The Curse of the Eberbachs

Klaus von dem Eberbach is standing on the deck of a ship under full sails, a sturdy four-master. The night is quiet, and only a skeleton crew is awake to hold the ship on its course. He looks around, at the billowing sails, the stars in the sky leading their way. The wind is brisk, but not rough - it ruffles his long dark hair only slightly, caressing his face. The waves breaking at the ship's body make a calm sound, together with the creaking of the vessel which ploughs through the sea in a regular, steady up-and-down movement.

His eyes fall on the man at the helm, a tall, willowy figure, a mass of golden curls held back from his almost too pretty noble face by a red bandanna. He has wide shoulders and long-fingered strong hands that hold the big wheel in a sure grip.

Why does this damned fop always strike a pose? Why does he look like the epitome of every pirate a romantically inclined maiden might have in mind – a bandanna, a white shirt open at the chest, a broad belt, billowing red pants embroidered with golden stripes? He does not need such foppish idiocies.

The Fop is a damned good pirate, and von dem Eberbach has to admit that the crew is disciplined and in very good shape, as is the ship. Damn, the man is good and fast and bold. Otherwise it would not have been possible for him to board von dem Eberbach's own ship and take over his crew without killing a single man, letting everybody go, except him, the captain, taking him captive for ransom.

von dem Eberbach has raged against the indignity, against the ropes which bind him, but he knows as well as the pirate captain that his resistance is strangely half-hearted, that his body soon begins to speak another language.

Oh, the beautiful pirate loves to play with the chained panther! How could he know? He must be a sorcerer, in league with the Devil, to know what would arouse his prudish, buttoned-up, inaccessible catch ... Having von dem Eberbach brought to his cabin, bound securely to a sturdy beam, asking him questions his captive answers with curses. Then the knife play, the bastard is good with a knife. Touching his captive's cheek with it briefly. Sliding it along without breaking the skin. Then slowly cutting away the buttons of von dem Eberbach's uniform, one by one ... He obviously enjoys the hatred and indignation in his captive's blazing eyes. Opens the shirt to let his long, beautiful fingers caress bare flesh in feather-light touches, brushing a nipple ever so slightly – no, he is a Gentleman, he does not get cheap – not this time. Next are soft kisses to von dem Eberbach's face, his lips, chaste at first, then more bold – and he is unable to resist. Oh, that blond Devil likes to play with fire! He likes it rough! von dem Eberbach's kisses become more and more longing, hungry, his body aching with lust – Devil from hell, I hate you! – and he has shown him his hatred and disdain when released from his bonds, has torn apart the foppish clothing, brutally taken the beautiful muscular and yet slender body, knowing that he does exactly what the Devil wants, and not caring, not caring then that his opponent has been well prepared for his onslaught ... All that matters is unleashing his lust and fury, enjoying ravishing this beauty, enjoying the delicious humiliation of having his own entrance invaded by a slick finger, adapting to the motion of his own body, a promise enticing him, urging him on to thrust even deeper and harder ...

His captor is no fool, though. When he wakes up from an exhausted sleep, he is alone ...

The man at the helm beckons to his first officer, a sturdy fellow with a moustache, who takes over the wheel. Now the pirate comes up to his captive, slightly swaying to adapt to the movement of the ship.

von dem Eberbach does not answer, he looks into eyes the same colour as the sea on an especially bright day – no, different – perhaps a bit like the sky – azure ... His smile holds delicious promises – full of sin, shame and humiliation, and yet sweet and delirious ...

The picture blurred in front of von dem Eberbach's eyes, and his body jerked involuntarily when he woke up.

Damn! These dreams became more and more realistic. He must be seriously overworked, because they had never bothered him during a mission before. Oh damn! That dream had been so realistic, he had difficulties to shake it off. His body, however, did not seem to have reacted this time ... A good sign? Well, at least he was not tempted to masturbate, a temptation he had withstood manfully so far ... And would never give in to. Dreaming of that mop-headed blond idiot was bad enough!

Damn those hotel beds! He must have lain wrong somehow during the night, his muscles felt locked. Not that he cared, he was accustomed to far worse than a bed in a mediocre British hotel. Too soft, that was all. He concentrated on summing up the necessary data of the report he would write this evening: "Second of May, 1985, Marshbone Hotel, London, England. On assignment to locate missing scientist Patrick Retty before he can spill the beans on the new NATO fighter plane he helped develop. Whereabouts of Infuriating Fop: unknown. Resources: Z, R, U, W, Q. And G. T, A, and B in Prague. D slacking in hospital. J sent to Alaska."

Rather hot and smelly in here. Damn Brits. Thought I turned down the radiator before I went to bed. And these beds! Curse them. They pack the blasted sheets so firmly under the mattress that you feel like a mummy when you wake up!

He reached up to pull the sheet away from his head. At least, he tried to do so. Somehow, his muscles would not co-operate. Shit. He must have slept worse than he thought. He had never had such a dastardly feeling before – as if his body was all wrong. Damn it!

With more effort than usual, he managed to get the sheet away from his face, and saw ... something brown and hairy against the white sheet. A paw. Covered in short, dark brown fur. Short black claws. They looked non-extendable. A similar paw rested to the left of his head.