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"Who's to Say?" A Titanic Story

lzamora

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Feb 27, 2006
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Ever wonder about the untold stories sunk beneath the Atlantic with one of marine time's greatest tragedies?

Who’s to Say?
A Titanic Story

Leaving

Someone, somewhere had deemed her, “unsinkable” and rightfully so I’d imagine. Never had I laid eyes on something so vast, so bold, and so powerful. It was, in itself, a statement glorifying the hands of man. And there I was, waiting to board its belly.
The line I stood in ran almost as long as the ship itself. A pesky woman who reeked of sour milk stood to my front, babbling on about her family, and how this trip was the beginning of a new life for them. She must have been crazy because nobody within ten feet of us seemed remotely invested in her. Either way, I listened, mumbling back sparingly, so as not to be rude. Several whistles later I was at the front of the line, luggage in hand waiting to be beckoned forth for inspection.

He was a short, portly man of which a dirt brown uniform did not ally. His stubby fingers excited my scalp as he combed through my short black hair, looking for lice. It wasn’t for me, but I couldn’t quite make out what he mumbled next. My brown eyes followed. I wasn’t too sure what he was looking to find in them, maybe he was just peering into my soul, determining whether or not I truly wanted to embark on this voyage. After a thorough pat down that saw him cup my breasts for what I can only assume was not part of the inspection, I was allowed on board. I’d considered reporting his little breast cupping to the master at arms, but concluded that an immigrant’s word was worth next to nothing.

To the high society, we’d come to be referred to as, “bottom dwellers”, seeing as how regulation only allowed us on upper decks at certain times. The term didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t let it. After all, I had just boarded the grandest ship in the world, same as them, and in a few days, I’d be touching down on America soil, same as them. If they truly were better than me, they wouldn’t need a machine to take them across the Atlantic.

I couldn’t ask for better accommodations as I found my quarters and settled in. I was one of the lucky ones. With the ship at less than full capacity, some of our rooms were only half occupied. Two twin sized bunk beds meant me and my cabin mate could both occupy the highly coveted bottom bunk, if we so pleased.

Her name was Carla Anderson. Plump for an immigrant, she was about my age, if I had to guess, and about as bland as me, with a pale pigment and deep brown eyes. If there was one uniqueness though, it would have been her flaming red hair. You could have picked her from a crowd the way it stood erect on one end as if a lightning bolt had frizzed it through and through. It made for a good conversation starter, and before long we were lost in each other’s playful stories. Me, on about a tooth I’d chipped chomping down on a tree, back when I thought they were made of chocolate. Her about how excited she was to taste a, “real” American burger.
It wasn’t long before the ship at set sail that the scent of freshly baked bread stirred our stomachs as we were called forth for dinner. The halls were more immaculate than anything I could have conjured, and I’d have felt under dressed for the occasion had I been the only one to show up in moth eaten garments.

A simple meal of brown rice soup, sat well with me as it’s warmth circled my stomach and put an end to its grumbling. Carla had taken to sipping her tea as the upper class do, a pinky elevated skyward.

“Can you imagine being wealthy?” she asked me.

I couldn’t. My imagination didn’t stir far beyond what my eyes had already seen. So, I answered, the only way I knew how.

“My father used to say that ignorance is bliss. Besides, I don’t mind being who I am.”

“Oh come now Johanna. Surely you mustn’t mean that,” she prodded.

“If your idea of wealth is haughty behavior and the delusion of entitlement, by all means enjoy in your folly,” I said with conviction. “now, if you’ll excuse me, a lady desires some fresh air and a cigarette.”

I had neither. The privilege of going above third class was forbidden, and smokes weren’t a luxury I possessed. Never the less, I parted ways with my cabin mate as she opted to converse with the others sitting along the stretch of table we were forced to commune upon.

Simply by Chance

The salty air of the Atlantic made quick work of my nerve endings, sending gooseflesh down my body with one swift breeze as I tiptoed my way onto the back end of the ship. Scarce were the faces out on deck. Only a few women, draped in luxurious threads, fixated at the night sky. So clear it was, that I wanted to reach up and pluck a star to hold in my hands. Leaning up against the railing was an older man. His suit was bright, contrasting the night. He too was gazing up at the stars, only he, held something of interest. On a nearby bench I saw what I could only presume were his effects; a coat, a pocket watch, and rustic case of cigarettes. Pretending to belong, I kept to a slow yet tranquil pace towards the bench, but no sooner had my hands clasped down on those smokes that he’d turned around to catch me in the act.

