January Free Lewd - SHORK + Human, F/M. Aww Yee.

They’d promised him adventure. They’d promised camaraderie, hardship, and stable pay. Honestly, what had sold him were the virtues of honest silver and regular food, but he tried not to let on that was the case. He’d been christened as Jonathan Thatcher, a bastard by birth, and later by disposition, he’d taken to the life of a sailor like a fish to water. Only idiomatically though, as he had never actually learned to swim. It had really only mattered once, and his years with the East India Company were . . . behind him.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, and sighed heavily. The air on this vessel was too clean. At first he’d been glad to be rid of the stink of three dozen men packed in a space barely livable for half that count, but the thin metallic scent of the place was a poor substitute for the real fresh air of the sea. He closed his eyes, and pretended that the steady tremors coming up through the decking were that of a shallow drafted schooner sailing close hauled into the wind. He shook his head free of the idle fantasy, before looking out the single, massive window running the length of the stern of the ship.
 

Sailing by starlight was a necessity for a sailor, but he’d never expected to sail among the remote pinpricks of the heavens. Sometimes he could get lost in it for hours, watching as the cosmos flickered by before him. The sea had always made him feel small, but this made all of humanity seem small to him. With a bit of effort he managed to goad his mind back to more present matters, and went back to tidying up his bunk. A small affair that folded up into a slight recess, it was nevertheless the most comfortable place he’d ever laid his head aboard any ship. A smirk crept across his weather-blasted face. He slept more comfortably than even the queen did, he suspected. Even if it was just a single sponge-like mat, he had both a fitted undersheet, and an oversheet to call his own. He tucked them both in tightly, folding the corners proper and neat. His rough and rope-scarred hands smoothed it down, and he fluffed the pillow lightly.
 

A small chuckle escaped him as he surveyed his handiwork. He begrudgingly noted the advancement of his domestic skills in his months aboard this sailing ship that traveled the stars. He’d spent 10 long years before the mast, and made the trip around the horn as many times. He’d fought off natives in the West Indies, and skirted the ravaging storms of Cape of Good Hope. He’d shot a French privateer in Tortuga, and bested a boastful Spaniard in Havana. By all accounts, he was a hardened man of the sea that decent folk shied away from, and indecent folk at least were wary of. All of that seemed behind him now. He’d not hauled canvas nor hoisted anchor, lugged cargo nor kept watch in some time now.
 

It had all ended for him on a treacherous shoal that gutted his ship in the night. There had been the blinding white light that had snatched him up from the sea, and then this. He had initially thought himself dead and condemned to a twisted purgatory for his lack of piety, but time and forceful instruction disabused him of such devotional notions.
 

He lightly tugged at the seemingly magical collar they’d fitted around his neck that night. It didn’t chafe, was actually a very soft, and slightly elastic material that was somehow both waterproof and breathable, but it defined his role aboard the ship. Somewhere between working-dog and cabin-boy by his reckoning, and while it hadn’t been easy to come to grips with he’d certainly preferred it to dying off the coast of Madagascar. While he wore it he could understand his shipmates perfectly, and while it was both comfortable and highly functional, it was also a very present physical sign of his ‘status’ aboard this star-ship.
 

Degraded, lost, and with neither figurative or literal sense of north, it would have been easy for him to lose hope, but for all that was different: the machines, the smells, the starry void, the creatures drawn straight from the spastic imagination of desperate seamen . . . much stayed the same. The rigorous duties, the captain’s word enforced like God’s own will, and innumerable tedious tasks that had to be performed with stern discipline were familiar anchors to him that he took to gladly.
 

He’d done his best to lose himself in the minutia, and by and large he had succeeded. Out of a mix of gratitude and self-interest he did what he could to make himself useful to his dual captors and saviors. His new duties had been almost like that of a kept woman. His . . . pride rankled at the notion, but he knew in his heart of hearts it was an accurate parallel to draw. His affairs were that of washing, cleaning, polishing, scrubbing, and . . . a few other more intimate services.
 

