Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter Fiona Locke

‘REPORTING FOR DUTY, sir,’ Emily said, touching the brim of her cocked hat.

Sebastian gaped at her.

She stood stiffly to attention, keeping her eyes front as her twin brother circled her, scrutinising her. The Royal Navy uniform was a perfect fit. The bum-freezer jacket and buff waistcoat hid her feminine curves well. Below the stiff turnback collar, her dainty neck was disguised by the black stock and white shirt-frill. Not even the tight white breeches betrayed her true sex.

Her dark hair was pulled back away from her face and tied with a velvet ribbon. But the bicorn hat would draw the eye away from her delicate facial features. And Emily knew that life at sea would harden her. She could never pass for a grown man, of course. But in Sebastian’s uniform she looked every inch a midshipman in His Majesty’s navy. A young gentleman in training to become an officer.

Sebastian Vane had no stomach for adventure, despite their father’s ambition that he command a King’s ship one day. Conversely, Emily deeply resented the thought of being sent to finishing school while her brother fought glorious battles against the French. At eighteen, she was a burden on their father, as she had no intention of marrying. She refused to condemn herself to a life of domestic duty, and she skilfully alienated every potential suitor her father chose for her.

‘Will I pass?’ she asked, pitching her voice a little lower.

Unable to speak, Sebastian simply nodded his head in admiration. ‘I think you just might.’

‘Thank you.’ Emily turned to regard herself in the cheval mirror. She and her brother might be satisfied with her appearance, but it was Lieutenant Trevelyan she must convince.

She was nervous, but she did her best to conceal it from Sebastian, lest he change his mind. The twins had traded places before and no one had known the difference. But this time there was no going back.

Lieutenant Trevelyan was the son of a post captain who had known the Vane family for years. The twins’ father, a prominent member of parliament, had prevailed upon the captain to get Sebastian a midshipman’s place aboard HMS Nemesis. He thought some time in the navy was just what the lad needed.

The redoubtable young lieutenant had dined with the Vanes many times and Emily always pleaded with him to share his stories about life at sea. Trevelyan naturally assumed she wanted to hear about brave victories and he indulged her with accounts of capturing French and Spanish prize ships.

She listened politely; however, her interests were a little less romantic. And when Trevelyan happened onto the topic of naval discipline her heart gave a little leap. She found it remarkable that the men subject to such harsh punishments did not resent it. But Trevelyan assured her that it was necessary for maintaining order on board a ship. The men would sneer at a captain who was lax in his discipline and think him soft. The cat-o’-nine-tails wasn’t used indiscriminately, but it was used often. However, that was a punishment only for common seamen. Midshipmen were treated differently.

Sebastian dreaded any talk about his impending naval career, but Emily couldn’t get enough. She loved hearing about the midshipmen most of all.

The ‘young gentlemen’ were not put to the lash. Instead they were punished with a rattan cane. Trevelyan told them once about a young gentleman who had failed to batten the hatch to the powder magazine properly. This was a serious oversight and Trevelyan ordered him below deck and sent for the boatswain. The lad was bent over a cannon and caned severely across the seat of his breeches, which offered scant protection. The position was known as ‘kissing the gunner’s daughter’. The image had been indelibly imprinted in Emily’s mind.

‘He was most attentive to his duties after that,’ Trevelyan said with a meaningful glance at Sebastian.

The boy looked forlornly at his untouched dinner.

Emily pressed her thighs together.

Another evening Emily had the lieutenant to herself in the library. As usual, she insisted on stories and he obliged. She had to rein in her fascination as she teased out the details and nuances that intrigued her, grateful that her brother had gone to bed.

Occasionally an even more severe punishment than caning was ordered. Then the miscreant’s hands would be tied together underneath the barrel of the cannon and he would be flogged on the bare bottom with the boy’s cat, a smaller cat-o’-nine-tails made of whipcord. Trevelyan explained that the miscreant was required to make his own cat, which the first lieutenant inspected personally.

His authoritarian voice made Emily squirm with secret delight as she pictured herself in the place of the unfortunate who had displeased him. And late at night, alone in her bed, Emily replayed her fantasies while her fingers strayed inside her night-dress. It was the stern face of Lieutenant Trevelyan she saw when her body writhed and bucked in guilty pleasure.