“Beggin’ your pardon miss?”

I dropped the case and save for my tattered threads, I was still as a statue. I wanted to run, I wanted to hide, I wanted for this all to be over, but my feet sat frozen in his cold dead stare.

“See, I figured to myself, that is, I could be sneaky, of sorts, and swipe a smoke off a man who wouldn’t miss…”

“Save it,” he said, cutting me off.

The rest is pretty self-explanatory and while I felt them a bit excessive, Iron clasps shackled my wrists. As it turned out, the man whose cigarettes I’d attempted to steal belonged to first class passenger William Brayton, a wealthy historian who was returning to New York from Southampton. At the very least, and though it was of no particular interest, high society’s trappings were amongst me. I sat in a chair draped in this fine red cloth that’s tiny fuzzy bristles were soft to the touch and seemed to change hues depending on which way I’d run my hands across it. Gold was another color surrounding me, likely false, but eye catching none the less. As my eyes had just about devoured the room and its visual marvel, in walked a young suit who looked to be just a shade older than me. I’d never seen a more shapely jawline. He was quick to notice I’d been sorely misplaced, but that didn’t stop him from smiling.

“I didn’t know my father took to shackling his interviewees,” he snickered.

His peach colored skin radiated off the lights, keeping me tongue tied, entranced.

“No.”

It was all I could say. Other words escaped me.

“Well then, what manner of business finds you shackled tonight?” he inquired, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair.

“I’d rather not discuss it,” I said, lowering my head to stare at my confinement.

“Just the same, my name is Daniel,” he said, extending his hand.

I glanced up into his blue eyes, glistening, and I took his hand. His fingers enveloped my frail hand in a firm handshake that made my skin crawl. I’d tried to convince myself it was the night air, only we were within confined quarters, with not a lick of wind to be felt.

“Johanna,” I mustered.

His touch was short lived as Brayton senior returned, baring a wince. Having deemed my tender age of eighteen, too young for any grueling punishment, the master at arms suggested that I be let off with a warning. I might have opted for the punishment, had I known a lengthy, one-sided conversation about theft awaited me.

Daniel had taken to a corner of the room, and with his father winded from an overblown speech, he exited without having realized his son was still about.

“Well that pretty much explains everything,” Daniel said once his father was off.

He pulled, from behind his ear, a tightly rolled sack of tobacco, “Come up with me. Let’s have a smoke.”

“Your dad won’t mind you hanging out with a peasant girl?” I asked hesitantly.

“Don’t worry; he doesn’t have to know,” Daniel answered brashly.

Without giving it another thought, I escaped with him up the steps and out onto the promenade deck where a variety of well to dos sat muttering amongst themselves. Vague whispers let on that money was the topic of conversation, money and now me as their eyes cast upon my tattered threads.

“Not to sound ungrateful, but if I could just take the smoke and go,” I asked, turning to leave.

“Hold on a minute. Does something vex thee?” he asked, blocking my exit.

“It’s just that, I’m… I’m uncomfortable up here,” I said, taking a low tone.

“Oh? And where might you find comfort?” his words were so eloquent.

I breathed deep, fearing I’d upset him with what I was about to say. Still, it needed to be said, “Away from you socialites. Sorry.”

His reaction was hardly what I saw coming as he gasped sarcastically, “Oh really? You think me a socialite?”

No longer intimidated, I put treading cautiously behind me, “Well, yes. You’re all the same; nothing better to do than measure your wealth and prey on the less fortunate to see who you can trump next.”

Daniel’s gaping mouth made me giggle.

“Well aren’t we testy,” he said raising a brow.

I savored the taste of my tobacco before responding, “I said I was sorry.”

He turned stern for a moment, just a moment, “That does not give you the freedom to address people in such manor of disrespect.”
I rolled my eyes, taking my sweet time inhaling the fumes, “Well I’m sorry if I’m not one of those high class astute types that adhere to your beck and call.”

He stared down at me, possibly trying to find a weakness in my stubborn ways, “It has nothing to do with class. It has everything to do with what’s in there,” he pointed to my heart, “to judge a person, solely on their threads is not the way to go about things.”

His words sat with me for a while and sank into my knees till they knocked together from conviction, “Perhaps I misjudged you Mister Brayton.”

