Inaction did not suit Admiral Phillipa Cavendish. She much preferred to be barking orders in the heat of battle, the scent of gunpowder and the roar of cannon fire filling the air. To impose order on the chaos, to watch a fleet act in unison under her command… That was what thrilled her most.

Mere travel, however, did not carry the same appeal. Idleness made her restless and antsy, and without a strategy to plan between battles, she often turned to micromanaging whatever ship she was on.

Such was the case when she found herself aboard The Tispy Maiden, a dismal little merchant vessel with a shoddy crew and a name the Admiral failed to find the humour in. Having received a missive from Queen Sophia, requesting her urgent return to take command of the navy in the Northeastern Campaign, Phillipa had been forced to leave Vice Admiral Digby to oversee her fleet’s repairs while she returned on the next available ship.

“This course won’t do. I fail to understand why you would take such a roundabout route,” she growled, repeatedly thumping her finger against the map spread across the table. “Plot a new one. More direct. I need to be back in Davonwell in weeks, not months.”

The Navigator—Phillipa hadn’t bothered to learn any names but the Captain’s—was a scrawny woman, with thick metal-rimmed glasses and a mousy demeanour. Had she seen her before embarking, Phillipa never would have boarded this vessel. She doubted the woman could see past the end of her nose, let alone far enough to see the horizon. Somehow, she had managed to escape Phillipa’s ire for the first days of the voyage, more by luck than anything else. But now that the rigging was less tangled and the ship’s manifest was properly accounted for, the Admiral had turned her sights on the ship’s course.

“Can’t. Wouldn’t be safe.” The Navigator pushed her glasses up her nose with her thumb.

Phillipa wrinkled her nose at the impertinence. Twiddling with her wedding ring and taking a deep breath, she started to explain through gritted teeth, “If you are concerned about mere piracy, I assure you, thanks to the patrols of the Queen’s Most Loyal Navy, your cargo has never been at less risk—"

“Not pirates, ma’am. Leviathans. Sea beasts. These waters are infested with them.”

Ah. She had forgotten how superstitious most sailors were. She always weeded those ones out on her ships. “There are no leviathans and sea beasts, sailor. There are fish, there are bigger fish, and there are whales. And you know what you can do with a whale?” The skinny little thing shook her head. Phillipa picked up the drawing compass lying on the table, raised it to the Navigator’s throat and pressed lightly. “You can harpoon them. Do you have harpoons on this ship?”

The Navigator swallowed, causing the point of the compass to scratch deep enough to ever so slightly puncture skin, a single bead of blood forming. “I-I… I believe that would be the Quartermaster’s responsibility, but yes, yes, I think we keep some after a near miss with—"

“Then focus your fears on the water, not what may lie beneath. Remember, you report to me while I’m on this ship. Change. The. Course,” the admiral growled. She held perfectly still, the Navigator’s eyes darting up and down several times until she gave the slightest of nods. A few more seconds and Phillipa lowered the compass, hand slamming it down on the table so firmly it made the runt yelp. “And be quick about it! Every second of my time wasted is the Crown’s time wasted. I want us making good time by morn.” She could already hear the Navigator rifling through her charts as she closed the door behind her.

Imbeciles, the lot of them! Why, if any of these fools stepped foot aboard any of her usual ships, she would have them tossed off the dock, head first. They’d learn more about seafaring looking up at her flagship while treading water than they ever would on this glorified raft! It was fortunate, at least, that most of them seemed to crumble at the first assertion of real authority.

The Admiral continued to grumble to herself as her shoulder collided with the Bosun’s, passing in the narrow passageway. She didn’t even spare her a glance, despite the sailor’s expletives, too busy reaching into her pocket to pull out her pipe and a tin of tobacco.

The evening sea air, at least, invigorated her. As she climbed from below deck, she looked up at the sky. Moderately clear, with stars bright enough to occasionally glisten through the thin patches of cloud. A small group of sailors sat at a table at the far end of the desk, singing songs and eating salted meat in the pleasant glow of a lantern.

Phillipa leaned back against the taffrail across from them as she stuffed her pipe and scowled. Eating outside of mealtimes? Wasteful. Extraordinarily so. And yet the Cook sat with them, now passing plates of hardtack and cheese around. She would have to speak with him next, else supplies would run short before they were even halfway through their journey. If she approached him before breakfast, she could…

Oh, for goodness’ sake! She glanced around, looking for a lantern from which to light her pipe before realising virtually all of them had been commandeered for the crew’s little singalong. She would have to seize one of them to light her pipe. Ugh. Could she not have five minutes’ peace to herself? With some reticence, she began to cross the deck, but before she had even reached the mast, something else caught her eye.