Her punishment fantasies centred around Trevelyan disciplining her as a boy. But sometimes her struggles caused her to reveal her feminine charms to him. He never broke stride; with a rakish grin, he told her he’d known she was a young woman all along. Then he took her to his cabin and had his wicked way with her.

But this was no longer merely fantasy. What would he do if he did discover her true sex? A man who impersonated an officer would be hanged from the yardarm. But there was nothing in the Articles of War about punishments for ladies. The lieutenant would have to devise his own.

Emily gazed at the midshipman in the mirror. She cut a dashing figure in the uniform and looked quite a handsome lad, if a little soft. That would not earn her any lenience from Trevelyan, though. It was that very softness he was charged with reforming.

Closing her eyes, Emily forgot her brother’s presence as she indulged her favourite fantasy.

In her mind she faced Lieutenant Trevelyan nervously as he delivered a scathing reprimand about her misconduct. He stood before her, an imposing figure in his long frock coat and fore-and-aft hat. Though she knew it was the boatswain who administered punishments, Emily liked to imagine the lieutenant himself caning her. Perhaps her misbehaviour would be such that only an officer was qualified to address it.

‘The navy, Mr Vane, is founded on discipline.’

Emily flinched as he showed her the cane and tapped the cannon with it.

‘You know the position, boy.’

Trembling, Emily bent over the cannon. Trevelyan slowly unfastened her breeches and peeled them down, exposing the quivering pale flesh of her bottom. She knew that the other midshipmen would hear the cuts of the cane up on deck, but she would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.

She held her breath as Trevelyan raised the cane …

‘Emily?’

At the sound of her brother’s voice she shook herself out of her reverie, flushing deeply. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I was just thinking of the lieutenant.’

Sebastian made a face. He couldn’t understand her lust for adventure at all. The prospect of going to sea with Trevelyan terrified him. But their father would not be persuaded against it. It would make a man of him.

Suddenly, Sebastian bit his lip. ‘I don’t know, Em,’ he said. ‘Someone is bound to find out.’

Emily met her brother’s eye with confidence. ‘Why should they? I’ll be careful.’

‘I couldn’t bear the disgrace if we were discovered. Father would die.’

‘You mustn’t worry.’

A light breeze stirred the curtains, bringing with it the sound of an approaching carriage.

The twins froze, listening. Sure enough, the horses’ hooves stopped just outside.

‘He’s here,’ Sebastian whispered, apprehensive.

A delicious shudder ran through Emily, tickling her like tiny feet scurrying over her skin. ‘Come, Sebastian. We don’t have much time.’

She snatched her chemise and corset from the bed and helped Sebastian into them. He gasped as she pulled the laces of the corset tight. Emily smiled. There was some satisfaction to be had in inflicting the torments of feminine undergarments on a male. Tomorrow he’d have to fasten the stays himself.

The twins had been rehearsing for weeks, and Sebastian’s slight frame wore his sister’s clothes well. His transformation was even more striking than Emily’s. He was lost inside the heavy brocade gown and bonnet.

‘Take a look,’ she said, gesturing at the mirror.

Sebastian crossed the room in three awkward, boyish strides.

‘You haven’t been practising,’ Emily lamented. ‘You must remember to walk as I showed you. Take small steps. Everyone waits for a lady.’

He nodded, swallowing nervously.

‘Now show me your curtsey.’

He managed a clumsy plié.

‘I expect it will have to do,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But you must work on it.’

Sebastian nodded. ‘And you must remember to stand with your feet apart. Let your elbows go. Don’t be graceful.’ He examined her hands doubtfully. ‘And get these dirty as soon as possible. They’re far too ladylike.’

Emily’s stomach fluttered in a sudden frisson of fear. There were so many ways she could slip up. Then what would she do? Throw herself on the mercy of the captain?

‘It’s best if you don’t come down,’ she said. ‘I’ve been brooding all week about Father sending you to sea, so he won’t be expecting to see me. Just stay up here – as me – and mope in my room. Refuse to go down tomorrow as well. Stay here sulking and practise being me.’