I would have lied to myself had I said it was the buzz off my cigarette that was causing a rush of heat to flush my cheeks. Nervousness had settled in as his proximity to my bosom had come to within an inch.

“I’m afraid I must depart,” he whispered, looking at his pocket watch.

“Do you have to?” I asked, loosely gripping his arm.

I watched with intent eyes, as he pondered his options, “My father will scold me if I don’t make an appearance at his round table.”

His answer was unsatisfying, but I did my best not to let it show. After all, of the two, why would he have picked me; a lowly peasant girl of whom he’d just met?

“Well, thanks again for the smoke,” I say, turning to leave.

His voice barely exceeded a whisper as he placed his hand on my shoulder before I could scurry away, “Wait.”

I do believe it was the fastest I’d ever spun around, “Yes?”

Looking at him now, it appeared as though the nerves had transferred, “Would you… oh, I don’t know.”

I took his bicep in my grasp and squeezed it, “Go on then,” I egged.

“Would you be interested in having tea with me tomorrow morning this same spot?” he blurted.

My heart fluttered rapidly, almost instantly, after his words reached my ears, “I’d be delighted.”

His chest appeared ten pounds lighter as he embraced a smile that stretched across his cheeks, “Splendid. You know, my little sister is about your size. If you’d like, you’re more than welcome to pick something of hers off her wardrobe. Surely she won’t miss it.”

I felt slightly offended, but did my best to keep the conversation jovial with just a pinch of sass, “What? You think a third-class lady can’t dress? Don’t judge me by these garments alone Mister Brayton.”

I stormed off. I wasn’t mad; I just wanted him to think I was.

As I scurried towards steerage I found myself putting everything in perspective thanks to my run in with the Brayton’s. From what I’d heard, the ship had been built with immigrants in mind, but the difference in accommodations now made me think otherwise.

Maintaining a noiseless entry, I walked in on Carla, scribbling something on a piece of paper, “And just where have you been young lady?”

I said it sarcastically, “Sorry mother,” but my big secret was just eating me up too much not to tell, “I met a boy!”

Carla bounced off her bed and shared a giggle at my expense. My face must have been tomato red, “I knew it! Oh come tell! And don’t leave out the details.”

“Wait, you knew?” I asked in confusion.

“Oh please, it’s written all over your face,” she teased, “I take it you returned to the dining hall after I’d left?”

I shook my head and proceeded to lay out the events of the evening from my attempted theft up to my meeting with Daniel. It was a subtle shift, still I noticed how her eyes went from happy to sad, as I approached the end of my story.

“Well that’s never going to work,” She muttered plainly.

By now I’m gushed with starry eyed hope, putting faith in words I thought I’d never say, “I know what you’re thinking. He’s rich, and I’m nobody, but trust me Carla, he’s different from the rest.”

“I do hope you’re right. Now, what are you going to wear to tea?” she asked with intrigue.

I scoured my sack, wishing that by some miracle an elegant dress would fabricate out of the musty air trapped within my belongings.

There was no such luck. It was then I regrettably thought back to Daniel and how beautifully his suit hung off him, sharp, clean, and vibrant.

“I’ve got nothing,” I shrugged in defeat.

She seemed reluctant, but Carla reached for her sack and pulled from it, a black and white pinstriped dress, “It was my mother’s. It’s everyday wear, but better than anything you’ve got, by a mile.”

I was beyond feeling offended by her comment; infatuation has a way of derailing such negative emotion.

The fabric felt course and rough as I let it glide along my skin, nothing like the chair I’d run my hand over during my confinement. Smiling politely, I laid it on my bed, flattened, knowing a night’s time to be too short to work out the wrinkles, “Thank you.”

An Appointment for Tea


For those of us in steerage, communal showers offered no privacy, so I woke up extra early to avoid having my naked body being ogled by any of the seven hundred occupants literally itching for a shower. At the very least, one of Titanic’s many luxuries was the inclusion of its own brand of soap which I used abundantly over my body; particularly on my sweaty armpits and backside.

Carla had barely begun to stir upon my return, greeting me with a warm smile as she stretched her ridged bones out of bed to watch me get dressed. My hair, fanned in no particular direction, still dripped heavily as I poured the dress over my body, “I’m swimming in it.”

The dress all but blanketed my frail frame, making us both giggle.

“I might have something for that,” Carla said, sifting through her sack, “turn around.”

As I spun on my heel to give her my back, the dress twirled to the limits of our cabin space. Gently tightening the garment, she folded over the excess fabric and fastened it securely with safety pins.

