graphics tablet just died. But then, that made fic happen, so... clicky!
"Anamaria, Anamaria."
Barbossa murmurs your name like a shanty, lewd and melodic. Jack's gone, on the island where he belongs, and the Pearl is yours, as it should be. Revenge is sweet, even sweeter with a private celebration in what used to be Jack's cabin, just you and Barbossa and a few bottles of the finest Jamaican rum.
"That's my name, Hector", you murmur over your glass, "Don't wear it out or yer' goin' to have to buy me a new one."
You're in a mood to tease, he's in a mood to indulge.
"Gettin' used to the name of th' new captain, m'dear."
He meets your smile and you know he's lying. It's a razor's edge you're walking tonight, knowing he wants the Pearl just as much as he wants you. He's sprawling back in his chair, one hand lax on his thigh, and the bulge in his breeches might as well be for the ship, your only serious rival.
But the Pearl doesn't have a heartbeat, doesn't have warm blood in its veins, or soft flesh. Things you know he has a weakness for, things he might just love even more than power and apples.
So you walk up to him, hips swaying like the sea, nearly close enough to touch, teasing him with curving breasts and scented hair, as you lean over to take off his hat and whisper in his ear.
"And what would ye do to be called Captain for one night, pet?"
He sighs and closes his eyes.
"Oh, many things, Anamaria, many things."
He leers and brushes your hair aside with his hand, rings glinting in the lantern light.
"'s just a matter of knowin' where to start."
You grab his wrist and shake your head. Barbossa's one weakness is his pride. Humiliating both Jack and Hector in one day? Priceless. So you keep going. Such foolishness can be... entertaining. The prospect of triumph warms your belly, and your laughter is husky with anticipation.
"On yer knees for a pretty lass? That ain't like you, Hector."
Mock indignant, he kicks the chair aside and does just that, kneels, for drama's sake; and above all, to bring his face to level with your crotch. He traces the inseam of your breeches with his thumb and inhales noisily, the filthy dog he is.
"Is that so? Ye haven't seen me indulge my... sensitive, caring side."
This time, you both laugh. Until you grab his hair and yank his head back, making him wince.
"Ye wouldn't know sensitive if it bit ye on the arse. Get up."
Is it the pain that makes his eyes glow brighter? The perverted sod, he's still laughing.
"Your wish is my command, mistress."
Your eyes narrow, and you know how tonight's game will be played. And how it will be won.
"Prove it."
"With pleasure."
He removes his coat and unbuckles his belt--leaving the sword, of course, within easy reach--and he lies down on the captain's bed, lazily, beckoning with his hand, a mockery of a courtier's flourish.
"I'd lie here like a puppy", he begins, as if telling a story, "waitin' for the mistress to give me a scritch."
You lean back against the table, untying your hair, throwing your scarf at him, cocking an eyebrow.
"That's a very disobedient puppy; it's brought mud into the bed in its paws."
He glances at his boots, harrumphs and kicks them off, not very gracefully.
"If I may continue..."
"Ye may, glad to see yer learnin' some manners."
Ah, now his irritation is cresting, taking him past a point where he might not continue. You can't have that, so you casually take off your shirt and step closer, leaning against the bedpost, your hair falling cool over your back and breasts. He props himself up on his elbows so he can get a better view, and leers. His breathing is getting heavier.
"Oh, if the mistress only allows it, I'll hold 'er in my lap, the way a woman oughta be held. Firmly an' gently."
You sit beside him and place your hand on his knee.
"And then?"
"I'd show 'er that the rumours of my extraordinary kissin' technique have not been exaggerated."
He sits up, takes your hand and kisses it.
"And just when 'er heart was racin' and she was squirmin', with 'er arse rubbin' on my prick, I'd be kissin' 'er some more."
You unbutton your breeches, pulling them down only a little, just enough to tease.
"Thinkin' with yer prick, jus' like all men do?"
He licks and sucks on his fingers, making smacking noises, then runs them over your belly.
"Come now, it's the fingers what drive 'em ladies wild."
He's close, now, face inches from yours, the tips of his fingers toying with your pubic curls.
"I'd be takin' my time, findin' just the right spot in 'er cunny, right there where it makes 'er *so* wet, drippin' onto my hand..."
