Eloise
If Jack cared at all that Eloise's thoughts weren't fully on the here and now, he certainly wasn't showing it. She was nearing the point that each of them knew all too well; moments where you'd give up anything, promise the life of anyone, if only to bridge the gap between where you were and where the phantom rivers of pleasure in your toes and thighs wanted to take you. So it was, that as Eloise's body fought against itself—her hips wanting to rise up against each of Jack's thrusts, while simultaneously wanting to press down against the movements of fingers and to lay trapped beneath him—that she lost herself entirely.
Her moans of pleasure were drowned away in massive claps of thunder and the spray of the ocean against rocks that were actually bookcases. To Eloise's ears there was only the pounding of her heart and the feel of Jack all around her. For the crew, there was bedposts pounding against a wall and the siren-screams of a woman being well and truly fucked. But of course, that had been story all along.
As the navigator came, her mind flashed from scene to scene so fast that the lurid imagery of her thoughts seemed to melt into a single point. Darkened alleys and skirts lifted, hands 'round a cock beneath the table at the Hanged Man during a business meeting, knees scraped raw against the jagged tunnels of the Fingers—the only continuity was the want and the need, and now, the finally broken tension.
Her moans of pleasure were drowned away in massive claps of thunder and the spray of the ocean against rocks that were actually bookcases. To Eloise's ears there was only the pounding of her heart and the feel of Jack all around her. For the crew, there was bedposts pounding against a wall and the siren-screams of a woman being well and truly fucked. But of course, that had been story all along.
As the navigator came, her mind flashed from scene to scene so fast that the lurid imagery of her thoughts seemed to melt into a single point. Darkened alleys and skirts lifted, hands 'round a cock beneath the table at the Hanged Man during a business meeting, knees scraped raw against the jagged tunnels of the Fingers—the only continuity was the want and the need, and now, the finally broken tension.
I bury hatchets but I keep maps of where I put 'em