“That will have to do,” she laughed, picking the lint off my sleeves.

Dabbing what little make-up she owned onto my face assured she’d no longer have use for her compact.

“Thank you for this,” I whispered.

“Anything for a friend, now you go knock his socks off!” she exclaimed, pushing me towards the door.

A mirror wasn’t something either of us had at our disposal, so it was with blind faith that I stepped out into the narrow third-class corridors and up the steps towards first class.

Walking briskly towards me was an officer, his many accomplishments hanging off his uniform. Not wanting to be discovered, I took refuge behind a column that engulfed my body, keeping me out of sight until his heavy footsteps were far off and away.

I remained behind the column for a moment, regrouping my courage, then I proceeded to where Daniel had said to meet him.

We were a distance, still as I watched him, looking out for me, I suddenly felt unsure of everything. The dress had me in fidgets as its rough fabrics itched against my skin. My mind remained aloof, searching for some common ground that would tether us. What could a peasant girl of Southampton possibly have in common with a well to do socialite from New York? I was destined to find out now, as he’d caught me in his peripheral and ushered me forth.

His perplexed look was enough to let me know I stood slightly unrecognizable from yesterday to today as I forced my feet towards him steadily so as not to trip over my lengthy garment.

Pleasantries were exchanged as he approved of my pink cheeks, my hair, and dress, all of which I happily accepted, despite the preconceived notion that he’d likely seen better girls in his lifetime.

Never before had I laid eyes on such elegant china. White Star Line had certainly spared no expense, and it showed as every dainty little plate gleamed vibrantly under the rays of the rising sun. At Daniel’s every whim, trays upon trays of tiny hors devours were brought forth, and it was then that I came to realize, tea time wasn’t limited to a hot beverage.

Dish by dish we sampled the best of what Titanic’s chefs had to offer. We started with crisp cucumber sandwiches. Little bites, but vastly refreshing. Tiny cornbread muffins followed. They were crumbly, and held a hint of honey in each. Mouthwatering biscuits, of which I came to enjoy most out of the three, rounded out our little carousel of delights. Scattered with blueberries, I’d come to find, they tasted even better when dipped in tea.

“Care for some ice-cream?” Daniel asked.

Up until then, I’d only ever sparingly heard the name, but not wanting to appear an imbecile, I replied with the widest of eyes, “Oh yes, that’d be swell.”

He’d fallen for my ruse, with grace, “You’ve tried ice-cream have you?” he says in surprise.

“What? You think you’re the only ones’ privy to such delicacies?” I fib.

Third class passengers were lucky to get an apple with their suppers, at best. And the thought of trying ice-cream had my taste buds running wild with such excitement, it was hard for me not to let it show.

“I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect,” he said in a lowered tone.

He ushered forth our waiter and motioned for him to bring forth two scoops of the dairy rich desert.

Seeking something to fill the time I asked Daniel if he would be so kind as to engage me in a game of pinky swears.

“Pardon?” he replied.

“Come now Mister Brayton, you can’t tell me a man of your stature has never heard of a pinky swear!” I smiled, nudging my hand towards his, “come, hook your pinky like this.”

He shrugged his shoulders, unsure of it all, but playfully outstretched his arm.

I entwined my finger around his, giving it a light squeeze, “There. Now reveal to me a secret, and in turn I’ll do the same.”

He chuckled at the oddness of my ways, “Okay. Once, many years ago, my father was hosting a party with his, ‘well to dos’ as you would put it. I was coming of age, so he suggested I attend, just to get a feel for how parties were coordinated. Somehow my cranberry juice got swapped for merlau. It was a most bitter substance, but not wanting to appear ungrateful, I drank the entire glass. Before long the chandelier was spinning, and I was laughing like a lunatic at even the most modest of gestures. A stutter would set me off. I became so unbearable I was sent for, like a child, and sequestered to my room. My behind consumed an ample amount of leather that night.”

As Daniel’s story aroused my funny bone. the waiter returned, barring two mounds of a creamy white substance. With vapors fuming from it, I could only assume that it was indeed as ice cold as per its namesake.

“Now it’s your turn,” Daniel said, scraping at his desert.

The cold substance made my jaw throb with pain as I eased the spoon into my mouth, but its deliciously sweet and silky-smooth texture more than make up for that.

“Do you like it?” Daniel asked through his own spoonful.

