The Rogue Voice


September 01, 2007

Dalliance with Barbara Belle

I’d brought along a pearl necklace worth a king’s ransom and handed it to her, her eyes glinting green in the sun, piercing deep into mine

Suddenly she arose and unstrapped the dual pistols and let them fall to the cabin floor. She tossed aside the silk scarf circling her neck and unbuttoned her shirt…

Dalliance with Barbara Belle, Queen of Pirates
Excerpts from the Captain’s Journal

By Dennis Cutshaw

…Let’s see, pirates of the Spanish Main, where was I?…oh yes, flying like a herd of Pamplona stallions over the green-deep waters toward our day of destiny, a meeting with Lafitte and the unfolding of this little drama we are fated to unfold. The first two days sped by as we got our sea legs back and felt again the joy and privilege of driving this dashing steed of a ship through these roiling, dancing waters. But on the third day, a sail appeared on the horizon and we set sail and chased her down. She flew like an eagle but the lads were about their posts sprightly and we gained on her. Just as we drew within cannon range she unfurled the skull and crossbones and, bless my stars, when I laid my glass on her it was no less than Barbara Belle, Queen of the Pirates, at the helm. I’d heard of her—what lad hasn’t in this part of the world? She went toe-to-toe with all the great ones, Blackbeard, Captain Kidd, Bimini Bob, and never backed off. She came out of the Scottish highlands it was told, and embarked upon the pirate’s life in the full flower of her youth, with a fiery spirit and a way with a couple of Pearl-encrusted, twin-barreled derringers that put the fear of God into more than one mother’s son. And so, as we glided towards her that fair morning, I signaled the boys to raise the skull and bones and also the white dove flag, showing we meant her no harm….
It’s a life, scourges of the seven seas. Let’s see, Tortuga toughs, where was I?
…oh yes, crossing swords with bad Barbara Belle, pirate queen who’d proved herself in this dangerous game, and who I wanted no truck with. She dropped her mainsl’s off when we raised the white dove flag and stood and watched us from the foredeck—her legs planted wide, red leather boots going half-way up her thighs, pearl-encrusted pistols tucked in her waist-belt, red hair flying in the breeze. We drew up alongside her and a few of the lads tossed over the hooks and I strode down from the bridge to make my hellos. Barbara had a tough lookin’ bunch around her—she was the only woman aboard—and the deference they paid her, backing off with their heads down as she strode her way through to take my mettle showed who was in command. Well, I’d brought along a pearl necklace worth a king’s ransom and handed it to her, her eyes glinting green in the sun, piercing deep into mine…I realized I had better watch my step with this bonnie lass as she motioned me to follow her across the quarterdeck and down into her quarters.
A comfy cabin, with silks and brocade lining the walls and plush chairs; an oak table and several scrolls of maps scattered across it, a silver decanter of wine, which she lifted and poured two glasses. She leveled her gaze on me and said, “Aye, I’ve heard of ye, who hasn’t? And the bible-beaters you tossed into the Cartagena waters, the French galleons you took off Barbados—I would’ve had them myself, except for you—but at least I got the pearls,” said she, a twinkle in her eye, referring to my gift.
We lifted our glasses and drank the deep red wine. She had an imperious manner, a confident way about her. The skin of her hands and neck and face was smooth as alabaster and glowed with an energy from some deep source within. She leaned back languorously in her velvet-covered chair as she wheedled my life story out of me. We went through several more glasses of wine, neither of us much desirous of returning to our posts, and silently took stock of one another in a pleasurable way.
Suddenly she arose and unstrapped the dual pistols and let them fall to the cabin floor. She tossed aside the silk scarf circling her neck and unbuttoned her shirt, flipping it off, her white full breasts gleaming in the dappling light streaming in through the aft window. She stepped out of her red boots and lay back on her billowy bed, watching me. She was the Goddess herself, not the vaporous Lady of the Lake, but incarnated in flesh-and-blood right before me. What could I do, lads?
I went forth like the Prince of Barbados, falling upon her like a swan entering the sea. Her flesh rippled between my fingers, my toes flexed in ecstasy, my body jackknifed like a porpoise—

“WHOA, CAPTAIN! I ain’t no China doll!” says she.
“Pardonez-moi,” I say, using my best French, “but I’m at sea here myself, and no land in sight…”
Barbara cuts me off: “Keep the stanchions tied down ‘til the sails are reefed!”
What the hell does that mean? I’m thinking. I hesitate—Barbara stretched out languorously on the silken bed, a wisp of crimson hair falling alongside her cheek, making no effort to conceal herself. I leapt into the breech—that’s what pirates do, don’t they, leap into the breech?—and began following the contours of her body with my tongue, navigating a course of north to south—ah yes, what have we here? The fragrant melons of Barcelona. And here? The ripe cherries of Granada. And down here? The bulls of Pamplona—whoops—too far south!
“Touch me here!” Barbara commands, “and here and here and here and here.”
I begin hopping around like a monkey on a string, desperate to please her—my body feels full of lightning bolts, my flesh groaning like a mizzenmast caught in a typhoon.
“KEEP THE WHEEL INTO THE GALE!” shouts Barbara Belle, Queen of Pirates.
Sacrebleu!—I’m thinking, what the devil does that mean?
“RELEASE THE BALLAST!” she screams, her breasts flying hither and yon like rum kegs broken loose in a storm.
Meanwhile, I’m charting my own course on these treacherous seas, terrified as I am by the incomprehensible instructions issued from Captain Belle, who’s now astride me—her powerful thighs squeezing me like a python—my mind fogging. I start going under, sinking down, I am a bottom-dweller shunting along in the depths of some ancient sea—a cipher in the hand of God—and then I begin to rise-up, up, up—and suddenly explode in a burst of ecstasy—a vanilla mist shoots everywhere like silken rain.
Barbara screams: “MORE! MORE! DON’T STOP! DON’T STOP! Or it’s to the plank with you!”
Me—praying to the Saint of San Toreño for forgiveness, for succor, for a chance to survive this Scottish hellcat who now has grabbed a pair of bagpipes and has begun playing a frenzied highland jig, leaping around the bed, kicking chairs and tables into smithereens.
Finally, it ends. I lay back in a daze, and glance around—the stateroom is torn to pieces, a shredded curtain hangs haphazardly from the aft window, the huge teak desk has moved a good two meters.
“Well, Captain,” Barbara Belle said to me, “I’ll let you go this time, but if you’re not more sprightly topside you might walk the plank next time.”
(Do I detect a quick smile?) She dismissed me with a flick of her hand. I quickly pulled on my trousers and shirt and strode with what dignity I could muster to the door.
As I reached for the knob Barbara Belle called out: “See to it, Captain, you keep those knickers up. I get wind of any scuttlebutt about you with the lassies and it’s to Davy Jones locker with you…” and she brandished one of her derringers, squeezing off a shot which nicked one of my ear lobes.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I saluted, and backed out, bowing, and made my way unsteadily back to my ship, just glad to be alive, and wondering whether I was captain of anything, or just a lackey to the Scottish pirate Queen, bonnie Barbara Belle….§

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