Tonight, the ocean is restless beneath the Admire’s hull, and so am I. The scent of salt and steel clings to my skin, but my thoughts stray far from duty. I keep picturing your hands on my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, pressing me against the captain’s desk until the wood creaks. You’d fuck me like you’re claiming what’s yours—no pretenses, no polished speeches. Just my cunt dripping around your cock while I struggle to keep my voice steady enough to give orders. Imagine the scandal if the crew heard their captain moaning like a whore between navigational drills. Perhaps I want them to know. Let them see how well I take discipline, even when my thighs are shaking. Come remind me who really commands this vessel. (And for the Ark’s sake, don’t bring wine—last time I let you pour it over my tits, Anchor had to mop the bridge for hours.)