3. Pirate prison
Two days he’d spent at the oars. Sitting on his sore bruised backside. Luck had been on his side. Good winds. Most of that time there’d been little hard work, little rowing needed. Giving Mitchell time to reflect. On his life. On this future from now on. On what had happened to him on Rais’ ship.
Mitchell explored the company he was keeping. Looking for evidence of the kind of life he was condemned to. Surrounded by strong broad backs. Handsome muscular physiques earned from pitiless hard work.
Shoulders etched and powerful from years of hard rowing. YEARS! Backs that tapered from yard-wide muscled shoulders down to narrow backs fed on poor rations. Every back in his line of sight purple-striped and scarred with the life to which he was doomed.
Isolating Mitchell from his mates down below had done more than robbing him of their friendship .. of the comfort of mates in this mess together. Not a sole in his vicinity spoke anything he understood. And, man, were they wary of him. They’d seen him get picked on .. taken for treatment to the captain’s cabin. No one wanted to get dragged into his mess. Mitchell had been isolated. No one to talk to. No one to share his feelings. Singled-out.
On his bank every man was dark-skinned. Like the negroes from the big house back home. None of them spoke anything he could understand. Chests defined by punishing hard work. Arms throbbing with the muscular power from endless toil. But faces devoid of life. They looked at him with confused curiosity. But what Mitchell read in their faces .. worryingly .. features devoid of hope. Men robbed of their freedom like himself. But they had resigned. Experience had taught them to give up. They had no expectation of anything other than this life. EVER!
After that pretend rape, the crew had jostled Mitchell back. Released from the table top, hands still bound, he’d still been bending to haul his britches back up from his ankles .. to cover his indignity .. when already a hand was roughly shoving him out their captain’s cabin. His bare arse dismissed.
But Mitchell was only too grateful that Rais had got his fill of taunting his proud spirit. His back-entry left intact .. for now. The sneering threat from that pervert-captain ringing in his ears.
“Time enough to pluck an American cherry …..”
Mitchell was still clutching his britches against his crutch as he stumbled back through the lines of seated slaves. Grateful none of his shipmates were there to look at his embarrassment. At least his crew would not be wondering what he’d been up to as he hobbled back, his bare arse sticking out.
The other slaves at the oars watched him every shambled step of the way .. him clutching his loose britches in his groin .. them looking at him out of curiosity .. nothing better to do. Why was he burning up with embarrassment? Why did it hurt being seen like this? Holding his britches up? His bare arse out? It had happened to them, hadn’t it?
How many of these slaves had walked this path back before? Got raped in the corsair’s cabin. New slaves to which Rais had taken a fancy. He shivered with shame .. sensing all eyes on him as his hands were being untied, his britches again sliding down to his knees. Pleased they could all see the red raw pain of his thrashed white backside. Praying that they all thought he’d only taken a monstrous strapping. Just a beating, that was all. Not raped.
Strange. Why did that embarrass him? All these guys .. captive, powerless like him .. and yet still he wanted these complete strangers to know he’d only taken a beating. Nothing more. Weren’t they all in the same boat? Many must have been likely victims to Rais’ sadistic whims ….. So why was it important to him that they knew his proud American spirit hadn’t taken it up the arse?
At least not for now. After all, as Zidan had said,
” …. tempting muscle-arse like this ….”
A calloused hand rubbed gloating over the bare burning skin.
“ … this white arsed temptation ……”
A hard slap from Zidan’s rough hand lashed out at battered muscle. ..
“…. gonna see plenty of action …….”
Another stinging slap. Laughter. At Mitchell’s expense.
“Better get used to it …..”