She looked round, Samantha seemed to have disappeared. She noted distantly that Blondie was busy licking and suckling Catwoman’s bare breasts, and suddenly realized how much she needed to have her own swollen orbs given the same sort of attention. Her hand started to drift upwards, but she snapped it back down in frustrated anger. Catwoman had rules for these sessions and the main one was that the two of them had to be passive recipients, laying back and letting the Kittens demonstrate their talents, no kissing, caressing or taking charge themselves. ‘But where the hell is Samantha?’ thought Catgirl in total frustration. A dark shape suddenly floated over Catgirl’s head from behind. ‘Here I am mistress,’ whispered Samantha huskily from above her. She’d approached Catgirl from behind on hands and knees and now reached forward to bring Catgirl’s arms above her head, trapping them between her knees. Her mountains of thick dark hair cascaded around Catgirl’s face like a curtain as she. He chuckled. "Wake up, real work for you soon!" he said. He pointed it over the side and pissed a stream into the sea. He was looking forward to harpooning a few pretty ones this port call. Maybe a little drinking, a little roughhousing, a new tattoo. He rubbed his whiskery cheek with his scarred knuckles. Probably best to start with a bath-and-barber trip. He shook the drips off, gave his shaft a familiar squeeze, and dropped it back into his breeches.In her cabin, Captain Emily Flint straddled a narrow bench, rocking her hips on the antique ivory phallus that had been her only consolation on this voyage. In her mouth was a wad of soft leather to muffle any sounds. Naked in the warm night, lit from behind from the moonlight, she worked the tool into her centre, but it wasn't the same. The old sea-cook who had been her faithful cocksman had retired from the sea, leaving her bereft of his wise counsel and his ready prick. She heard the call from the lookout repeated on deck and.
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