Sebastian laughed. ‘We’re both mad, you realise. Absolutely mad.’

‘Ah, yes, but it’s the adventure of a lifetime. Just imagine if I should pass the examination for lieutenant.’

‘You could be a captain one day.’

‘Or an admiral.’

‘And what shall I do?’ Sebastian mused. ‘Make up with one of your spurned suitors and marry?’ He batted his eyes coquettishly and they dissolved into laughter. But a sombre mood soon descended. This was the last time they would see each other for a long time.

‘Just mind you don’t find yourself on the wrong side of the lieutenant,’ Sebastian warned, his face pale. ‘He won’t brook any weakness.’

Emily blushed and looked down at her shoes. The candlelight shone in the gleaming buckles. Her strange obsession with discipline was the one thing she’d been unable to confide in her brother. Rather than confessing that the prospect thrilled her, she feigned nonchalance. ‘Oh, he doesn’t frighten me,’ she said with a plucky grin.

Suddenly, they heard their father, calling for Sebastian.

Sebastian straightened Emily’s hat and dusted down her coat. After one last look he handed her his books and sextant. ‘Good luck, Em,’ he said. ‘I shall miss you.’

‘And I shall miss you.’ Tears threatened to well in her eyes and she blinked them back. It wouldn’t do for a future captain of Nelson’s navy to be seen weeping like a girl.

‘Will you write to me?’ Sebastian asked.

Emily drew herself up proudly. ‘Of course.’ She took his hand and kissed it, giving a little bow. ‘My sweet sister.’

Then with a final glance in the mirror, she hurried off to meet her fate.

Emily had studied the books with diligence – Norie’s Epitome of Navigation and Clarke’s Complete Handbook of Seamanship. She was familiar with much that a midshipman was meant to know, in theory, at least. But she was completely unprepared for the bewildering reality of it all. She marvelled at the array of rigging towering above her. Everywhere there was frantic activity that would seem like chaos to an outsider. Orders were bellowed from one end of the ship to the other. Men scrambled up and down the ratlines without so much as a downward glance. She watched as the hands aloft loosed the headsails and topsails and got the ship under way.

She could barely contain her excitement as the Nemesis left land behind and headed out into the ocean. But the unceasing corkscrew roll of the frigate soon took its toll on some of the new midshipmen, who staggered about with ashen faces while the seasoned crew looked smug. Emily was glad she was not alone in that particular misery. And most of the lads seemed to be suffering worse than she was.

In the days that followed, Emily often caught sight of Lieutenant Trevelyan, but he paid her no mind. She watched him whenever she could, straining to hear his voice. He issued orders with a natural authority that made her legs weak. Men touched their forelocks to him and scurried off to do his bidding. The dampness between her legs could easily make her forget she was supposed to be a boy.

Trevelyan stood on the quarterdeck with his feet well apart and his hands clasped behind his back. Emily was still learning to balance on the pitching ship, but the lieutenant stood as solid as the main-mast. She longed for an excuse to approach him, to speak to him, if only to impart some trivial bit of information and await his orders.

‘You, boy!’

She jumped.

It was Wagstaffe, the oldest inhabitant of the midshipmen’s berth. At twenty-five, his chances of making lieutenant were slipping away, and it did not improve his temper.

It took a few moments for Emily to realise he was addressing her.

‘The master wants to know why you aren’t at lessons with the rest of us.’

‘I couldn’t find my way, sir,’ she mumbled, lowering her head. She regretted her show of submission instantly. Sebastian had instructed her to make eye contact.

‘Lost, are you, snotty?’ he sneered.

Emily had never before been spoken to in such a manner and she had no idea how she was meant to respond. That was one thing Clarke’s Seamanship couldn’t tell her. But she screwed up her pluck, raised her head and pushed past him. ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ she said gruffly.

Behind her she heard him laugh. Her face burned. She was annoyed with herself. Any show of weakness would make her a victim among her shipmates. She had to be more assertive.

When she eventually found the others and took a seat, the sailing master glowered at her. Then he called on her to tell him the equation relating the leeway to the trim of the sails. He let her flounder with tangents and cotangents for nearly a minute before silencing her disgustedly. Blake, a younger midshipman, was only too happy to supply the correct answer, smiling loftily at the unfortunate Mr Vane.