In the shadows, separate from the rest of the group, there stood two women—the First Mate and the Purser—pressed close together. One would lean forward, lips brushing against the other’s ear and whisper something. The other would giggle, hand running along her companion’s waist, and whisper back. Whisper. Giggle. Touch. Whisper. Giggle. Touch. What on Earth were they doing? This went on for several minutes as the Admiral watched in silence, squinting through the darkness.  And then something unconscionable happened.

The First Mate leant in and kissed the Purser.

Phillipa’s pipe fell to the floor with a clatter, spilling its contents across the wood. Without hesitation, she bounded forward, the deck creaking below her with each step. The singing stopped. One or two chairs scraped as sailors rose to their feet. She hardly noticed. Phillipa wound her arm back as far as it could, the weighty jewellery that adorned her hand shining in the light of the lanterns. The Purser let out a yelp and cowered. The First Mate stepped in front of her, just in time to be grabbed by her shirt.

“Admiral Cavendish!” a firm voice cried out, gripping Phillipa's wrist just as she loosed her arm. The veins in Captain Anderson’s hand bulged with force, almost painfully so, as she held Phillipa back. The First Mate took the opportunity to wriggle free, grabbing her crewmate by the hand and scurrying away. Once more, the Captain spoke. “That’s quite enough.”

The Admiral turned on her heel, jaw clenched so tight that she feared she would shatter her own teeth. “Enough? I didn’t even lay a finger on her and you deem that enough?! Surely you do not permit such… such… such flagrant depravity amongst your ranks, Captain?” Her cheeks were red with rage, and she feebly attempted to yank her arm free.

Captain Anderson, for her part, remained calm yet firm. “They were keeping to themselves. I would hardly call it flagrant, and I would remind you that you are a guest on my ship. It is not your prerogative to discipline my crew.”

With a scoff and a yank, Phillipa finally freed her hand, nearly tearing the cuff of her uniform in the process “By the Navy and Admiralty Act of 1757, I am, by default, the highest-ranking officer on any ship I board! Evidently, you have no interest in maintaining any sort of order here, so I must step in. Why, on one of my ships, those two would…”

With a sharp exhale, the Captain’s weathered brow furrowed slightly. “We’re not on one of your ships, Admiral. And I can assure you, Admiralty Act or no, if you start striking my crew, you’ll have a mutiny on your hands.”

By now, more than a few sailors had approached the pair, watching from a distance, while others had headed below deck. Phillipa glanced around. Silhouettes lit by gentle lantern light from behind. Harsh frowns concealed in the darkness. Phillipa leaned in close and lowered the tone of her voice. “Is that a threat, Captain?” she hissed.

“No, Admiral. It’s a fact.”

Anderson remained stoic, not a muscle in her face moving, much to Phillipa’s chagrin. The shapes in the darkness murmured amongst themselves. Agreement. Her eyes slid along their shapes. Undisciplined… Imbeciles… Perverts, every last one! Her gaze returned to the captain and she stepped in close, finger pressing against her chest. “My husband is the Secretary of the Royal Charter Office. The second we make landfall, he will ensure you will be stripped of your right to trade in the Empire. Her Majesty would never approve a crew so… weak in moral character!”

A moment’s silence. The captain gently took Phillipa by the wrist once more and moved her accusatory finger away from her, before crossing her arms, seemingly unfazed by the threat. “Be that as it may, Admiral, that will not be for some time yet. It’s late. Go back to your quarters. We can discuss this matter tomorrow.”

Phillipa glanced around once more. It was too dark to make out the expressions of those in the shadows. She let out a huff and stormed past them, snatching her pipe from the floor as she did. Below deck, crewmates glared as she passed. She paid them no mind, slamming the door behind her as she entered her makeshift private quarters.

It had been mere days, and yet she was already sick of this voyage. She longed to be back on a ship where things ran smoothly, where the crew knew what their tasks were and didn’t need to be told how to do them, where depravity wasn’t so casually brushed off as nothing… She groaned, pinching her brow and taking off her hat. At least with a new course, she should be home before long. With any luck, she should have some time with her husband before heading off to take command of the fleet in the Northeast.

_____

The sound of tumultuous seas battering against the ship’s hull woke the Admiral. She didn’t remember falling asleep and found herself still wearing her uniform. Sitting up, she could hear a commotion outside and above. Heavy footfall stomping around and yelling. A struggle? Surely they hadn’t been boarded by pirates… No, of course not. This part of the ocean was perfectly safe. Her navy had seen to that.

She quickly climbed to her feet and opened the door. Desperate and pained cries filled the air. Heart pounding, the Admiral grabbed her sword from the table in her cabin, fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt. They quivered slightly, and she found it hard to breathe, but after a moment to brace herself, she shuffled down the passageway and headed towards the ladder to the deck.

