My Femboy System
Chapter 57: The Price of Passage

Chapter 57: The Price of Passage

There’s a specific kind of dread that comes not from danger—but from expectation.

When you’re about to walk into a room knowing that you’re not being hunted, ambushed, or killed...but wanted. Desired. Not for your skills, not for your mind, but for something fleshier. Hungrier. Like the price of survival had suddenly grown hips and slipped into heels.

That’s what walking into Captain Kane’s private quarters felt like.

I stepped through the door and into another world.

It was dim and quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges of your thoughts and made your breath sound too loud. Light from oil lanterns flickered over glass cases filled with impossible artifacts—bones curled into spirals, blades too thin to be real, stones that hummed softly in colors I didn’t have names for. I passed a jar filled with preserved petals that floated in a thick golden syrup, and for a moment I thought they moved—reaching for me like they recognized me.

The books were worse. Shelves of them. Stacked high, carved deep. Row after row of dusty spines in languages that didn’t belong on any map I’d ever seen.

I ran my fingers across them as if they might whisper something back. One cracked open at my touch—delicate, ancient—and pages flipped of their own accord until I found myself staring at a diagram of something alive and impossible. I didn’t understand a word, but I felt it in my stomach like a second heartbeat.

And then—

Chug—chug—chug—

The unmistakable sound of a throat putting down liquor with the enthusiasm of a man trying to forget several wars.

I turned.

Captain Kane stood at the back of the room, holding a bottle by the neck. Not wine. Something older. Dark and red, almost black, poured into a thick crystal goblet and downed like water. He caught my stare and smirked, then offered the bottle with a lazy little bow.

"’S from Marina’s personal stash," he said, voice already thick around the edges. "She doesn’t know I have it. Or maybe she does. She always knows. Cheers!"

I stalked over to him. He didn’t wait for a response. I took the bottle—gods help me—and tilted it back.

One swallow.

Two.

Three.

It hit like velvet and fire. Heat licked the inside of my ribs. My chest bloomed, my knees softened. The room tilted. Just a little.

Then he stumbled.

Hard.

Kane turned to set the bottle down and instead crashed full-body into a low shelf, sending an avalanche of ancient books cascading across the floor like disgruntled bricks. He landed on one knee, chuckling, already reaching for a paper with something that looked like a mouth drawn into the margin.

I rushed to his side.

He smelled like salt, steel, and something darker—something sweet. He wasn’t old per say, simply matured. I gripped his arm and helped him upright. His face, unique as it was, seemed strangely handsome up close. His body was warm. Solid. Muscles like ropes beneath the coat, and gods, why did I suddenly notice that his shirt was only buttoned halfway?

"Couch," I muttered, nodding toward the center of the room. "You. Sit. Or you’ll break another bookshelf and I’m not fixing your library."

He laughed, loud and carefree.

"You’d make a fine steward," he said as I steered him toward the black-and-gold couch that dominated the middle of the room like a throne with commitment issues. We collapsed onto the cushions. He fell hard, but with grace—sprawled sideways, one leg dangling, the other pressed up beside me.

I sat at the edge. Stiff. Hands in my lap. Trying very hard not to look anywhere below his belt.

His arm slung around my shoulders like a serpent that decided cuddling was more fun than strangling. His fingers grazed my collarbone. Light. Idle. My heart hiccuped, just a little.

"Always gotta take the edge off," he slurred, eyes half-lidded, lips too red. "Marina’s been breathing down my neck about cargo schedules, and you try arguing with a woman who can turn your bones to sand with a kiss."

I giggled. Couldn’t help it. The wine, or whatever it was, was working, almost too well. My thoughts were slow and sticky, catching on all the wrong details—like the way his thumb now trailed up the side of my throat. Or the way his eyes kept drifting to my lips. Or the slight, solid pressure I saw growing beneath his breeches as he shifted.

I was drunk beyond repair and—gods help me—I was horney.

He seemed to notice.

The Captain leaned back with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d already won, his breath curling like smoke over the rim of his goblet.

He smirked, and his eyes drifted downward—not at me, but to his own waist.

One hand moved with lazy confidence to his belt, tugging it loose with a deliberate slowness that made the sound of the leather slithering through its loops feel indecent.

Then he pulled it out. It wasn’t just big. It was coiled. Heavy and thick. Arched up like it had plans with veins like scripture, twitching slightly with each breath. I stared, open-mouthed, heat rushing into every wrong place in my body.

But I didn’t look away.

He looked at me through the corner of his eye, voice a low rasp. "You’ve been starin’"

I hadn’t realized I had. Or maybe I had. Maybe I just didn’t care anymore.