She glared back at him and was immensely pleased with herself when Blake looked away, abashed.

But her triumph was short-lived. The next day the master berated her for miscalculating the ship’s latitude. Most of the others got it wrong too, but she was already in his bad books from the day before. Emily loathed the tedious lessons. Navigation was going to be her downfall, she was certain. And the endless hours of inactivity dampened her spirits. When would they get to fight?

The morning’s lesson was finally over and Emily was relieved to be left alone to study. She peered out over the waves, squinting through the eyepiece of her sextant. She found the sun in the half-silvered mirror and slid the index arm round carefully until the image was superimposed on the horizon. Clamping the sextant, she read the angle off the scale. Simple enough. It was the calculations that defeated her. Sebastian had warned her that her mathematical ical skills would need improving, but sines and cosines were not her strong point. She had been so impetuous about the enterprise that she simply hadn’t given trigonometry much thought.

‘So what’s our latitude, Mr Vane?’

She jumped at the familiar voice, nearly dropping her sextant. ‘I haven’t done the calculations yet, sir,’ she said.

Trevelyan gestured for her to continue, but he made no move to leave. ‘Very well, then. Carry on.’

Emily grew even more nervous. She’d never get it right with him standing over her.

She tried to shoot the sun the second time, but her fingers trembled so much that she couldn’t hold the instrument still. The sun was a jumpy golden gash in the mirrors, but she clamped it anyway and looked at the angle. Then she realised she’d forgotten the angle of the first sight. She’d have to take it again and risk his disapproval. Then there were the calculations and corrections, which she had yet to be successful with. She suspected her position line would be off by several degrees.

Trevelyan stood immobile, but Emily could sense his growing impatience. She began to panic. ‘Sir, forgive me, I … I’m still learning the calculations.’

He frowned. ‘My boy, you should have learned those before setting foot on board. You were meant to be studying these many weeks past.’ His voice was strict and unsparing. He had been charged with the duty of making a man of this delicate boy. No one knew better than Emily that he took his responsibilities very seriously.

‘Yes, sir,’ Emily said, crestfallen. She had no excuse to offer him.

‘The sailing master thinks you lack application.’ He held out his hand for the sextant and for a moment she feared he would tell her she had no place on board, that they would set her down in the next English port. But instead he put the eyepiece to his eye and took the sight himself.

He read out the angle and Emily noted it. He took the second angle and looked at her enquiringly.

‘Now, Mr Vane, how do we combine the two sightings?’

That much she could do. Sixty degrees minus the second angle should be equal to the first. But what came next? The index error? She searched her mind, but came up blank.

Frightened as she was, she thrilled at his nearness as he stood looking down on her. She fixed on the impeccable cut of his uniform. She could see the ropes twisting round the anchors on every single gilt button.

He had asked her a question. Oh, yes. The sightings. Emily searched her mind for an answer. She wanted desperately to please him, to prove herself worthy. But she was completely lost. True, she had neglected her studies; but her desire was also clouding her ability to concentrate.

His ice-blue eyes glittered. ‘Perhaps I should have young Blake assist you.’

The comment rankled. She had been feeling so much better after staring Blake down the day before. Now he was eroding what little confidence she’d acquired. Bristling, Emily held her tongue.

‘Come on, Mr Vane. Any of the master’s mates could have done these calculations by now.’

‘Then perhaps the master’s mates should do it, sir,’ she blurted out. ‘Surely an officer has more important things to do than play with numbers.’

She regretted it the instant she said it. Trevelyan’s face hardened and she realised the enormity of her mistake.

She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I … forgot myself.’

Trevelyan was eyeing her severely.

Her cheeks burned. ‘Sir, I …’ What could she say?

‘That will be quite enough from you,’ he said softly.

Her head lowered, she stared fixedly at a coil of rope at her feet. She felt light-headed and if she’d been wearing a corset she might have swooned. Emily had to remind herself that she was no longer a lady. When the silence became unbearable she raised her head to face him.

‘Report to the gundeck at eight bells in the afternoon watch.’

