Chapter 6

Natasha's POV

The heat consumed me from within.

I'd thought I understood pain—the ache of hauling nets in freezing rain, the sting of rope burn on raw palms, the exhaustion of sixteen-hour days at sea. But this was different. This was fire crawling through my veins, burning away reason, leaving only desperate, animal need.

I curled tighter on the moldy straw, trying to make myself small. Trying to disappear. The rough linen shirt scraped against skin that felt raw and oversensitive, every fiber a brand. My breath came in short, sharp gasps that echoed off the damp stone walls.

What's happening to me?

The binding cloth around my chest—the one Davelina had wrapped so carefully on the ship—suddenly felt like iron bands crushing my ribs. I clawed at it with shaking fingers, desperate for air, for relief, for anything.

The knots finally gave way.

Cool air touched my bare skin, and I nearly sobbed with relief. But the reprieve lasted only seconds before a new kind of awareness flooded through me—a consciousness of my own body that was both foreign and terrifying.

My breasts, freed from their confinement, felt swollen and heavy. The nipples had hardened into tight, aching peaks that throbbed with every ragged breath. Without thinking, my hands moved to cup them, and the touch sent a jolt of raw pleasure straight down to my core.

I gasped, but I didn't pull away this time.

My fingers traced circles around the sensitive flesh, and each touch sent sparks of sensation through my body. When I pinched the hardened nipples experimentally, a moan escaped my throat—low and wanton and utterly shameful.

This is wrong. I shouldn't be doing this.

But my body didn't care about shame. It was demanding, insistent, drowning out every rational thought with waves of desperate need.

The heat between my legs had become unbearable—a pulsing, empty ache that made me squeeze my thighs together involuntarily. The friction brought a moment of relief, then made everything worse. I could feel wetness there, soaking through my undergarments, slick and hot and shameful.

My cunt was dripping. Dripping. Like my body was preparing itself for something—for someone—to fill it.

A whimper escaped my throat. My hand left my breast and traveled downward, trembling as it traced over my ribs, my belly, the curve of my hip.

"Please," I whispered to no one. "Make it stop."

But even as I said it, my fingers were slipping beneath the waistband of my trousers. The fabric was rough, too hot, constraining. I shoved it down past my hips with graceless desperation, kicking the garment away until I was left in nothing but my soaked undergarments.

The cool air against my bare legs should have brought relief. Instead, it made me more aware of the heat concentrated between my thighs—the swollen, aching flesh that throbbed with every heartbeat.

I spread my legs slightly, letting the air touch that burning place. The sensation made me gasp. Made my back arch off the filthy straw.

My hand moved lower.

When my fingers brushed against the wet fabric covering my pussy, I nearly sobbed. The touch was electric, sending shockwaves through my entire body. I pressed harder, grinding the heel of my palm against the swollen nub at the apex of my thighs.

Oh God.

The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming. My hips bucked upward involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction. I rubbed myself through the thin, soaked fabric, feeling the shape of my own body—the soft folds, the hard little bud that sent sparks shooting through me every time I touched it.

It wasn't enough.

If anyone walked in now, they'd see everything—my exposed breasts, my spread legs, my fingers moving between my thighs.

But I was past caring. Past shame.

My fingers found bare flesh—hot, slick, swollen. I explored tentatively at first, tracing the folds, circling that sensitive nub that made my whole body jerk when I touched it directly. Wetness coated my fingers, more than I'd ever experienced before. My body was producing it in obscene amounts, preparing itself for penetration I couldn't give it.

I slipped one finger lower, finding the entrance to my body. It clenched around nothing, empty and desperate. When I pressed the tip of my finger inside, my inner walls gripped it hungrily.

More. I need more.

I pushed the finger deeper, gasping at the sensation of being filled—even just a little. My body accepted the intrusion eagerly, inner muscles fluttering around the digit. I began to move it in and out, slowly at first, then faster as the pleasure built.

But one finger wasn't enough. I added a second, stretching myself, feeling the slight burn that somehow only added to the desperate pleasure. My thumb found that swollen nub and began circling it in rhythm with the fingers pumping inside me.

The sounds I was making—wet, obscene, the squelch of my fingers in my own soaked cunt, the desperate whimpers and moans I couldn't suppress—echoed off the stone walls. Some distant part of my mind screamed that someone would hear, that I needed to be quiet, but the animal part of me didn't care.

My free hand returned to my breast, kneading the flesh roughly, pinching and pulling at the nipple until it hurt in a way that felt good.

Images flashed through my mind—unbidden, unwanted, but impossible to banish. Massive hands replacing my own. Rough fur against my skin. Something huge and hard pushing between my legs, stretching me, filling the emptiness, pounding into me until I screamed.

No. Not that. Anything but that.

But my body responded to the fantasy anyway. My inner walls clenched around my fingers, wetness gushing over my hand. I was close to something—some edge I'd never reached before, some peak of sensation that both terrified and compelled me.

I pumped my fingers faster, harder, grinding my palm against that sensitive nub. My hips lifted off the straw, moving in instinctive rhythm, fucking myself on my own hand like some desperate whore.

Almost. Almost. Almost—

My body seized. Every muscle locked tight as waves of pleasure crashed through me—intense, overwhelming, unlike anything I'd ever felt. I bit down hard on my other hand to muffle the scream that tore from my throat, tasting blood as my teeth broke skin.

The orgasm seemed to last forever, my body convulsing, inner muscles clamping rhythmically around my fingers. Wetness flooded over my hand, dripping down to soak the straw beneath me.

Then it was over.

I collapsed back onto the pallet, gasping, trembling, my hand still trapped between my legs. For a moment, there was blissful emptiness—no thought, no fear, no burning need.

Then the heat returned.

Not diminished. Not satisfied. If anything, stronger than before.

The orgasm had been a temporary release, nothing more. The fever in my blood still raged, the emptiness inside me still screamed to be filled. Within minutes, I could feel the need building again—that desperate, clawing hunger that demanded more than my fingers could give.

I tried again.

But it wasn't enough. Would never be enough.

Now I wanted to die.