Kane raised one finger—slow and deliberate—and beckoned me forward with a gesture that carried more weight than any command.

Kneel.

And so I knelt.

I stood from the couch and sank down onto the rug in front of him, the firelight warming my knees as I settled between his legs. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, broken only by the soft rustle of my clothes as I moved. My pulse was a steady thrum beneath my skin, every beat syncing with the heat radiating off his body.

I met his eyes once, briefly, just enough to catch the look he gave me—measured, intense, unreadable—and that was all the invitation I needed.

Lifting one hand, I slowly swept my hair back behind my ear, letting the strands slip through my fingers like silk. It was a small gesture, but deliberate, drawing his eyes to the curve of my neck, the flush in my cheeks. I let my lips part slightly, just enough for a single, warm strand of saliva to fall from my mouth.

It landed on his cock in a soft trail, glistening as it slid down the length of him.

He drew in a breath—quiet, controlled, but unmistakably strained. A hitch in his composure, subtle but satisfying. Something in his posture shifted, just barely, as though he was forcing himself not to respond.

That was when I smiled.

It wasn’t bold, not quite. Just the slow curl of satisfaction tugging at the corner of my mouth as I leaned in and let my cheek rest against him. His cock was hot against my skin, pulsing with restrained hunger, and I let the moment stretch, savoring the quiet tension between us.

My hand found him next, fingers curling gently around the base. I stroked him slowly, almost lazily, letting my touch speak where words would only get in the way. The slick trail of spit made it easy to glide, and I used it, drawing out each movement with deliberate care.

"You keep that up," he growled, voice low and strained, "and I’m not gonna be the gentleman I swore I would."

I looked up at him, slowly, deliberately. His jaw was tight, clenched hard enough to ache. That calm, composed exterior of his was cracking—and gods, I wanted to see it shatter.

"I don’t need a gentleman," I murmured, my voice just loud enough to reach him, soft enough to sting.

His hand slid to the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair with a grip that was far from delicate. Encouraging. Possessive. I let the rhythm of my strokes deepen, each movement smooth, unhurried, drenched in intention as I pulled him closer to the edge. He groaned—not loud, but deep and raw, like something primal clawing its way out from the shell of his discipline.

"F-Fuck, slow down," he gasped, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

I didn’t. I just smiled. And then I picked up the pace, wrist flicking with wicked intent, relentless. He bucked once, then again—trembling, helpless, completely undone.

And when he came—his breath catching like a gasp halfway drowned—I held my hand steady, catching the heat of him in my palm, warm, sudden, and unignorable.

A soft giggle slipped from my lips as I looked down at the mess I’d made of him.

With a lazy flourish, I lifted my hand—fingers spread slightly, the wet sheen catching the firelight as I held it up for him to see. The strands that stretched between my fingers shimmered like spun silk, delicate and filthy.

Captain Kane’s eyes flicked to my hand, then to my face—his breath catching for just a second. Something shifted in him. The tension in his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed—it wasn’t just arousal. It was awe. A flicker of disbelief that I could look like that, act like that, own the moment so completely.

But I wasn’t done. Not yet.

I stood slowly, letting my fingers trail down the open seam of my coat. The layers fell one by one—first cloth, then silk, until my naked frame gleamed with sweat-slicked defiance and a reckless sense of freedom. I watched him watching me. His eyes didn’t move. Didn’t even dare to blink.

I climbed into his lap, straddling him like a throne that I knew had been claimed a hundred times before—and didn’t care. I pressed my forehead to his. We breathed the same air, hungry, furious, drunk on the closeness.

His hands found my waist, my back, my thighs—rough and reverent all at once. Our foreheads remained pressed together, our chests rising in tandem. My lips brushed his, just barely, not kissing—tasting.

He reached for me again.

But this time, I guided the moment.

I arched back, teasing him softly, before I took him in, slow and steady, my breath trembling as sensation overwhelmed thought. The heat of him pressed deep, deeper, until I felt the stretch bloom into something almost unbearable. My hands gripped his chest like a lifeline, sweat pooling at the base of my spine, every nerve bristling under my skin.

I gasped—high and breathy—as he brushed past my sweet spot, that wicked, pulsing ache within me that I didn’t know I craved until it was lit like a fuse. My hips twitched, traitorous, chasing more even as I tried to pace myself.

His fingers dug into my hips. One hand pressed against the base of my spine, holding me in place as I began to move—not fast, not wild, but with purpose. With rhythm and precision.

"You’re," he groaned, "something else, y’know that?"

I didn’t answer.

Not with words.

I leaned in, lips brushing his neck—not to whimper, not to moan, but to bite. Not hard enough to wound, but firm enough to remind him who was truly in control. My teeth sank into the curve just beneath his jaw, and I felt the jolt that went through him, the involuntary twitch of his cock pulsing inside of me.