These duties were done for a crew whose nature was the sort of thing routinely discussed by sunstroke addled madmen. They were alluring and graceful, but fierce enough to give the saltiest sea dog pause. Mermaids, but not the singing maidens of the old stories. These were predators of the deep blue, rendered to full and terrible liveliness.
 

A shiver crept up his spine as he polished a gemstone studded platinum piece from the captain’s collection. Any one of her lavish trophies would fetch a kings ransom. Each curio was as alien as they were fantastical to him, but he’d long abandoned any idea of stealing one away to sell. Who was there to sell to? Instead he let his mind wander. Was it an egg? Was it a cannonball? Was it ever alive? Was he even alive anymore? These days, he couldn’t really be sure, but he came to the same conclusion he always did. “Does it even matter?”
 

“Does what matter?”
 

Clawed hands grasped him firmly by the shoulder, blunted tips digging into his collarbone. The voice was low, and to a casual listener almost menacing, but he’d been around the captain long enough to recognize it for was it was.
 

Desire.
 

“Ah. Captain Vyla.”
 

It used to startle him when she just appeared behind him, or next to him, or seemingly out of nowhere. Now . . . now it happened so much that it was more surprising to him when he heard her coming. He glanced over his shoulder, nodding slightly to her. He could feel the pressure of her chest against his back, and could feel the fine rasp of her hide through his thin linen shirt. As silently as she approached, she let him go, and with barely a sound she slipped beneath the surface of her tank. He paused a moment, placing the oddity in his hands away to admire her form. Her clothes had been folded, neatly, and placed on his bed, all without his notice.
 

Sharks had terrified him, always. Silent beasts of predatory instinct that could kill with all the ease they swam, and they swam easier than a man could breathe. An uncontested master of the deep, and so it was hypnotic to watch her flit back and forth in the confined glass box. She was streamlined and muscled, a horrifically beautiful mixture of his wants and fears. Her hide was a bluish grey, with dark stripes along her back, arms, legs, and tail. Rolling onto her back, she exposed her pale underbelly, devoid of even the faintest blemish. Raphael himself couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful model, but the tail itself was what fascinated Jonathan the most. Oh certainly she had gills, serrated teeth, and black claws on her hands and feet. The dorsal fins and long, slender ears that trailed up through fine black hair were quite distinct as well, but his eyes always followed her tail. A cat’s tail seemed to have a mind of its own, and a dog’s tail betrayed his every intent, but her tail was was like a shadow, a specter even. It was raw power imbued with a sinister grace, and the way it propelled her through the water was something breathtaking.
 

He’d never learned to swim, because if there was one thing he was certain of as a sailor, it was that being at sea and in it were two very different things. The former was freedom, profession, and life all together while the latter was a shortcut to a watery and miserable demise.
 

. . . But the way Vyla made it look to swim . . . he almost regretted that he couldn’t join her. Perhaps the legends of mermaids luring men to their doom had a nugget of truth at their heart. The faintest inkling of a smile flickered across his face, worn far too rough far too young. In another life, he’d have been handsome, but the sun and the spray had squandered much of what his unknown father had bequeathed him in terms of looks. His skin was browned by the tropics, and his body hardened by labor. An unruly, unkempt mane hung around his head and shoulders like a wintry thicket, with a set of piercing blue eyes set amid the black boughs of hair. He was neither large nor small, but what he lacked in size he made up for in density, and quickness. He’d been underestimated in his career at sea and at port, and it was rarely a mistake anyone could make twice.
 

That was something they had in common, he recalled with a wry expression. His fingers absently traced over a line of thin puncture scars on his left forearm.
 

One didn’t become the captain of a pirate vessel by dint of their slowness and meekness, after all, and neither of them would underestimate the other again.
 

Vyla grinned, revealing twin rows of subtly serrated fangs. Swimming to the surface and resting her chin on the edge of the tank, she pushed her shoulder length hair out of her face. “You’re staring again, cabin boy.”
 