...and he can't continue, because you silence him with a kiss, and he laughs into your mouth and shows he knows what he's talking about. You crawl over him on all fours, and he pushes your breeches down, those fingers finding their way with ease. Even better when he traps your clitoris between his fingers and *rubs*, making you grind against his hand, moaning deep in your throat.
"That, my pretty, is what I like to see."
It doesn't take long for him to undress, or for you to kick your breeches off. But it gives you time to regain your composure somewhat, straddle his belly and rake your nails over his chest, his cock pressing hot in the cleft of your arse.
"Careful, Hector, I might assume ye were plannin' a mutiny."
He fills his hands with your breasts, flicking the nipples with blackened thumbnails.
"Must say, the booty's temptin'. How would the mistress like 'er plunderin'?"
You flash your teeth, nipping sharply at his lower lip.
"A gentleman won't be leavin' a lady in trouble."
He groans and presses his cock harder against your arse.
"Not a lady, then, more like a cabin boy, eh?"
He deserves that slap, even seems to revel in it. He growls and kisses you with equal violence, more and more inflamed as you pull on his hair, making his cock harder and harder, as you get wetter and wetter, slicking him up, and he's desperate for more. Laughing, you lie down beside him and spread your legs.
"Ye need to earn it. Put that mouth to good use for once."
Oh, and he does, and you wonder if the whores of Tortuga gossip about this as well. He glances up at you, looking you straight in the eye as he sucks on your clit and teases it with his tongue, easing two fingers in your cunt, slowly, knowing what he's doing, chuckling when you have to throw your head back and moan, push yourself onto his fingers, thick and calloused and rough and *there*, fuck, curling just at the right spot, and he wasn't boasting, and you're so dripping wet it's easy for him to push another finger inside your arse and you're coming, so soon it takes you by surprise, fucking yourself on his hands and swearing and cursing him to Hell and back because it's so fucking *right*.
Bastard. Before he can say anything smug, you kiss him again, tasting yourself and rum and the sea, and you push him onto his back, making sure he remembers who's boss. Even if you can't remember the last time you were this wet, the last time you looked forward to that prick in your arse. Enough to want to taste it, and it's cleaner than you expected, red and fat and delicious. You tell yourself he doesn't need any more indulging, yet can't resist swallowing it whole, just once, your throat full and gagging around it, him biting his lip and groaning, bucking his hips. The look on his face is so vulnerable you do it again, just to watch him lose control. And when the only touch you allow him is just the tip of your tongue playing with the head, he clutches the sheets and begs.
"Please! I'm not a young lad any more, missy."
"What was that?"
Eyes wide, skin flushed, the proud bastard begs.
"Anamaria. Please."
"That'd be more like it."
Your juices would probably be enough for the purpose, but you want to make things as comfortable as possible. Lamp oil will have to do, and he hisses as you pour it over his cock, lazily, massaging it into his balls, spreading it over his chest. You pour some into his hand and straddle him again, kissing him softly as he prepares your arse. He's impatient, but trying to hide it, probing slowly and carefully. He's doing it so well, two fingers gently stretching you, rubbing his wrist against your pussy as he does so, that you're losing your concentration again, forgetting how to breathe.
"Don't make me slap ye again."
He moves his hands to your hips, then your buttocks, spreading the oil all over, grinning.
"Why not?"
You don't answer, just guide his cock into place, and fuck, the thickness of it, it seems to take forever to go in, long enough for the discomfort to turn into pleasure by the time you've rested your full weight on him, and even then it's a sweet mixture of pain and pleasure.
Now it's his turn to swear, and he digs his nails into your hips, as if he can't believe what he's experiencing. His leer is back, even wider than before.
"G'wan. Play rough. You know you want to. Or do I have to call ye names?"
"Shut up."
Yet you give him what he wants, because he's twisted enough to deserve it, because you want to wipe that smirk off his face. And when you bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, his cock grows even harder, even better for you to ride on, and you alternate between fast and hard movements just so he can beg again, just so you can tell him to make you come, where to put those fingers, yes, there's a good boy.
He's out of breath now, yet he obeys and curls his fingers like he did before, making stars dance in your eyes. His thumb finds your clitoris and he snarls at you, laughter in his voice.