My hands found his shoulders, pushing him back just enough for me to rise a little, knees planted firm on either side of his hips. I rolled my spine and set the rhythm I wanted—slow, deliberate, and devastating.

His hands flexed against me, but I didn’t let him guide. I used him. I rode him with the precision of someone who knew exactly how to unravel a man from the inside out.

"O-Oh fuck, I’m gonna cum," I gasped, the words trembling on my tongue, breathless but sharp.

The pressure inside me crested like a tide, and when I came—when it finally tore through me—it wasn’t fragile. It was thunderous. I broke open like a storm, trembling slightly as I pressed my lips to his, muffling the sharp cry in my throat as I spilled across his stomach in three pulsing waves, each one hitting harder than the last.

But he didn’t finish.

Not yet.

He growled something under his breath—low and hungry—before lifting me off of him like I weighed nothing. I stumbled when my feet touched the floor, dizzy, drunk on everything. I turned, visibly confused.

Suddenly he stood, grabbed me by my wrist, and spun me in one fluid motion. I gasped before I could help it, the sound sharp and breathy, swallowed by the thrum in my chest. He pulled me back against him—tight, possessive, chest to back like he was the one in control.

I let him.

His forearms locked around my neck, slick with sweat, the weight of him pressing into me like iron—but I didn’t fold. I arched into it, pushing back against him, forcing him deeper with a slow grind of my hips that made him shudder this time. I could feel the tremor in his breath, rough and uneven against the side of my face, like he was hanging by a thread.

His scent hit me hard—musk and heat, the bite of blood, the shadow of something beastly underneath. But it wasn’t overwhelming. It was mine now. I inhaled deep and full like I was tasting victory, not giving in.

His lips brushed my neck—soft, too soft—and I laughed, low and breathy, before tilting my head just far enough to bare my throat. Not in submission. In invitation. In challenge.

Then he surged forward—deep, steady, trying to anchor himself in the madness.

I began matching his thrusts, bending his rhythm to mine. Every stroke landed where I wanted it, how I wanted it, and I chased it with merciless precision. My fingers slid behind me to grip his thighs—not for balance, but to pull him closer, force him harder, until he was groaning through clenched teeth.

His grunt was low, primal, but it wasn’t dominance—it was desperation. He was trying to burn something out of both of us—but I was already on fire, and I had no intention of being cleansed.

Every thrust dragged a moan from my throat, shameless and sharp, echoing off the walls like a warning. But through it all—through the heat, the pounding ache—I never stopped moving. Never stopped commanding.

My hands found his forearms, clinging—not like a lifeline, but like reins.

I wasn’t acting anymore.

I was orchestrating.

He pressed his face to the back of my neck as his rhythm hit a final, devastating pace. His grip tightened, not cruel, just claiming. I began teasing him softly, leaning my head back and whispering in his ear. Every huff of breath I gave him was deliberate—warm and humid with just a hint of a moan woven into it.

"Don’t—don’t do that," he choked out, voice raw against my skin. "Don’t tease me like that—I can’t...I can’t hold on if you keep—"

"It’s okay. You can let it out."

"F-Fuck," he whimpered under his breath.

And when he came—loud, stifled, guttural—it struck through me like a lightning bolt wrapped in heat and gravity. I felt it crash inside me, flooding my insides with something that wasn’t just carnal, but volcanic—molten, made of fire and the pulse of something feral. My body seized in response, nerves set alight, my spine arching like it was trying to peel away from my own skin.

A wild cry caught in my throat. My breath hitched, a wicked snarl curling in my throat. And then came the release—fierce and wicked with intent, a raw exhale of everything I’d been holding in. It burst out of me in one hot, messy pulse, a thick load of my cum striking the table before us with a slick sound far too loud for the dim hush of the room. My laughter chased it—sharp, wild, and manic with satisfaction.

I collapsed back against him, chest heaving, my grin wide and untamed. He was shaking behind me, clinging like I’d just dragged the soul out of him with my bare hands—and maybe I had. His arms held me like a man trying not to fall apart. Like a cage that knew it couldn’t contain me.

After we were finished, I didn’t rush. I sat there, basking in it, skin flushed, muscles loose, my mind humming like a string still vibrating from the final note. My clothes were strewn across the floor like a trail of evidence, and I took my time collecting them, moving slow and unbothered, letting the silence thrum with what we’d just done.

There was no regret. No shame.

Just that delicious, slow-blooming satisfaction. Like something had been uncorked inside me—something I’d spent too long pretending I didn’t need. Not softness, no. Not submission.

Sovereignty.

