Jack:
The trouble with the Royal Navy is the uniforms. I mean, it's really not fair. Oh, so a man's broken a law or two; fine, chain him up; but it really should not be allowed that the officers of the law are made so distractingly attractive. It messes with a man's mind, see? Befuddles his thoughts and tangles his tongue; and just when he thinks he's regained control of his lust-drenched mind, one of them will turn, and the sumptuously brocaded coat will flare out just so, dragging one's mind with it, spiralling away to bask in the depths of depravity. If it's not the coat causing trouble with its shiny buttons, bucket cuffs and hidden depths, it's those breeches and stockings; so very, very white and oh so torturously tight.

I must, therefore, conclude that Commodore Norrington is an inhumane spawn of evil; keeping me chained up here on deck instead of hidden in the bowels of the ship like any decent man would; keeping me here, forcing me to watch each and every move he and his lieutenants make, for if my head droops for even the slightest measure of time, one of them is at my side, hand behind my neck, cup of fresh water at my lips. A decent man would string me from the yardarm, not prolong the agony of capture by carrying me back to Port Royal 'for a fair trial'. How can any trial be 'fair' when I'll be surrounded by men in such beautifying uniforms?

Oh no, not again; here he comes to check up on me. Of all the fine specimens of manhood aboard this ship, I have to admit the commodore is the finest. Chiselled features, leanly muscular frame, dusky green eyes peering superciliously down at me.

"God, I want to fuck you."

Oh shit! Did I really just say that out loud? I must have done; surely that twitch of a cheek muscle indicated amusement? Now he's calling some men to rig up a bit of shade for me; he's telling them I'm delirious. Now he's bending down and whispering in my ear, "A condemned man is entitled to one final request." He winks, twirls and glides away across the deck of his ship.

James:
As I leave the seamen improvising a shelter for the pirate, I wonder why I responded to his outburst the way I did. Was it simply the raw hunger I heard in his statement? Was it simply a desire to shock him as his words had shocked me? The bald desire in his voice and my instant knowledge of how to reply and gain the upper hand was in such stark contrast to any communication between myself and my fiancée, Miss Swann.

My step almost falters as I realise the harm my ill-advised words may cause. What if he should decide to take me up on my 'offer'? Even the possibility that he might mention my whispered words to someone else; I feel a chill though I stand in the full glare of the midday sun. Surely even he would not dare so much. Would he? It would be well if I avoided direct contact with him. I'll delegate responsibility for his welfare to a lieutenant. It will have to be Gillette; Groves is too frequently prey to fits of adoration where the pirate is concerned.