Today’s snippet, titled “Strung Out”, is a piece I wrote about my PC in Paul’s new pirate themed Pathfinder Campaign.
      Be forewarned, there may be mature themes and naughty language below.
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      A fortnight had passed.
      Lorenzo remembered little of it, for the haze of flayleaf smoke and the taste of felwil on his tongue had muddled his memory. That there had been innumerable rounds of sex with Kiskaeyn’s harem was undeniable.
      By the time he and Red escaped back to their cabin, his dick was sore and his balls ached something fierce.
      “Never again,” Lorenzo muttered, laying limp upon his bunk with his arms dangling over the edges. He knew his elbows and shoulders would hurt like a bitch come morning, if he did not pull them back, but the effort was too much and he just groaned.
      “No more flayleaf,” Red said. He seemed to have weathered the experience better. His voice was clear and when Lorenzo shifted his gaze to look at the half-orc, he hardly seemed worse for the wear.
      “Oui.”
      “No more fuckin’?”
      Lorenzo turned his head once more and leveled a sharp gaze at Red. “Are you kidding me, Red? There will always be more fucking. Just… not today. And not with them.”
      “Yuh.” Red was sprawled on his back, his hands tucked under his head. He chuckled. “I prolly won’t never say no to it.”
      “You mean to say,” Lorenzo said, imitating his friend’s manner of speech, “Fuckin’?”
      “Yuh. If she wants it, Red’ll give it. Everytime.”
      “I suppose so. But I have the luxury of choice – excessively at times.”
      Red snorted, but did not argue.
      Lorenzo was realistic about his own attractiveness. He was perhaps a hair above average in appearance, owed primarily, he figured, to a well-kept beard, clean fingernails, and upper-class grooming habits. Despite that, ladies had always flocked to his bed. Rich ones, poor ones, beautiful ones, ugly ones. At times he may have chosen temporary celibacy, but he had never had such a state foisted upon him.
      Red, on the other hand, had not often garnered many female admirers. Fortunately, he had never minded swooping down upon Ren’s discard pile; throwing a bone to the rejects. Or, when there was a bit of a dry spell, employing one of the many alchemical concoctions Lorenzo could brew to make a target more susceptible to the half-orc’s charms, or at least, suggestible.
      “Ren,” Red said, yawning. “I locked the door. Gonna be a bad night.”
      Withdrawal from flayleaf can be brutal, Lorenzo sighed inwardly. I don’t think I have any Soothemush left. Fuck… better to get up and do it now, because I know I won’t feel like it in a few hours.
      Rolling from his bunk, Lorenzo knelt beside his portable lab and began fumbling at the apparatus. A pinch of this, a pinch of that, thirteen drops of boiled vinegar. Mix that slurry into some preserved almond paste and stir in a few Thileu berries. Heat the tincture of Taldorian basil, chamomile, and shandorillis oil until precisely one hundred four degrees. Combine. Store in a jar with an air-tight seal for two weeks; six if kept cool, dry, and dark.
      It was done by rote and complete within an hour.
      When he at last returned to his bunk, Lorenzo’s eyes closed and sleep took him in a matter of seconds.

      The dull, throbbing ache in his skull woke him.
      It was immediately compounded by a burning sensation along his every nerve. Everything itched. His scalp, his toes, his balls, his teeth.
      “Red,” he rasped. “Are you awake?”
      “Yuh.”
      His friend plodded across the tiny room and slid an arm under his shoulders. Roughly, Red pulled him up and wrenched open his mouth. A thick scoop of Soothemush coated his tongue a moment later and instantly, the tension left his body.
      “Your jaw was s’tight I was a’feared you might crack teeth.” Red sucked on his finger, cleaning the Soothemush residue from it.
      Lorenzo merely nodded. His joints were all sore from the involuntary convulsions. He had not expected to sleep so long, to be so deep into the symptoms by the time he awoke. If Red had not been there, and been conscious enough to administer the mush, Lorenzo may have had to suffer the full effects of flayleaf. He shuddered at the thought.
      “You alright?”
      “Oui. Just slept too long.” Lorenzo sat up. Already the pounding in his head had diminished. “Did you take the mush?”
      “Yuh. Strong brew this time. Feel almost reg’lar.”
      Strong brew? He frowned. It should be precisely the same as last time and every time. Did I put in too many Thileu berries?
      “Someone knocked about an hour ago. I didn’t answer. Snored real loud instead.”
      “We’ve been in Kiskaeyn’s lair for two weeks. I’m surprised no one sold our cabin to new passengers and claimed our gear; given what we now know.”
      It did not bear thinking about.
      Lorenzo was not sure how he had been so mistaken about the character of the crew of The Screaming Mermaid; he had always considered himself a good judge of character. But in the fourteen or so days he and Red had been guests of the First Mate, he had taken the time to speak with several of the folk in the orgy chamber and come to the conclusion that Kiskaeyn often used bribery, trickery, and even outright brutality to acquire new participants in her harem. She cared little for race, gender, or general attractiveness – a blow to Lorenzo’s ego – rather, she liked to find young, fit, people with little by way of affiliation. Those who would not be missed.
      He and Red fit into her categories quite well. Red had no one in the world, except his bitch of a mother and Lorenzo. For himself, he had only his namesake and a few bastard siblings who might remark upon his passing – but except for Great-Grandfather, not a single soul would grieve if he simply disappeared from the face of the world.
      “A day of rest, give me that, then we will find out… what’s going on here.”
      Red itched his neck, tilting his head to one side. “Maybe we dun wanna know, Ren. Maybe we just keep our heads down until we get to Port Peril. No more trouble.”
      Lorenzo managed his signature grin. “Trouble? Us? Never.”
      Red cracked a smile, his one, awkward tusk jutting out from between his lips. “Yuh. Always.”

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Note: Image is “Skull” by (George Crux) and “Black Cuffs” by (Andrzej Pobiedzinski) from SXC.hu; edited by me