"There? That's it, that's what ye like. Dancin' there with my prick up your pretty arse and my hand up yer cunny. Yer close, aren't ye, pet? That's it. Let me see it."
Maybe you hear this, maybe you don't care any more, because you're utterly selfish now, fucking him the way *you* want to, devouring him, coming so fucking hard you're shouting, cunt and arse clenching around his cock and his fingers, and it goes on and on and you're shuddering all over and it's your day of triumph, and it's fucking *perfect*.
And still, that self-satisfied grin, and he's winking at you.
"Told ye I was a living legend."
You roll your eyes, and don't regret leaving his cock waving in the air when you dismount him.
"Last warnin'. D'ye fancy me leaving ye here like this?"
"Pricktease."
You glare at him, close your hand over his mouth and grab his cock. The smile in his eyes soon vanishes as you make his every limb tremble, with feathery, fluttery touches over the head of his cock, barely touching it, teasing him until his balls are drawn tight against his body and he's making only the tiniest of sounds. You move both of your hands to the head of his cock, toying with the moisture on the tip.
"Ye have to ask nicely. Ye did it so beautifully before, I thought I'd give ye another chance to redeem yerself."
First he only makes the words with his lips, he's so out of breath, his hips lifting off the bed, desperate for the touch of your hands.
"Yes?"
"*Please*!"
And it doesn't take much, only a firm tug or two, and he's there, growling and gasping and shooting come all over his stomach, all orchestrated by your hands, responding perfectly, quivering helplessly and clutching your shoulder, then collapsing onto the pillows, pulling you to lie close to him.
"Fucking. Hell."
"Ye weren't bad either, Hector, m'dear. For a man of yer age."
He just groans and puts his arm over his eyes.
***
Title: Recreational
Rating: NC-17, baby, for rough sex
Pairings: Barbossa/Anamaria and all the inherent bitching therein
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Don't have money, just a dirty mind so 'twould be pointless to sue. They're all Mickey's bitches, I just help them out when they get busy.
Genre: PWP, pure smutty frolicking
Summary: Set before the events of the first movie, when Barbossa and co. first chuck Jack off the Pearl. Anamaria's part of the original crew. There's rum. Barbossa is Barbossa. Recreational activities ensue.
Notes: Barbossa's groanworthy activities are totally his own. He may be the only one to find them sexy. Well, maybe. Also apologies to Jack The Zombie Monkey for cruelly pimping his true love in this way and not even letting the furry fiend join in. Last but not least, massive thanks to pink_siamese for a smashing and quick beta. I owe you Photoshop pr0n by the bucketload. I would've illustrated this but my graphics tablet just died. But then, that made fic happen, so... clicky!
"Anamaria, Anamaria."
Barbossa murmurs your name like a shanty, lewd and melodic. Jack's gone, on the island where he belongs, and the Pearl is yours, as it should be. Revenge is sweet, even sweeter with a private celebration in what used to be Jack's cabin, just you and Barbossa and a few bottles of the finest Jamaican rum.
"That's my name, Hector", you murmur over your glass, "Don't wear it out or yer' goin' to have to buy me a new one."
You're in a mood to tease, he's in a mood to indulge.
"Gettin' used to the name of th' new captain, m'dear."
He meets your smile and you know he's lying. It's a razor's edge you're walking tonight, knowing he wants the Pearl just as much as he wants you. He's sprawling back in his chair, one hand lax on his thigh, and the bulge in his breeches might as well be for the ship, your only serious rival.
But the Pearl doesn't have a heartbeat, doesn't have warm blood in its veins, or soft flesh. Things you know he has a weakness for, things he might just love even more than power and apples.
So you walk up to him, hips swaying like the sea, nearly close enough to touch, teasing him with curving breasts and scented hair, as you lean over to take off his hat and whisper in his ear.
"And what would ye do to be called Captain for one night, pet?"
He sighs and closes his eyes.
"Oh, many things, Anamaria, many things."
He leers and brushes your hair aside with his hand, rings glinting in the lantern light.
"'s just a matter of knowin' where to start."
You grab his wrist and shake your head. Barbossa's one weakness is his pride. Humiliating both Jack and Hector in one day? Priceless. So you keep going. Such foolishness can be... entertaining. The prospect of triumph warms your belly, and your laughter is husky with anticipation.