Blanching, Emily struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ she said, touching her hat with unsteady fingers.

The lieutenant turned and walked away down the deck.

She recalled Trevelyan saying once that he liked to be present when he had ordered punishment. He said it reinforced the formality. She was frightened, but also exhilarated. The shadow of a smile touched her lips at the thought of him seeing her caned. There was the familiar tingling heat between her legs and she had to glance down to make sure there was nothing outwardly visible. The wetness felt conspicuous in her tight breeches. She tugged gently at her waistband, moaning a little at the pressure of the seam against her crotch.

The forenoon watch had barely begun; she had several hours yet to wait. She looked around to see if anyone might have been within earshot, but she was alone. Perhaps no one else had heard the exchange. Then they wouldn’t know to listen for the telltale swish of the bosun’s rattan. She could hope.

She busied herself as best she could, trying not to think about what was coming. But every time the ship’s bell rang out her pulse quickened. In her head she heard the lieutenant’s pronouncement over and over again. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but her impending punishment.

At ten minutes before eight bells, the new officer of the watch came on deck. It was time. Emily didn’t want Trevelyan to get to the gundeck before her.

She forced herself to hold her head up, in disgrace but not dishonour. Her heart banged behind her ribs and her legs wavered like a drunken sailor’s as she made her way below deck.

The gundeck normally bustled with activity and noise. Now it was deserted. Trevelyan must have given orders. Emily was thankful for that. While witnesses might strengthen her resolve to take the punishment bravely, she didn’t know how she would face them afterwards. She stood beside one of the twelve-pounders, caressing its cold body. It was so much larger than she had imagined back home. Very soon she would be bent over it, suffering under the cane.

The air was warm and heavy and Emily felt the back of her neck begin to prickle. For a moment she regretted taking Sebastian’s place here, but she shook off the thought disgustedly. She had wanted adventure. She had demanded it. Now that she faced her fantasies at last, she had no choice but to follow through.

She lifted her head proudly. She was a King’s officer. If she flinched at the prospect of a caning, how could she ever face the French in battle? Or look in the mirror?

In the distance she heard the ship’s bell herald the end of the watch. Then the sound of boots on the ladder. This was it. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. No one would know how much she secretly wanted this.

Lieutenant Trevelyan appeared with Harmwell, the bosun. Emily flinched when she saw the stout malacca cane he carried. She lowered her head, hoping they would take it for penitence and not fear.

Trevelyan’s stern voice boomed in the confined space. ‘Mr Vane seems to think navigation is beneath him. But I think we have the means to teach him some humility. Haven’t we, Mr Vane?’

‘Yes, sir’ was the only answer to that. Emily thought she would melt.

‘Twelve good hard strokes, I think, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

Trevelyan nodded solemnly towards the cannon and Emily steeled herself as she turned towards it. She removed her hat and laid it aside. Then she placed her hands on the cannon. With her legs together she bent forwards at the waist, sideways over the gun. She knew she must bear the indignity.

‘Not like that, lad,’ came Harmwell’s gruff voice. ‘Along the gun. One leg either side.’

She choked back a gasp. She hadn’t pictured it like that! The idea of wrapping her legs around the barrel seemed indecent. It was the way a gentleman rode a horse. But she obeyed, straddling the cold metal and stretching herself out along its length, presenting her bottom for the cane.

At that moment she wished she could see Trevelyan’s face. What expression did he wear? Stern indifference? Sadistic pleasure? She didn’t dare turn round to see.

Emily flinched as she felt the malacca touch her bottom, measuring the first stroke. She tensed in anticipation, waiting. An age passed before Trevelyan gave the command for the punishment to begin.

The cane drew back and she heard a low deep whistle as it cut through the air. It sliced into her bottom with a loud thwack! She was unprepared for the force of the stroke and she yelped, more out of surprise than pain.

‘One,’ Harmwell counted.

The sting began to bloom in a line across her bottom and she fought the urge to reach back and clutch the burning flesh. Her breeches offered no protection at all. The position pulled them deep into the cleft of her bottom, separating her cheeks. A perfect target.