With my mouth locked in an attempt to swallow the heaping lump I’d gluttonously shoved in my mouth, I’m forced to just nod in agreement.

“So Johanna, what pray tell, is a little secret you have stowed away?” he persisted.

I tapped my spoon against the fine china used to serve our ice-cream. Each tap brought me closer to the realization that I simply could not compete with chandeliers and fine brandy.

“When I was a little girl, no more than eight years of age, my mother sent me into town to sell our only cow. Money was scarce and such. As I shuffled about the market, searching for Hellen’s next owner, I came upon a tent, where a lowly man offered me magic beans in return for our cow. Being of susceptible age, I agreed, taking home five little white beans. Of course, mother was furious. She couldn’t believe what I’d done. Well she tossed those beans out our window, and wouldn’t you know, in a few days’ time, a stalk began to sprout, extending into the heavens.”

It was at this point, Daniel had heard enough of my finely spun fabrication, “I believe I’ve heard this fable before. Spirited effort, Miss Johanna.”

After both our bellies were well and full, we sat quietly and immersed our ears to the sounds of the ship slicing through the water. And it’s in this air of silence that I finally decide to ask what’s been on my mind since the previous night.

“Why me?”

My words shook Daniel from his tranquil state as he sat upright and quietly responded, “No man alive would even dream of stealing from my father. That fact that you even tried, is very bold of you. And the fact that you’re a woman…”

“You think me bold Mister Brayton?” I asked, looking him straight in the eye.

“Your actions speak for themselves. You could have just as easily avoided my invitation, yet you chose to accept it; likely braving past the ship’s officers just to get here,” he explained.

Deciding I’d heard enough about myself, I changed the subject, “So, what awaits you in New York?”

“Idealistically, medical school. Though my father, well, he doesn’t quite share in my dream. ‘History, that’s the way of it’. It’s something he’s constantly on about,” Daniel sighed, “the way I see it, of the two of us, you have an enviable life.”

Before he’d associated the word’s, “enviable” and, “life” to my name, I’d scanned our table and its dainty little whatsits. Just a handful of effects would have doubled my material worth.

“How do you mean, Mister Brayton?” I asked sharply.

Timid as a sparrow branching out for the first time, Daniel weighed his words, “History. That’s been my life for as long as I can remember it. Fact is, that’s where my father is now. Gloating with his friends about his latest acquisition, the remains of one Egyptian sarcophagus. Wherever there’s history to be made, my father is either there or not too far off. My life has been one endless façade, repetitious, and predictable. It’s as if my story is being written right before my very eyes, and I have no say in any of it.”

There was an honesty in him that I could not look past, a gaping wound longing to be healed. Knowing it would likely lead us to seclusion and privacy, I reminded him of his proposition, to which he happily replied, “Come on then. My sister and I share quarters, but you’d be hard pressed not to find her down at the pool. She loves to swim.”

A Callous Heel

Adorned in gold filigree and auburn walls of the densest woods, Daniel’s room was a wonder. His bed, a perfect square as white as the ice-cream we’d just devoured, swallowed him up as he plopped down on its center. We were alone. For as hard as it was to believe, we were alone.

His sister’s armoire, with a glossy stained finish, held a tightly compact bundle of garments, all of which held a unique sense of fashion within their threads. It was an honor just to run my fingers through their frills, and breathe the sweet fragrances, floating off their shoulders.

I settled on one. It was black as the night, high-waisted, with a large laced collar accentuating the chest.

“Go on then, I’ll close my eyes,” Daniel said as I flattened the dress against my frame.

It was silly of me to think he’d abide by his words, but I sank into the chair adjacent to him anyway, and proceeded to peel off my mud encrusted boots. My callous heels did not go unnoticed.

“Dear God Miss Johanna! Surely you’ve got something for those!” he exclaimed.

I quickly concealed them behind the black dress, ashamed of their existence, “They’re of no bother, I assure you.”

With my reassurance shaky at best, it wasn’t long before he was scouring his sister’s effects. With a small glass jar in hand, he ushered me to join him atop the bed, which I willingly obliged to.

“This is Vaseline,” he said, showing me the label.

As he applied the thick slimy substance onto the cracks of my skin, I listened to him recount the tale of Robert Augustus, a British chemist, responsible for discovering its regenerative capabilities. Inadvertently, just as Daniel was passionately regaling me, I felt the immediate urge to snicker.

“Find this amusing, do you?” he said sternly.