"On yer knees for a pretty lass? That ain't like you, Hector."
Mock indignant, he kicks the chair aside and does just that, kneels, for drama's sake; and above all, to bring his face to level with your crotch. He traces the inseam of your breeches with his thumb and inhales noisily, the filthy dog he is.
"Is that so? Ye haven't seen me indulge my... sensitive, caring side."
This time, you both laugh. Until you grab his hair and yank his head back, making him wince.
"Ye wouldn't know sensitive if it bit ye on the arse. Get up."
Is it the pain that makes his eyes glow brighter? The perverted sod, he's still laughing.
"Your wish is my command, mistress."
Your eyes narrow, and you know how tonight's game will be played. And how it will be won.
"Prove it."
"With pleasure."
He removes his coat and unbuckles his belt--leaving the sword, of course, within easy reach--and he lies down on the captain's bed, lazily, beckoning with his hand, a mockery of a courtier's flourish.
"I'd lie here like a puppy", he begins, as if telling a story, "waitin' for the mistress to give me a scritch."
You lean back against the table, untying your hair, throwing your scarf at him, cocking an eyebrow.
"That's a very disobedient puppy; it's brought mud into the bed in its paws."
He glances at his boots, harrumphs and kicks them off, not very gracefully.
"If I may continue..."
"Ye may, glad to see yer learnin' some manners."
Ah, now his irritation is cresting, taking him past a point where he might not continue. You can't have that, so you casually take off your shirt and step closer, leaning against the bedpost, your hair falling cool over your back and breasts. He props himself up on his elbows so he can get a better view, and leers. His breathing is getting heavier.
"Oh, if the mistress only allows it, I'll hold 'er in my lap, the way a woman oughta be held. Firmly an' gently."
You sit beside him and place your hand on his knee.
"And then?"
"I'd show 'er that the rumours of my extraordinary kissin' technique have not been exaggerated."
He sits up, takes your hand and kisses it.
"And just when 'er heart was racin' and she was squirmin', with 'er arse rubbin' on my prick, I'd be kissin' 'er some more."
You unbutton your breeches, pulling them down only a little, just enough to tease.
"Thinkin' with yer prick, jus' like all men do?"
He licks and sucks on his fingers, making smacking noises, then runs them over your belly.
"Come now, it's the fingers what drive 'em ladies wild."
He's close, now, face inches from yours, the tips of his fingers toying with your pubic curls.
"I'd be takin' my time, findin' just the right spot in 'er cunny, right there where it makes 'er *so* wet, drippin' onto my hand..."
...and he can't continue, because you silence him with a kiss, and he laughs into your mouth and shows he knows what he's talking about. You crawl over him on all fours, and he pushes your breeches down, those fingers finding their way with ease. Even better when he traps your clitoris between his fingers and *rubs*, making you grind against his hand, moaning deep in your throat.
"That, my pretty, is what I like to see."
It doesn't take long for him to undress, or for you to kick your breeches off. But it gives you time to regain your composure somewhat, straddle his belly and rake your nails over his chest, his cock pressing hot in the cleft of your arse.
"Careful, Hector, I might assume ye were plannin' a mutiny."
He fills his hands with your breasts, flicking the nipples with blackened thumbnails.
"Must say, the booty's temptin'. How would the mistress like 'er plunderin'?"
You flash your teeth, nipping sharply at his lower lip.
"A gentleman won't be leavin' a lady in trouble."
He groans and presses his cock harder against your arse.
"Not a lady, then, more like a cabin boy, eh?"
He deserves that slap, even seems to revel in it. He growls and kisses you with equal violence, more and more inflamed as you pull on his hair, making his cock harder and harder, as you get wetter and wetter, slicking him up, and he's desperate for more. Laughing, you lie down beside him and spread your legs.
"Ye need to earn it. Put that mouth to good use for once."
Oh, and he does, and you wonder if the whores of Tortuga gossip about this as well. He glances up at you, looking you straight in the eye as he sucks on your clit and teases it with his tongue, easing two fingers in your cunt, slowly, knowing what he's doing, chuckling when you have to throw your head back and moan, push yourself onto his fingers, thick and calloused and rough and *there*, fuck, curling just at the right spot, and he wasn't boasting, and you're so dripping wet it's easy for him to push another finger inside your arse and you're coming, so soon it takes you by surprise, fucking yourself on his hands and swearing and cursing him to Hell and back because it's so fucking *right*.