Jonathan, undeniably caught in the act, could only shrug idly and nod. “I was merely giving my captain the undivided attention she so deserves. Your state of undress is of your design, not mine.”
 

His tone wasn’t completely sarcastic. Just largely sarcastic.
 

She rolled her eyes, and beckoned him closer with a lazy flick of her wrist. “You talk a lot of shit for someone that can’t swim.”
 

He knew she was going to pull him in, but . . . to disobey would have been the more dangerous of the two propositions. He swallowed hard, but tried not to let any expression of fear or discomfort cross his face. He’d be totally helpless if he fell in. The tank was deeper than he was tall, and the walls were of smooth glass. She might not have any trouble diving in or climbing out, but he certainly would.
 

He kicked off his boots as he stepped forward, and she shot him a wolfish grin as her tail twitched back and forth behind her. She lunged at him, as soon as he was within arms reach. He expected it, of course, but the sheer speed she moved out of the water made his anticipation pointless. He was head over heels in the tank before he could blink.
 

The water was cold and briny, and before his senses adjusted to the onrush of water she was upon him. Her body coiled around his, he felt her hands on his chest as she drove him to the bottom. Blurry as his vision was he could make out her grin as she seemed to lunge for his throat, only instead of a bloody demise he found surprisingly soft lips pressed against his.
 

Bubbles trickled between his lips as she forced air into him, her hands creeping up his neck to gently cradle his face as his hands wandered across her cool but abrasive hips. By no means was it a practiced dance, but she had made it abundantly clear to him on his third evening aboard that this sort of thing was going to be a part of his “shiply duties.”
 

His fingers dug into her shapely rear as her own claws worked to undo the laces of his linen shirt. The texture of her skin was just as much a dichotomy as the rest of her cold, feral beauty, and he couldn’t help but take notice as he caressed her lower back and generous rear. With the grain of her skin, she was smooth, and soft. Against it, he felt like he was dragging his hands across a rough grit of ground glass.
 

Of course, as busy as he was with her, she was equally occupied with him. Getting him to let go of her long enough to slip his shirt off was much greater a challenge than the knots that held said shirt on, and once he was free of it, she hoisted him up to the surface.
 

Spluttering for air as pressed his back against the wall of the tank, Jonathan’s hands managed to find the slippery edge as Vyla surfaced in front of him, still grinning salaciously.
 

Her tail lashed back and forth behind her as she pressed against him once more, enjoying the warmth his body had to offer. “Are you going to try and take charge again this time?” Her tone was sweet, but the note of danger involved was quite clear.
 

He coughed weakly, but managed to grin behind his bedraggled mess of waterlogged hair. “A good sailor attends his duties with vigor and focused intent, and I consider you one of my most important duties.”
 

She licked her lips, and leaned in again to grind her body against his while her hands unfastened his belt. “As it should be, but don’t forget who runs this show. I’d love to see you earn a promotion though . . . first mate perhaps?” She put heavy emphasis on the word “mate,” drawing it out as brilliant cerulean eyes fell to a lustful, half lidded position.
 

Not being encumbered by any sort of undergarment, his tool slipped free of it’s cloth confinements as his belt sank to the bottom of the tank. He opened his mouth to respond, but she dove down before he could muster up a witty remark. His toes curled and he drew in a sharp breath as something warm and soft enveloped his rapidly hardening malehood. A tongue swirled around his lesser head, and his breath hitched with a mixture of pleasure and fear. Her attentions were purposeful, controlled, and neither too strong nor too subtle . . . but every now and again he’d feel the faintest prick of flesh-rending fangs against base of his member. He wanted to push against her, or guide her on further, but he dared do neither, instead choosing the path of greatest self preservation and remaining as still as possible while she went about her dangerous (at least to him) work.
 