Emily gritted her teeth for the next stroke and managed to stay silent as it painted a second burning stripe across her posterior.

‘Two.’

The third stroke forced a sharp intake of breath and she clung to the cannon as tightly as she could. Her arms trembled with the effort and her hands were clammy against the metal. In her fantasies, Trevelyan had usually tied her wrists together. That would be a mercy now. The possibility of disgracing herself by leaping out of position was a challenge she hadn’t counted on. Sweat trickled down her face and she panted, waiting for the next stroke.

Again the bosun’s rattan met her tender bottom. She hissed through her teeth, determined to stifle her cries. Trevelyan was watching; she could not bear his reproach.

‘Four.’

Harmwell’s dutiful counting was strangely humbling. It was clear he got no pleasure from this; he was simply obeying orders. It was inexplicably erotic. The lieutenant’s power over her was absolute.

As the caning continued, Emily found herself floating, as though watching from outside herself. She could take this; perhaps she was toughening up. Trevelyan was doing what he had promised her father he would do: making a man of her. There was something poetic about that.

A particularly hard stroke forced another cry from her and she cursed herself for her weakness. She heard the bosun counting the strokes, but the numbers meant nothing to her. Intense as the pain was, Emily felt invigorated. It was the ultimate challenge. The proving ground. This was what she’d wanted. Her beloved lieutenant was having her flogged for insubordination and he was overseeing the punishment personally. Had he been waiting for the opportunity as well, to do his duty by the faint-hearted boy?

Harmwell counted ten and Emily breathed deeply, pacing herself for the final two strokes. She could imagine the spectacle she made – her bottom turned well up, her tight breeches inviting the sting of the cane. Trevelyan had no idea he was watching a girl’s bottom and the secret knowledge gave Emily a lewd little thrill. She squeezed her thighs against the cannon, stimulating herself as the penultimate stroke fell.

‘Eleven,’ counted Harmwell.

Emily held her breath for the last stroke, but the lieutenant interrupted.

‘The final stroke,’ he said, ‘is always the hardest. Make this one count, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

She sensed the cane drawing back and she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

The last stroke slashed through the air and into her bottom, its impact echoing in her head like a musket shot. She was lost in a strange haze of pain spiced with pleasure. It was not unlike being drunk. Her body was tingling and the throbbing in her sex was almost unbearable. She longed to rub herself against the cold metal of the cannon, to tighten her legs round it until the pleasure exploded within her. But she would have to wait. She would take care of it later that night, in her hammock in the midshipmen’s berth.

The bosun gave a little cough and Emily shook her head to clear it.

‘You may stand up, Mr Vane,’ said the lieutenant.

She slid to her feet and stood up shakily. Then she raised her eyes to look Trevelyan in the face. It was important to regain her dignity.

‘Have you revised your opinion of navigation, Mr Vane?’ the lieutenant asked.

‘Yes, sir. I most certainly have, sir.’

He eyed her sternly for a few moments before addressing the bosun. ‘Leave us, Mr Harmwell.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

They were alone. The silence quickly became oppressive. A bead of sweat rolled down her face and she dared not rub it away.

At last he spoke. ‘Well, Mr Vane?’

Was it her imagination or had he emphasised the ‘Mr’?

‘S-sir?’

‘Look at me when you’re spoken to, lad.’

Emily tried not to blush, but it was impossible. Warmth flooded her face as she raised her eyes.

The lieutenant looked as austere as ever, yet there was a strange light in his eyes. ‘Did that satisfy your curiosity?’

She swallowed. ‘My – curiosity, sir?’

‘Yes, your curiosity. Or have you forgotten our conversations in your father’s library?’

Horrified, Emily lowered her head. She didn’t know what to say.

The silence was broken by a harsh bark of laughter and she looked up, startled.

‘You took that as well as any boy,’ said Trevelyan, smiling broadly. ‘I had my suspicions from the first, but your insubordination gave you away. Your brother would never have dared.’

Emily turned scarlet. ‘I don’t know what to say, sir.’

‘You might thank me.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He nodded in acknowledgment. ‘And now I should like to examine Mr Harmwell’s handiwork.’

She blinked. ‘Sir?’