It wasn’t his words that had brought forth merriment. I was in fact enjoying the story. Rather it was in the cautious strokes of my foot, from which I derived an innate response. It tickled.

“Nonsense. It’s just that… see well…,” for all my yearning, I couldn’t find the words.

I didn’t have to. He understood. Which is why I suppose he took to stroking my arch with a more liberated finger.

Watching my lips purse to stifle laughter must have sparked his enthusiasm as he smiled, teasing more than just my physicality, “Does this please you, Miss Johanna?”

It was a struggle to keep from pulling my foot away from the palm of his hand. A part of me, wanted to, but being one with his touch was a welcome experience at any expense.

“Yesss… he-he-he… very much so-ho-ho!” I giggled, falling back onto the bed to embrace the supple mattress.

Surrendering to his touch I put up no struggle, nor did I refute, when he straddled my knees to stroke my soles some more.

It came in waves, crawled up my calves and beyond my thighs, this heightened gaiety of a single finger scribbling circles around my arches.

“Oh Mister Brayton-na-ha-ha… you’re quite good at this-see-he-he!”

“Why thank you, Miss Johanna,” he playfully uttered back.

As his fingers continued to pitter against my now slickened skin, I gripped his bed sheets tightly within my fingers; anything to keep them from taking a swing at the back of his head.

“YEE-HE-HE… GOODNESS ME-HE-HE… HAVE YOU DONE THIS BEFORE-HA-HA-HA?!” I cackled.

He turned to face me. I must have looked a fright, because I could just about feel the heat resonating off my cheeks as I scrunched my nose and bared my teeth.

“You be the first, to experience such pleasure on my behalf,” he said sportingly.

I would have hardly called it as such, but perhaps in entertaining his own desires, vocabulary wasn’t as concerning to him as it was to me.
Turning his attention to my toes, which had been wiggling in accordance with the stimulations surrounding them, he weaved his fingers into their gaps, sequestering them still and motionless. I’d have begged him right then and there to have mercy on me, had laughter not commandeered my cracked vocals.

“WHA-HA-HE-HE… GOODNESS ME-HE-HE… THIS IS INCORRIGIBLE!” I yelled.

In all the fuss of my body’s involuntary movements, my garment, ever valiantly holding together, hand slunk up my thighs, exposing a pair of faded underdrawers. Unsightly things they were, one of two pairs I’d rotate throughout the week. However, I seemed the only one bothered by them, as Daniel, upon casting his eyes on my legs, sprawled about the bed till his hands lay on my knees.

“Wait!” I cried.

He kept his hands holstered, at his sides, fingers, relaxed.

“What drives a man such as yourself to these infantile practices?” I had to ask.

He nodded his head, probably coming to the realization that our current state was hardly that of two mature adults.

“There is nothing more appealing to me than the sounds of a woman’s boisterous laughter. I desire it, I crave it, and Miss Johanna, if I may be so bold, yours is in a state next to godliness.”

I wasn’t too sure how to feel, or what to make of his confession. All I knew was that he seemed happiest in this moment, subjecting my body to his hands. And as it was all I had to offer, I surrendered wholeheartedly, that he may, if but for an encapsulation, forget that which ailed him.

“Then go forth Mister Brayton. Make me laugh,” I said mischievously.

Deeming my underdrawers too loose, Daniel’s fingers clamped down on my hips and ran them down my legs, taking the garment down with them.

The sun, having now just started to peek through his room windows illuminated my thin legs, their ghastly white complexion, and the thick patch of curls fluffed atop my most sacred body part.

“You are infinitely beautiful,” he whispered, dangling his fingers over my thighs.

His revere, and its unquestionable validity was realized, in the way he cautiously approached my body, hesitant to the touch. So hesitant, I had to encourage him to try harder.

Taking his hands in mine, I gently maneuvered them towards my boney hips, lying perfectly still, awaiting to be awakened.

“Here,” I instructed.

A gentle set of gyrating thumbs, was all it took to send my body in motion.

“Tha-ha-hat’s better… mmm-hmm ha-ha!”

He eased into it, much like he had with my feet. And within moments, a full-scale attack was ascending on my torso. I fought hard to keep my arms elevated and away from the action. In truth, all my bodily functions were ailing me to get him away, and bring an end to the ceaseless streams of sensations.

“WHOOO-HOO-HOO… MY GOSH… GEE-HE-HE… OH THAT TICKLES-SA-HA-HA!”