Captain Kane was redressing nearby, casual and slow, the picture of unsteady pride. He straightened his collar with one hand and uncapped a flask with the other, voice still raw when he spoke.

"Gods help the next poor bastard who thinks they can tame you."

We exited the strange collector’s chamber together, then the captain’s courters, stepping through the thick wooden door and into the hallway beyond—back into the buzz and grind of the ship’s heartbeat.

The first thing I saw was Aria.

On the floor.

One hand braced against the wall, the other jammed somewhere it most definitely shouldn’t be in public. He was gasping, lips parted, hair a wild halo around his flushed face, looking every inch like someone who had tried to keep quiet and failed dramatically.

"Oh my gods—" I began.

Willow, leaning casually against a post, started clapping slowly. "Well someone enjoyed the sound effects."

"Don’t," I said, raising a hand immediately.

"But—"

"Don’t."

Captain Kane cleared his throat loudly, drawing every gaze like he’d flicked a match in a powder room.

"All right," he said, adjusting his coat. "Let’s move before this ship decides to out-weird itself."

We followed him down a sloping corridor lined with swinging lanterns and etched beams, the air turning salt-thick and humid again as the floor gave that gentle, rhythmic sway of ocean beneath hull.

Captain Kane led us into a massive dining hall—if one could call it that. It was more like a cathedral to debauchery: massive wooden tables groaning under the weight of empty tankards, candlewax dripped like lazy tears across skull-shaped chandeliers, and pirates lounged in piles, singing, arm-wrestling, or asleep under pewter dishes.

At the far end stood a massive wardrobe. Ornate. Impossibly large. Black wood veined with silver, etched with carvings too intricate to be ornamental. It looked like it belonged in a cathedral, not a ship.

"That’s...a wardrobe," I said, squinting.

Captain Kane gave a sly smile. "A secret passage, courtesy of the Blackbane’s lesser-known renovations."

He reached into his coat, withdrew a key of tarnished gold, and slipped it into a near-invisible groove on the wardrobe’s lower hinge. A click echoed like a bell through the room, and the doors swung open.

Inside—steel walls. Polished brass. A lever.

An elevator.

"Of course it’s an elevator," I muttered, exasperated.

"Why wouldn’t it be?" Kane replied with mock innocence.

But before I could roll my eyes properly let alone recalibrate my sense of reality, the ship shuddered.

A deep, angry tremor rippled through the hull, vibrating through my boots and making the wine bottles on the nearby shelves rattle. Then came the sound—grinding, loud and scraping, like the sky itself had torn open its throat to scream.

I ran.

We surged up the stairs, my party close behind me, and burst onto the top deck just in time to see the sky crack.

Not figuratively. Not poetic nonsense.

The sky was splitting.

The fake stars above—the painted dome the Tower had hung like a lie—was rupturing. Massive shards of sky peeled away from overhead like broken glass, falling into the ocean with explosive splashes. The horizon was unraveling. Reality was peeling.

"What the fuck," I gasped.

Pieces of the world fell like meteors into the water below, leaving bubbling craters where they struck. Smoke curled from the wounds in the sky.

And below us, the rafts were still holding steady, the nobles clinging to them—thankfully—with all the grace panic would allow.

"Everyone on board!" I shouted, sprinting to the edge. "Now! Get them up!"

My party snapped into action. Leo hauled nobles from raft to deck with terrifying ease, one in each hand like sacks of flour. Aria scrambled to tie ropes as Miko barked orders and Willow, somehow, managed to keep both her composure and her wine glass intact.

The ship pitched again, harder this time. More cracks spread across the sky.

Captain Kane watched it all from the helm, face carved into something I didn’t recognize—worry. Deep, ugly worry. Then he barked orders to his own crew, voice booming through the air.

"Register the mural gateway!" he shouted.

I had no idea what that meant, but his pirates moved like they’d heard that command before.

I grabbed the last noble by the collar and dragged him aboard.

"Go!" I bellowed.

We raced below, the nobles herded ahead of us like panicked sheep. Down the stairwell, back to the dining hall, into the cabinet and its gaping elevator shaft. I turned, just about to follow them in—when Captain Kane barreled down after me, coat flaring, boots loud.

He grabbed my wrist and shoved something into my palm.

A coin.

Large. Silver. Etched with a jagged ship that shimmered faintly in the low light.

"If you ever need to reach me," he said, voice low, urgent, "Use it."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

He didn’t answer. Just nodded. I held his gaze for a breath longer, then turned and threw myself into the elevator.

The doors clanged shut.

And we rose.

Silence wrapped around us. Except for the sound of breathing. Of heartbeats. And somewhere, faint and distant above us...

The sound of something waiting.