Trevelyan gestured at the cannon. ‘We’ll have your breeches down, Emily.’

Amazed that she could possibly flush any deeper, she hesitated.

The lieutenant’s expression grew severe again and he drew himself up. ‘That was an order, Mr Vane.’

She gulped. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

Then she turned away and her hands fluttered to her waist to unfasten her breeches. She looked nervously down the length of the gundeck.

‘We’re alone,’ Trevelyan reassured her. ‘Continue.’

It was so strange, baring herself like this before a man. She moved as though in a dream state, undoing the buttons at her knees. Her breeches pooled round her ankles. She’d done this often enough in her fantasies, but the reality was embarrassing, excruciating.

‘Back in position,’ Trevelyan ordered.

Emily did as she was told and her breeches slid down over her shoes. With her bottom on display and her bare thighs wrapped lewdly around the gun, the position was positively obscene. She moaned in exquisite shame as she lowered her forehead to the cannon. The barrel seemed warmer now and its hard surface pressed into her exposed sex.

She gave a little cry of surprise when she felt Trevelyan’s hand against her bottom. His fingers traced the marks left by the cane and she shuddered at his touch.

‘A commendable job,’ he pronounced. ‘Our Mr Harmwell has a strong arm.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Emily said with a gulp.

The lieutenant continued to examine the marks – slowly, thoroughly. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and squeezed firmly, making her gasp. The blood pounded in her head and again she felt faint. Then his fingers did the unthinkable. They slipped down along her crease and in between her legs.

Instinctively, Emily cried out and reached behind to shield herself, rising up out of her position.

‘Oh, no,’ chided the lieutenant, smacking her smartly on her tender backside. ‘Stay where you are.’

Mortified, she obeyed.

‘Perhaps you need restraining,’ he suggested.

Her ears burned at those words. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him reach for a coil of rope. Her breathing grew shallow as he crouched beside her and tied her wrists beneath the barrel, so that she embraced the cannon. Then he resumed his examination.

His skilful hands explored her sex, probing and fondling the slick folds. Emily stiffened and made a little whimper. But she didn’t protest; she didn’t dare risk breaking the spell.

The ropes let her imagine that this was just another part of her punishment. She pulled at them to reassure herself that she was truly at his mercy.

His fingers described careful little circles over and around the bud of her sex and she gasped at his expert stimulation. She hadn’t known such ecstasy was possible. Her mouth opened in a soundless moan as the attentive fingers slipped inside her. The pain in her bottom had subsided to a dull pulse that mirrored the throbbing in her sex. She writhed wantonly as his fingers worked in and out of her, making her body jerk with pleasure.

Emily imagined that she was being caned again, this time bound naked to the grating up on deck. The entire crew stood watching as the lieutenant painted stripes across her disobedient bottom, counting dispassionately while she yelped and writhed in delirious torment.

When he withdrew his fingers, she squeezed her legs tightly around the gun, protesting with a petulant whimper.

But he wasn’t finished with her. Again his fingers slid inside where she was warm and hungry. And this time his other hand caressed her as well, spreading her open and tweaking her little nub, hard. His attentions elicited gasps of alternating pleasure and pain and Emily threw her head back, arching against him, urging his fingers deeper inside her.

She was climbing fast, straining violently at the ropes, drowning in the liberation of total surrender. All at once the climax overtook her and the blood pounding in her ears sounded like the firing of the ship’s guns.

For a long time neither of them said a word. Emily hung limply over the cannon, exhausted and panting. Trevelyan untied her hands. She stood on unsteady legs as she put her breeches back on and replaced her cocked hat.

‘I hope you don’t think that’s the end of the matter,’ he said gravely.

Misunderstanding, Emily’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, sir, you wouldn’t tell the captain …’

Trevelyan gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘Probably not. I expect we can come to some arrangement. We can discuss it tonight. Report to my cabin at two bells in the first watch.’

Emily flushed. She felt her sex moistening again at the prospect. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Navigation is important, Mr Vane,’ he said. ‘But action at close quarters is the true test of any officer.’

Fiona Locke’s short stories have appeared in numerous Wicked Words collections. Her first novel, Over the Knee, is published by Nexus Enthusiast.