Eventually he found a tender spot below my groin I simply could not ignore as my hands gravitated towards his, and pulled them away.

“I can’t… My hands won’t allow it.”

“Then let’s tie those hands, shall we?”

Remembering his father’s ironclad shackles Daniel, livid, rushed to his father’s quarters leaving me momentarily alone with my thoughts.

I placed a pillow over my groin for fear of an eavesdropper happening upon my presence. And as I did there was an underwhelming shame to it all, that we be hidden and our actions immoral. Fortunately, the thought didn’t have time to fester me, because the sight of Daniel clumsily striding in with the clanking of chains at each step made me laugh, putting me at peace with my decisions.

“Oh I’ll give you something to laugh about soon enough Miss Johanna, mark my words.”

He secured the door, fastening a latch to ensure our privacy. I, in turn, had already surrendered my hands, lifting them above my head so that they be properly restrained to the bed frame.

“Eager, are we?” he said, shackling my wrists.

“I’ve always been adventurous,” I said, licking my lips.

The rosy pink pillow was tossed aside, exposing me once more to the slight chill that danced about my body. In concurrent motion, Daniel straddled my knees, and immersed himself in adoration, exciting my skin with light fingertip traces along a pattern of tiny moles.

“So soft. So smooth.”

His whispers trailed off into the atmosphere as I cringed with anticipation, nervously awaiting my descent into madness. I fiddled with my restraints, rubbing their thick metal links between my fingers, and then it happened.

With a formidable grip on either thigh, he massaged my tender flesh. It wasn’t instant, my resolve was admirable, but his thumbs, consistent in their radial thrusts, sent insurmountable titillations throughout the borders of my slender body.

“GLEE-HE-HE-HE… OH BOTHER-RA-HA-HA… OH MISTER BRAYTON!”

Thrust into this state of bewilderment, my body was not of its own. My arms, for all my efforts, flailed brashly. My legs, trembled. My hips, ascended, causing bits of disheveled bed sheet to cling between the folds of my clenched backside.

“You look a might possessed there, Miss Johanna. Shall I call a priest?” he joked.

His words were met with only more laughter, as he further delved deeper into my thighs; till his thumbs aroused, what I would conclude to be, a very ‘touchy’ muscle.

“WHOAH-HA-HA… OH MERCY… PLEE-HE-HE-HEASE!”

He paused, and I recouped enough to coherently express my discontent.

“That… That be a trifle too much Mister Brayton,” I spoke softly.

Knuckles against the door, made my heart shoot its way into my throat, a throbbing lump shortening my breaths as my thoughts immediately withdrew from our innocent escapade.

Fortunately for me, Daniel didn’t seem at all phased; telling me to stay still and quiet as a mouse, while he shrouded me in satin throws until all but the soles of my feet lay covered. As much as I stiffened and steadied myself, there was absolutely nothing I could do about the beat of my heart, poised to erupt at any moment.

Daniel’s voice, distorted, answered the door with eloquence in his words, as he smoothly explained to our passerby ‘twas a nightmare that had evoked such elevated screams. The reassuring “click” of the door, eased my body back into a state of relaxation, still, I wondered if it worth pursuing our venture any further.

I was met with a smile as he rapidly peeled away the trappings, strewing them across the dark rusted carpet.

“You, Miss Johanna, are causing quite the stir about our neighboring suites. What to do?” he pondered, taping his chin.

I had to give him points for passion and persistence as he scoured the room for an answer to our dilemma. I was however, not too enthused with what he had balled up between his fingers.

“This sock should stifle your screams, least we get more eavesdroppers concerning themselves with our business,” he said, thumbing at a loose thread within its intricate patterns.

It wouldn’t have been the worst thing I’d put in my mouth. The privilege of that honor would have gone to my mother’s squirrel stew. Too rich and gamey to be remotely enjoyable, it was more of a fill up, than a pleasure to consume.

Just as I was about to widen my mouth and accept the soot stained foot sleeve, Daniel’s pocket square, peeking just above his right breast, glimmered in the sun.

“Hey, why not your handkerchief?” I blurted.

He tugged on his coat, which up until now he’d been comfortable wearing.

“My pocket square? In your mouth?” he said, wicking his finger against the dark blue cotton.

“You think me unworthy to salivate over your precious little pocket square?” I asked, raising a brow.

Showing I still had control over some things, he tossed the sock aside and whipped his pocket square from his coat.