The tip of her tail broke the surface in a whiplike motion, splashing him in the face and leaving him spluttering. Near blind and coughing, he suddenly felt weight on his shoulders, and something gently pressed against the back of his head. Blinking the salt spray away, he realized the pressure at the back of his head were her heels, and the weight on his shoulders were her knees. Her mouth was still nested neatly over his equipment, and it was abundantly clear that he was either going to reciprocate, or regret not doing so.
 

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. He buried his face in her sex, causing her tail quiver above his head. It flitted back and forth out of the water, scattering brackish droplets across the room as his tongue probed her perfectly sculpted entrance. He first worked on tracing the line between her rough outer lips and her slick inner sex, before moving on to dig into the graceful, soft fold of her slit. Her . . . unique . . . structure was as novel as it was beautiful to him. It well matched her sleek body, and was defined by sleek simplicity. The creamy whites giving way to the subtle blue of her inmost depths in a gentle gradient that increased in sensitivity as it did chromatic intensity.
 

Jonathan had made it to the far east on an Opium boat, and the ports he’d stopped at along their way had their fair share of “working women” with “interesting skills.” None of them could hold a candle to Vyla. He had a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the tank as her head bobbed smoothly up and down the full length of his manhood. Whether it was a quirk of biology or her own inclination, there wasn’t a hint of gag reflex as her throat bulged ever so slightly when her lips pressed against the base of his shaft. A barely suppressed groan reverberated through him as she suckled at his tip, before plunging all the way down to prod at his sack with the tip of her tongue.
 

As much as he wanted to get lost in her fantastic work below, fear of a tragic end to this tryst kept his attention squarely focused on servicing her needs. Well, as much attention as he could muster in his current state, at least. His lips mashed against hers, and her toes curled harder as he drove deeper and deeper into her. Her sex spasmed around his tongue, and her heels pressed into the back of his head as her rough thighs begin to clamp down on him. As time drew on, minutes creeping by in sensual bliss for both of them, her own motions became halting and erratic. He was giving her the roughest tongue lashing he could manage without losing himself in her work, as she struggled to continue fellating him as she crept closer and closer to her own peak.
 

She broke before he did, in a mixture of fortune and misfortune for him, and with her back arched and her tail straining forward a shuddering euphoria rocked her body. She broke away from him suddenly, diving to the bottom to prowl back and forth, occasionally quivering as aftershocks of a body-rocking orgasm trembled through her. As cold saltwater quenched his throbbing tool he let himself slump slightly, releasing the incredible tension he’d built up trying not to be the first one to finish.
 

What he could only describe as a full body blush had also erupted across Vyla, from the tip of her tail to the points of her ears. Little bio-luminescent spots ran in neat lines along her arms, legs and tail, twinkling like underwater starlight. As the strobing lights across her body began to slow down into a steady afterglow, she swam up next to him to rest her head on his shoulder for a moment.
 

Her pupils were narrowed to slits, and she had a breathless, dopey grin as she draped her arms around his neck. Little glowing blue-green freckles dotted her face as her shook her head, throwing her drenched hair over one shoulder. “ . . . I see you really want that promotion . . .” A half stifled giggle escaped her as she pressed her angular head up under his jaw.
 

A single clawed finger traced little circles on his abdomen as she cozied up next to him. She let one hand drift downward to tease at his engorged length with a playful flick while using her clawed feet to tug his trousers clean off in a single, fluid motion. He opened his mouth intending to deliver some kind of pithy remark, but the words caught in his throat as she repositioned herself and sent his tip gliding down the length of her flushed slit.
 

They both moaned quietly in unison, his a breathy sound of desperation, while hers was a quiet trill of pleasure. She rolled her hips slightly, and he was suddenly inside her. Tight, hot, and powerfully muscled flesh contracted rhythmically around his tool, drawing him in deeper with an instinctual, base hunger. As her plush rear met his lean thighs, the two of them shared stifled gasps. He had reached full depth, and she had reached full capacity. Planting her knees on either side of him against the tank wall and she gripping the edge behind his head for support, she began riding up and down his length with tantalizing slowness. The end of every downward slide was punctuated by a dull thunk against the glass, and the peak of every withdrawal was marked by needy panting.
 

