Taste of the Briney Blue

After careful and thoughtful study, Salome had decided that being bound to Captain Davy Jones' ship, really and truly sucked eggs. Rotten eggs. Rotten, vermicious, snake eggs. Six months after her pledge, which she barely could remember on account of the gigantic two foot long sliver of wood impaling her, she was a complete and total mess.


She had seahorses in her hair. Actual, living sea-horses. Little, colorful sea-horses, that hung onto her layered hair. About three was her last count. Sea-weed grew in her hair from her very scalp. A brush, a foreign thing at best on this ship, would be a nightmare. And the scales! Burnished gold scales blossomed from every available crevice.


And she meant EVERY crevace. Yes, where once dainty little brown curls sprouted now was a clean area that was marked by a little triangle of bronze scales. Her hairline was lined with them. They grew where ever she bent. Elbows, knees, ankles, wrists, around her belly-button, the entire back of her hands, shoulders, armpits, her neck. And not tough, durable scales that would protect her from the wind, rain, sun and ocean all together, but delicate, semi-tranparent scales that hurt like a hang-nail everytime one ripped off.


Her fingers and toes were webbed now, of course. And if that wasn't bad enough, she started growing watery defense systems. Her teeth were, slowly, but surely, sharpening. She found that one out when she nearly bit her tongue in half! Her nails were toughening and gaining points, which helped with scraping the barnicales off the 'Flying Dutchman', but bit the big one when came time to scrub decks. And, she was woe-fully sure she was growing a sun-fish like retractable fin along her spine.


Now, that would be all fine and dandy, if not for EVERYTHING ELSE. She was one of five woman aboard the 'Flying Dutchman', a fact she learned was because of equality of the sexes that the Captain had just recently read about. Ah, the joys of equality! Weren't they worth celebrating? There were twenty other crewmen, all as deformed or more so than she, who were male. The thirty of them were worked all day, into the night, with only five hours rest time. The Captain figured as they were immortal they could stand to lose a few hours rest.


Which wasn't really true. She still felt tired every day, still felt the pain of her back, the ache in her feet, and the soreness of raw knuckles. One would think with all the crew there that the ship would be in better condition.


One would be so very wrong it was laughable.


The sea wanted to take back the ship. Every minute barnicles and sea-life of all sorts climbed on deck. They never did much harm, but Captain insisted they be pried off and tossed back. Where they would climb right back up. And when one got tired of rolling the boulder up the perverbial hill? They would get to rest. Forever.


She had seen it, and it was the only thing that kept her from giving up. One man simply stopped working. So the Bo'sun whipped him, and Captain threatened, but nothing would get him up. They took him down to the bottom of the ship, to a wall were a few cracks let in the greedy ocean. There they set him, and she watched in horror as the very walls of the ship enveloped him.


The cracks were stopped up, the ship fixed, and Salome puked for an hour straight afterward. It wasn't the fear of being enclosed and practically swallowed by a ship that threw off her stomache. It was the fact that he was gone now. Only the breifest indentation remained. Sentenced to be literally bound in a wall for decades. A mere part of the ship. Part of the ship was the choice, part of the ship or part of the crew.


Salome was never ever slacking in her work afterward.


Her last problem was the one at the helm right now.


Captain Davy Jones.


One would think the crab-claw, peg leg, octopus face would put off her libido. One, yet again, would be so very wrong. His very presence sent shivers up her spine. She was sick, sick and demented and probably insane from all the sea-water and non-stop work. But there it was. Salome wanted to fuck their barely human captain.


He would walk around, with that odd, peg-leg limp and study the crew. Actually study them. Watch them like a hawk. Salome, who hated to be stared at, was in hell. Anything wrong, a knot tied odd, a missed centemeter in the scrubbing, a single strand of seaweed, and they were hauled up and tongue-lashed to tears. It was a very stress-full work enviorment to say the least.


She was one of ten crewmen scrubbing decks, on her hands and knees. Her original clothes still hung about her, with the odd addition of a few nessesities. Her jeans held, now grimy and holey, a pale imitation of the deep blue they once were. They were held up by a holey, pale red striped sash that held a few stringed odds and ends and her sword and gun. Her shirt was long gone, a fair memory of dark blue cotton. In its place was a grimy button-up, the color once what she thought might have been white, but now a yellowed color. Her flip-flops were lost in the sinking, and had been replaced with oversized boots held on with stuffings and three socks she had selvaged.


The Captain was in one of his moods again, pacing up and down, desperate for one little mistake to growl at them for. So Salome was extra careful and proceeded at a good pace, a very thorough, scared pace. The Captain paced by again, all muscle, determination and rough marble hewed by the rough seas.


Her gaze fell, like it always did, on his tentacle beard. Ah, those tentacles! They moved serpentinely against his broad, delicious chest, making her think... oh, all sorts of things. The rush of hot pleasure that swept through her made her pause and shudder delicately. She had never gotten so horny when she was human and alive! When she remembered where she was, she tore herself away from her fantasies-


//Davy, ice-blue eyes mated with hers, lowered his head down, beard trailing over her smooth stomache, curling around her stiff nipples and tugging, tracing serpentinely over her stomache and going lower, over the scales that gaurded her wet, hot sex.


"Ye'll hold still, gel. Absolutely still." He whispered, voice rough and dark. "Yer Captain commands it." //


-and in the process looked up. Right into Davy Jones' amused gaze. She jumped, knocking over her bucket and spilling the cold water over the decks. Absolute silence reigned, and Salome closed her eyes and cursed her stupidity.


"Well..." He drew out in that delicious Scottish tone "-looks like Sullivan wants to make the main deck a swimming pool for her personal pleasure."


She trembled visably, not from fear, well, not entirely, but from the way he drew out the word 'pleasure'. The Bo'sun came forward, chuckling evilly and hauled her up. She dropped her head, looking out the corner of her eye at the pale blue sea-horse in her hair, sleeping peacefully.


-wait a minute! Was that little bastard pregnant? Oh, gods no! A pregnant sea-horse in her hair! Could it get any worse?


"Well, Sullivan? What have ye to say for yerself?" Suddenly Jones was right in front of her. She jerked back, mind going blank. Say for herself? About what? The sea-horse? Mutinous little bastard! It distracted her!


"I-I-I w-was-" She stuttered, put in the light of his cruel blue eyes.


"You were...?" He repeated, raising a defined ridge that served as his eyebrow.


"I was l-looking at your t-tentacles." She found her mouth opening and tossing out, hesitant and quickly. She froze solid, face flaming. She did NOT just say that! Please oh god, she thought, let this be some kind of horrible dream!


-but the slow, satisfied smile on her Captain's face taunted her with how wrong she was.