Bastard. Before he can say anything smug, you kiss him again, tasting yourself and rum and the sea, and you push him onto his back, making sure he remembers who's boss. Even if you can't remember the last time you were this wet, the last time you looked forward to that prick in your arse. Enough to want to taste it, and it's cleaner than you expected, red and fat and delicious. You tell yourself he doesn't need any more indulging, yet can't resist swallowing it whole, just once, your throat full and gagging around it, him biting his lip and groaning, bucking his hips. The look on his face is so vulnerable you do it again, just to watch him lose control. And when the only touch you allow him is just the tip of your tongue playing with the head, he clutches the sheets and begs.
"Please! I'm not a young lad any more, missy."
"What was that?"
Eyes wide, skin flushed, the proud bastard begs.
"Anamaria. Please."
"That'd be more like it."
Your juices would probably be enough for the purpose, but you want to make things as comfortable as possible. Lamp oil will have to do, and he hisses as you pour it over his cock, lazily, massaging it into his balls, spreading it over his chest. You pour some into his hand and straddle him again, kissing him softly as he prepares your arse. He's impatient, but trying to hide it, probing slowly and carefully. He's doing it so well, two fingers gently stretching you, rubbing his wrist against your pussy as he does so, that you're losing your concentration again, forgetting how to breathe.
"Don't make me slap ye again."
He moves his hands to your hips, then your buttocks, spreading the oil all over, grinning.
"Why not?"
You don't answer, just guide his cock into place, and fuck, the thickness of it, it seems to take forever to go in, long enough for the discomfort to turn into pleasure by the time you've rested your full weight on him, and even then it's a sweet mixture of pain and pleasure.
Now it's his turn to swear, and he digs his nails into your hips, as if he can't believe what he's experiencing. His leer is back, even wider than before.
"G'wan. Play rough. You know you want to. Or do I have to call ye names?"
"Shut up."
Yet you give him what he wants, because he's twisted enough to deserve it, because you want to wipe that smirk off his face. And when you bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, his cock grows even harder, even better for you to ride on, and you alternate between fast and hard movements just so he can beg again, just so you can tell him to make you come, where to put those fingers, yes, there's a good boy.
He's out of breath now, yet he obeys and curls his fingers like he did before, making stars dance in your eyes. His thumb finds your clitoris and he snarls at you, laughter in his voice.
"There? That's it, that's what ye like. Dancin' there with my prick up your pretty arse and my hand up yer cunny. Yer close, aren't ye, pet? That's it. Let me see it."
Maybe you hear this, maybe you don't care any more, because you're utterly selfish now, fucking him the way *you* want to, devouring him, coming so fucking hard you're shouting, cunt and arse clenching around his cock and his fingers, and it goes on and on and you're shuddering all over and it's your day of triumph, and it's fucking *perfect*.
And still, that self-satisfied grin, and he's winking at you.
"Told ye I was a living legend."
You roll your eyes, and don't regret leaving his cock waving in the air when you dismount him.
"Last warnin'. D'ye fancy me leaving ye here like this?"
"Pricktease."
You glare at him, close your hand over his mouth and grab his cock. The smile in his eyes soon vanishes as you make his every limb tremble, with feathery, fluttery touches over the head of his cock, barely touching it, teasing him until his balls are drawn tight against his body and he's making only the tiniest of sounds. You move both of your hands to the head of his cock, toying with the moisture on the tip.
"Ye have to ask nicely. Ye did it so beautifully before, I thought I'd give ye another chance to redeem yerself."
First he only makes the words with his lips, he's so out of breath, his hips lifting off the bed, desperate for the touch of your hands.
"Yes?"
"*Please*!"
And it doesn't take much, only a firm tug or two, and he's there, growling and gasping and shooting come all over his stomach, all orchestrated by your hands, responding perfectly, quivering helplessly and clutching your shoulder, then collapsing onto the pillows, pulling you to lie close to him.
"Fucking. Hell."
"Ye weren't bad either, Hector, m'dear. For a man of yer age."
He just groans and puts his arm over his eyes.
***