As her pace increased from “deliberately sensuous” to “lust-addled need,” so did the volume of her vocalizations and the size of the waves in the tank. As the waters more came to resemble a sea in storm than a small pool, she grabbed a handful of Jonathan’s hair and growled passionately in his ear, “Don’t hold onto the edge, hold onto me.” Never one to question orders, he obeyed.
 

Taking her by the hips, the two of them fell beneath the surface, desperately entwined. The water bubbled around them as if their passionate coupling had brought it to a boil, the real culprit was Vyla’s tail lashing back and forth violently as she drove to impale herself harder on his wonderful girth. His body, lean and powerfully muscled, gave a good account of itself as he aggressively drove into her with almost vengeful vigor. They drifted to the bottom, locked in amorous combat as he finally hilted with a water-muffled shout. She could feel an almost electrical tingle inside her as his muscles spasmed involuntarily, pumping her full of his raw virility. Her own body responded in kind, lighting up in a brilliant bio-luminescent mating display, declaring in a feral fashion the superior skill, stamina, and masculinity of her selected lover.
 

Their eyes met, his vision blurred by the churning brine, hers crystal clear, followed by their lips. Air filled his burning lungs once more, and they stayed locked like that for a moment. He relished the little tremors pulsing around his over-sensitive tool, and she savored the warm, thick sensation spreading through her insides.
 

As with all things though, the afterglow slowly began to fade, and his need to breathe air resurged to the fore as a pressing concern. With a gentle flick of her tail, she propelled them both to the surface so he could gulp down several desperate breaths. His spent equipment slipped free of her as she guided him to the side. He hauled himself out of her sleeping tank, landing with a meaty thud on the cold, slick metal decking. The ordeal over, he flopped onto his back to pant lightly and thank whatever God had sent him here for his good fortune. A soft smile played across her face, her photophores still twinkling lightly as she looked down at his supine form.
 

“ . . . gets better every time, doesn’t it?”
 

He let out a long wheeze, and nodded up at her, and she let out a giggle that wouldn’t have been out of place from a schoolgirl. “Get up . . . I want to cuddle.” Her voice was light, and quiet.
 

He groaned softly, but she could make out the beginnings of smile on his face, even as he rolled over to hide it. By the time he had pushed himself to his feet, she had slipped out of her tank and saddled up behind him. They tumbled into his bunk still dripping wet, not even bothering to peel back one of the sheets. Crawling up his body, she rested her head on his chest, placing a single fin like ear over his heart. The dull metronome of the steady pounding lulled her into a drowsy state of post-coital glow.
 

It had been a hard day for her. Of course, she was an outlaw captain of a pirate vessel operating outside of “civilized” space. She had prizes to track, scores to take, crew and officers to bully into subservience, and mutinous plots to unravel. Every day was a hard day for her, but today alone she’d had two stabbings in the mess hall, and her cook and quartermaster had come to blows over who was more responsible for making sure provisions would last the whole journey. These little rendezvous made them much, much more palatable. It wasn’t just about the sex though, as phenomenal as it was, it was about the quiet moments alone with him. There were all sorts of Zylach aboard the ship. Some were in it for the money, some were in it for a place to hide. Most only stayed on for a single voyage, maybe two, got their paycheck, and drifted off while they were in port to refuel, rearm, or sell loot. She knew that he wasn’t like that. From the way he rolled with the fluctuations in artificial gravity, to the sheer wonder on his face as he stared out at the stars . . . he was a voyager. Just like her.
 

She nuzzled his lean and muscled chest lightly, inhaling his scent. He always smelled of the sea. He always smelled of home. That was the thought that stuck with her as she finally drifted off, his arms coming to gently wrap around her as their chests began to rise and fall in synchronous unison.