Bell Chime

The lantern swayed lazily overhead, casting light over wood-grain and flesh. The captain’s cabin was warm, but not from the air. There was a heat in the space now, heavy and heady. It pulsed in time with every breath she took.

Ysábella knelt on the rug near the mahogany desk, naked save for the collar around her throat. Dark leather hugged her skin snugly, the single silver ring at its center holding a small, golden cat bell. Delicate, ornate, and softly gleaming against the flush of her neck.

Across the room, Villanueva sat with the same casual stillness he’d always worn, as if nothing about the moment was unusual. As if he did not prepare a macabre spectacle just beyond the cabin walls. He uncorked the glass vial slowly, and Ysábella’s pupils dilated the instant she smelled it.

Aromatic. Cloying. Tempting.

She could already taste it. Sweet at first, like honey… then bitter like a potent medicine, finishing with that familiar kick of spice that danced at the back of her throat long after the flavor was gone.

Her breath hitched. Her mouth watered.

His fingers toyed lazily with the vial, iridescent liquid swirling as he tipped it left, then right. Every drop seemed alive, clinging to the glass.

“You want it,” he said at last. His voice was smooth, soft, dangerous.

Ysábella’s lips parted, but no words came.

“You’ll earn it,” he continued. He uncorked the vial with a slow twist and let it rest in his hand, as if it weighed nothing. “Show me.”

Her chest tightened.

At his feet, the mastiff shifted. Its claws scraped once against the floorboards, a low rumble vibrating in its throat. Its broad head turned, nostrils flaring. The potion’s scent threaded the air—sweet, spiced, bitter—and the beast knew what it meant.

Villanueva lifted his chin. “Crawl.”

The command struck like a lash.

Ysábella dropped forward, palms flattening against the rug, knees shifting on the fabric. She kept her eyes down, forcing herself to move slow, steady.

“Slower,” he said.

Her pace faltered. She obeyed, every motion deliberate now, humiliation pressing heavier with each inch she closed between them. The silence of the cabin made the scrape of her knees unbearable.

“Back,” Villanueva ordered.

She froze for half a breath before retreating, inch by inch. The golden bell chimed softly with each hesitant shift of her knees. Her chest burned with shame, but she did not lift her gaze.

“Good,” a smile touched his lips. “Very good.”

He rose then, the chair creaking as his weight left it. His steps were measured, deliberate, circling her like a predator might circle prey. He let the chain drag through his fingers as he walked, the sound of metal links hissing softly against his palm.

“On your knees again.”

She obeyed instantly, settling upright. The chain slithered to rest in her lap.

Villanueva held the vial high, tilting it so a single droplet gathered at the rim. He allowed a droplet to fall between his two fingers. Then another drop. Coating his fingers fully in the glistening iridescent liquid.

From the corner, the mastiff stirred, rising from where he’d been sprawled near the window. No leash. No collar. No command. 

He paced behind Ysábella, massive paws scratching impatiently at the floorboards, his nose twitching as he huffed sharp breaths. The scent was thick in the air now, clinging to her skin, rising from between her thighs. The beast licked his muzzle, eager, waiting.

Villanueva stopped in front of her and held out his hand.

“Go on,” he said.

Her lips parted as she leaned in, her eyes already half-lidded. She took his fingers into her mouth, slow and reverent, her tongue dragging across every crease and line. The potion burst over her tongue like fire and honey.

The mastiff let out a low, eager whine and crept closer, sniffing at the base of her spine.

She didn’t flinch.

She moaned around his fingers. Soft, helpless. Heat already leaking out between her thighs. Her hips shifted, a subtle attempt to grind down the ache building inside her, knees tightening to hold herself together. The bell jingling sharply with the involuntary twitch, a bright note of betrayal amid her stifled sounds.

Her tongue curled as she sucked harder, drawing his fingers deeper into her mouth until they brushed the back of her throat. She didn’t gag. She’d done this too many times. She needed it now. She craved it like hunger.

When Villanueva finally pulled his fingers free, they left a glossy trail across her bottom lip.

She chased the taste, but he stepped back.

“That’s enough,” he said, wiping the saliva down her cheek like a mark. “They’re waiting.”

The mastiff growled loudly, turning in a tight circle before stopping by the door, tail thudding against the wall in perfect rhythm. Like a drumbeat before the show.

Villanueva reached for the silver chain coiled beside the lantern and fastened it to the silver ring on her collar.

Ysábella didn’t hesitate. She rose to her feet.

Her bare skin gleamed in the lantern light, collar snug, mouth still tingling. Her thighs were slick, her eyes glassy—her body was ready.

Villanueva opened the door, and the evening sea-breeze flooded the cabin, chilling the sweat that glistened along Ysábella’s exposed skin. The murmuring of the crew reached them. Hushed, uncertain, waiting. Every man strained to glimpse what was about to unfold.

Ysábella hesitated for a breath, chest rising in a shallow flutter. The mastiff circled impatiently beside her, large paws restless against the boards, his eyes locked onto her trembling form.

Villanueva stood in the doorway, the silver chain coiled in his hand. He didn’t need to speak; he simply flicked his fingers, a subtle gesture sharp with authority.

Instantly, the mastiff sprang forward. Muscle and want embodied. With an eager grunt, he pressed against Ysábella’s flank. She gasped as his bulk nudged her off balance, sending her gracefully down to her hands and knees.

Heat flushed across her cheeks, a feverish pink blossoming from the roots of her hair down to her collarbones. She lifted her face, meeting Villanueva’s eyes with a spark of pleading that barely hid her hunger.

Breathing sharply, she looked up to Villanueva, her voice barely more than a whisper. “May I walk?”

“No.” Villanueva chuckled softly, eyes dark with amusement. “Bitches don’t walk, chiquita.”

The chain tightened, just a hint, coaxing her forward.

Her cheeks reddened deeper, humiliation radiating down her throat, blooming over her chest. Her collar felt heavier, marking her as property, her shame as visible as her bare skin. With a breath that trembled like glass, she lowered her gaze and crawled forward.

Every movement was agony. And the jeering only made it worse. The more she tried to tune out the men—their catcalls, their whistles, the pounding of boots on the deck—the sharper the world became inside her.

Knees scraping wood, palms roughening from friction, thighs quivering from effort. Her body betrayed her, the potion overwhelming her senses. Her slit dripping uncontrollably, clear slick trails mingling with the humiliating warmth trickling down her thighs, pooling beneath her.

Behind her, the mastiff eagerly sniffed, licking at each glossy streak on the floor, savoring the sharp scent of her surrender. The mastiff circled her again, its heavy breathing hot against her skin. Its tongue darted out again, tracing along her inner thigh, tasting every shameful drop from its source.

Ysábella whimpered softly, biting her lower lip hard to suppress another moan, eyes blurring with tears of embarrassment.