The Pirate

... By Hathor

“I told you nobody would know what your costume is,” I chided, when he pouted.

“C’mon, the leather pants, the poufy shirt, the gold earring; what else could I be but a dark, ravishing pirate?” He really didn’t get it.

“Really, where’s the eye patch? Where’s the parrot? Where’s the goddamned peg-leg?” I had told him all this before, as he was dressing for the party but he didn’t want to hear it then, and he didn’t want to hear it now. Shit, he can be such a child when things don’t go his way. I cocked one hip and ticked of on my fingers, AGAIN, what he could be. “You could be Zorro, except you don’t have a sword. You could be the fucking Phantom of the fucking opera, but you don’t have a mask. You could be a pirate, but there’s no eye patch. You could be a naughty priest, but you don’t have the collar.” His sulky glare had turned to a smile at that last. “Should I go on?”

“Nah, but I’m intrigued by the naughty priest thing. Tell me more,” he said, leering at me, and licking his lips. He’d been doing that since I took my jacket off at the party. I didn’t tell anyone, least of all him, what I was wearing. I wanted it to be a surprise. It was tough keeping him from finding out, but I kept my costume hidden in my desk at work, and got home before him to change. I had put on my trench coat, buttoning it neck to ankle, and belted it at the waist. The only hint he had was the three inches of gold bangles at my wrists, the slender gold band around my forehead, which disappeared into my jet black hair, and high-heeled gold sandals that laced up my legs.

“Back off, matey,” I said, purposefully baiting him. God, when he gets on a rant, he’s the most gorgeous creature on this earth. Not that he isn’t fine when he’s just being him, mind you. But when his blood gets boiling, there’s no two ways about it. ‘Sexy’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. He was getting angry at me again. It took all the control I had not to smile or wink at him.

“Look,” he said, “if you wanted me to have an eye patch or a parrot or a goddamned peg-leg, you should have…”

“What? Gotten them for you? Do I look like your personal assistant?” God, I knew just where to dig. “You’re a grown man, Rich, you can damn well get your own costume, or have one of your flunkies do it for you.”

He sighed heavily. “You’re right, as usual.”

“Damn straight I am. Now, come with me. I’ll fix your costume for you.” I led him to a dark corner of the terrace, away from the rest of the party. I wrapped a leg around his waist, my arms around his neck, and pulled him in for a steamy kiss. I ground against him in a sensual dance. I could feel the bulge nearly bursting the seams on the tight leather pants he was wearing. I slipped my hand into his waistband (which wasn’t easy, by the way) and arranged him so his impressive length was clearly outlined. I removed my hand when Riche moaned into my mouth, and stepped back to eye my handiwork. I leaned in to grab that horrible shirt, and slipped it from his body. Before Richie could react, I dropped it over the railing to the sea below. “That’s better.”

“Wh-what?” Richie was confused. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I, my dear just fixed your costume.” I unlooped some of the gold chain from around my waist, and looped it around Richie’s neck. “There, now it’s done.” He was now tethered to me, albeit not securely, and could only go where I let him.

Richie looked down at himself, still straining in his pants, and shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

God, men are so dense. “What am I dressed as?”

Richie looked me up and down. I had on a sheath of pure, snow-white, nearly sheer fabric that barely covered my breasts and fell to mid-thigh. It was cinched at the waist with a length of gold chains, the end of which was now attached to Richie. My hair was piled high on my head, with tendrils hanging down to my shoulders. I had on three-inch CFM sandals that had laces that wrapped around my calves. A circlet of gold ringed my forehead, and a golden snake hugged my bicep. I raised an eyebrow at him. He was taking his own sweet time with this. “A Goddess, of course.”

“Right. And every Goddess needs a hot, hunky, horny, half-dressed, cock-at-full-mast sex slave, ready, willing, and able to service her.” Richie grinned widely, passion darkening his beautiful, soulful, brown eyes. I smiled back, indulgently, and tugged on the chain. “Let’s go, slave.”