“Open sesame,” he said, inching it closer to my face.

I graciously devoured the garment which tasted of stale smoke and sea salt, assuming a statue like posture as he reunited his hands with my body.

He traced, with inconsistencies, the ghastly flesh the comprised my midriff. Two fingers, then four, then eight, until both his hands were working in unison on either side of me. I could lay still no longer.

“MMM-HMM-HMM… WHMM-HMMM,” I mumbled through my gag.

The only statement that remained lied in my restraints, subtle clanks as the ironclads clashed to my arms and their instinctive resolve to wrap around my waist.

In his explorations, he hit a nerve right below my navel that summoned a most peculiar response. Instead of trying to sink deeper into the mattress, as any sane person would have done, I found my waist flexing upwards as if involuntarily inviting him to prolong his stay.

“Doth I detect enjoyment below this scrumptious little button of yours?” he asked, beginning to circulate the circumference of my navel.

A mere whimper was all I could produce before his finger plunged into the center of my stomach. It wiggled, and I in turn flopped about the bed as much as I could under his weight.

Torture. I thought to myself. Pure torture.

Of course, having never experienced such practices, it was inevitable that I’d eventually walk blindly into the drawbacks of such fancies. And as my tiring arms gave one last valiant effort to escape their bonds, my chains clanking in ecstasy, Daniel managed to put the proverbial frosting on the cake.

His breath was warm; his stubble, pricked my skin to the point of gooseflesh, but it was his tongue, cold and slippery along my belly, that really heightened my senses beyond that of irritability.

“MMM-HMM-HMM… WOMMMB… UMM-MMM-HMM!” I strained.

Far be it from my restrained vocals to illustrate the agony cascading in waves across my skin. My feet twitched, brazenly. My hands, with all that they were, clamped down on the bed frame embracing the thick glossy mahogany. My hips, and their newfound strength, rocked Daniel about like a rodeo clown. Yet, none of it seemed to matter to him, as he fed off my incessant moans and erratic fidgets.

With his face buried near my ribs, he made use of his free hands, sending them behind my arched back to playfully twiddle my backside. His fingers eased beyond my skin and into the delicate nerves and muscles that wondrously made up my supple flesh.

“HMMMM-MMM-OMMM-HMM-HMM… MISTER BRAYTON!” I managed his name.

He paused and stared up at me, a devious smile about his face.

“Have we had enough Miss Johanna?” he asked, reaching for his crumpled pocket square.

Saliva dripped down the sides of my mouth, and stretched onto my bosom as he pulled the cursed thing away from me.

“Oh goodness… I do believe… that I’m all out of giggles… Mister Brayton,” I said, near breathlessness.

With compassion set in his eyes, he strung himself alongside me to release my wrists from their confinement. And though my cheeks flush and my hair tussled, laden with sweat, I pressed my face to his as we aligned.

It was a short embrace, but I savored every last ounce of his lips to mine. When he pulled away quickly, regrettably almost, I caught myself in his eyes. I saw no class or stature. There was nothing to discern us. There were only two people, sharing a moment.

My abdominals felt as though a torch had coursed through them as I sat upright to search for my undergarment, but as I bent down to retrieve it, crumpled carelessly along the ground, Daniel kicked it away.

“Those wretched things, you will no longer associate with,” he said pointing towards his sister’s armoire.

Bloomers, he called them. They weren’t as long as underdrawers, and not near as loose. Their ruffles along the back, added a flare to my less than flattering bottom. Though they’d be a tight fit, Carla came to mind as he handed me three pairs to go with the one’s I’d already slipped on. A fresh set of shoes proved to be the only thing he couldn’t spare as he recounted his sister’s strange necessity to keep a certain amount on hand.

The black dress I’d selected fit to within inches of my body, but before I could ogle it, before I could even twirl around in it, a jiggling door handle set me straight. I’d overstayed my welcome and I had to leave.

I kissed him once more, a measly peck on his cheek, and thanked him for the privilege of his company. With Carla’s dress under one arm and a fresh set of bloomers under the other, I escaped onto the deck, through a window pane, slipping seamlessly into a small crowd enthralled by a set of spinning tops, gliding seamlessly across the hardwood.
 
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Another great story...well written!
 
You are the best author on the forums. Another great job.
 
You never disappoint! I can tell you did some research for this one. There really was an Egyptian artifact on board the ship. Some say that it's what cursed the ship.
 
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