Hot Contraband

A ship groans like a violated virgin in a storm, timbers shrieking, waves slamming the hull in a f**k rhythm. Down on the gun deck, the air is thick with salt and sweat. Noel stands with his c**k bared, slick with Iris's spit, while the enemy freezes with swords dipping.

Noel and Iris through a pirate ship in a storm, a Venetian gondola, a Hanseatic market where he guts cod with his hands wrist-deep in fish belly while she watches with a smirk, and a Songhai village where the river's rising and the mud becomes part of the sex. She grips a leather c**k-whip and marks him with his own juices, slow and deliberate. He's bound to the mast with rough hemp, and when the knot frays, what follows is primal. A tent where his fingers are slick with guts, sweat, and her wetness, and the musk of fish mixes with the hot breath of their bodies.