Natasha’s POV

The heat consumed me from within.

I’d thought I understood pain—the ache of hauling nets in freezing rain, the sting of rope burn on raw palms, the exhaustion of sixteen-hour days at sea. But this was different. This was fire crawling through my veins, burning away reason, leaving only desperate, animal need.

I curled tighter on the moldy straw, trying to make myself small. Trying to disappear. The rough linen shirt scraped against skin that felt raw and oversensitive, every fiber a brand. My breath came in short, sharp gasps that echoed off the damp stone walls.

What’s happening to me?

The binding cloth around my chest—the one Davelina had wrapped so carefully on the ship—suddenly felt like iron bands crushing my ribs. I clawed at it with shaking fingers, desperate for air, for relief, for anything.

The knots finally gave way.

Cool air touched my bare skin, and I nearly sobbed with relief. But the reprieve lasted only seconds before a new kind of awareness flooded through me—a consciousness of my own body that was both foreign and terrifying.

My breasts, freed from their confinement, felt swollen and heavy. The nipples had hardened into tight, aching peaks that throbbed with every ragged breath. Without thinking, my hands moved to cup them, and the touch sent a jolt of raw pleasure straight down to my core.

I gasped, but I didn’t pull away this time.

My fingers traced circles around the sensitive flesh, and each touch sent sparks of sensation through my body. When I pinched the hardened nipples experimentally, a moan escaped my throat—low and wanton and utterly shameful.

This is wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this.

But my body didn’t care about shame. It was demanding, insistent, drowning out every rational thought with waves of desperate need.

The heat between my legs had become unbearable—a pulsing, empty ache that made me squeeze my thighs together involuntarily. The friction brought a moment of relief, then made everything worse. I could feel wetness there, soaking through my undergarments, slick and hot and shameful.

My cunt was dripping. Dripping. Like my body was preparing itself for something—for someone—to fill it.

A whimper escaped my throat. My hand left my breast and traveled downward, trembling as it traced over my ribs, my belly, the curve of my hip.

“Please,” I whispered to no one. “Make it stop.”

But even as I said it, my fingers were slipping beneath the waistband of my trousers. The fabric was rough, too hot, constraining. I shoved it down past my hips with graceless desperation, kicking the garment away until I was left in nothing but my soaked undergarments.

The cool air against my bare legs should have brought relief. Instead, it made me more aware of the heat concentrated between my thighs—the swollen, aching flesh that throbbed with every heartbeat.

I spread my legs slightly, letting the air touch that burning place. The sensation made me gasp. Made my back arch off the filthy straw.

My hand moved lower.

When my fingers brushed against the wet fabric covering my pussy, I nearly sobbed. The touch was electric, sending shockwaves through my entire body. I pressed harder, grinding the heel of my palm against the swollen nub at the apex of my thighs.

Oh God.

The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming. My hips bucked upward involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more friction. I rubbed myself through the thin, soaked fabric, feeling the shape of my own body—the soft folds, the hard little bud that sent sparks shooting through me every time I touched it.

It wasn’t enough.

More. I need more.

No. Not that. Anything but that.

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