Phillipa found a barrage of rain battering down against her face. No sooner had she stepped outside than she found her uniform drenched, the torrent of water so brutal she found herself coughing as it dripped down her throat with each breath. Even beyond that, something was wrong.

Almost the entirety of the crew appeared to be above deck. Most lay face down or leaned unnaturally against the taffrail, expressions blank and chests unmoving. Others among them were crying out through pained chokes, violently retching until the saliva at the corners of their mouth frothed between desperate gasps for air.

The Admiral felt someone grasp at her ankle and looked down to see the Quartermaster, eyes distant and glassy as they glistened in the darkness. She recognised the look. She had seen it too many times. Fading. The abyss. Drowning.

“U-unhand me!” Phillipa kicked her off in a panic, her own breaths shallow and incomplete, flecked with raindrops that caught in her throat. She pointed the tip of her blade down between the woman’s eyes, though anyone could see the way it shook and quivered in her hand. “What happened here?” the Admiral commanded, fear and fury mingling in her unsteady voice. “Tell me!” With the last of her strength, the Quartermaster pointed towards the helm of the ship. Her body went limp on the deck and her spirit sank into the depths below.

Squinting through the flurry of rain, Phillipa could make out four figures standing at the wheel of the ship. Despite the weight of her soaked clothes clinging to her skin, she marched onward, paying no mind to those lying around her. As soon as she reached the stairs, the ship groaned, turning, tossing its crew around mercilessly. Had she not been clinging to the handrail, the Admiral surely would have been cast into the depths. She scrambled onwards, gripping the railing tight in the face of the worsening tempest.

As she reached the top, she could now see the Navigator standing at the wheel. She was flanked by the First Mate and Purser, hands on her shoulders, while Anderson watched on from a few steps behind. All stared onwards into the distance.

“You! Miserable wretches!” she spat with rage, forcing a wet cough out as she did. She brandished her blade towards each of them, point cycling between the four, all while gripping the railing until her already cold knuckles went white. “What manner of witchcraft have you brought upon us with your sin?”

One by one, each head loosely turned in her direction, eyes deep and vacant.

“She hasn’t heard our Lady yet,” Anderson said, barely audible over the crash of water against wood. “This one rarely listens. So sure, she is, that there is nothing to hear.”

Phillipa let out another cough, inhaling rain with each breath. It was becoming more and more burdensome to keep clearing her throat, and she was feeling unsteady.

“Oh, she hears her…” the Navigator replied, a hint of resentment surfacing from her otherwise monotone voice. “I warned her, but she insisted… Perhaps she was the one who wished to lead us to her after all…”

“She brought us to her? Then why is she—?” the Purser mumbled, before being cut off.

“What in blazes are you people talking about?!” Phillipa screamed. Breathing was growing harder and harder with each passing moment. It wasn’t the rain. It couldn’t be. Water was filling her lungs from elsewhere, weighing down her chest. She knew the feeling. Soon would come the burning. And soon after, the darkness.

“Because she’s not like us. She thinks us perverts,” the First Mate sneered. “She would have no appreciation for our Lady!” The First Mate stepped forward, a hatred in her eyes that seemed to override the subdued haze the others were in. “She’s of no worth to her…”

Phillipa was lightheaded. Each attempt to breathe seemed to suck more water into her from out of nowhere. Her sword clattered to the ground as she fell to her knees, spluttering. She struggled to raise her head to meet the woman’s gaze. “What’s… What’s happening?”

The First Mate did not answer. She raised her foot to the Admiral’s chest and shoved her down the stairs. Phillipa, too weak to fight back, went tumbling. With a thud, she landed against the deck, hitting her head against the drenched wood. Her vision went fuzzy, her throat coughing and gasping for air her lungs struggled to accept.

As she faded from consciousness, all other noise became meaningless, save for the echo of someone singing, far, far away.

_____

The next several hours were a blur, fading in and out of consciousness. One of the few things Phillipa remembered was the violent crash, the sickening sound of wood splintering and splitting against rocks hidden beneath the waves. She was given no time to think before the force knocked her overboard, into the ocean below. The roiling waters tossed her around, pummelling her flesh, filling her lungs with that searing, tearing sensation she was regrettably familiar with. Her arms flailed, desperate for something, anything to grab onto, until the all sensation began to fade.

Darkness.

Shadows swirled in her mind for what felt like an age before Phillipa found herself waking with her lips half-submerged in sand. Her uniform was bedraggled and torn. Her body was aching and bruised. But she was alive. She coughed up a mouthful of saltwater, gasping at the crisp air that filled her chest and gave her the relief she needed. Deep, full breaths as she raised her head from the beach beneath her. In the distance, as her vision came into focus, she could see the wreck of The Tispy Maiden, sundered on the rocks, driftwood littering the shores and the shallows alike.

Had the Navigator been so incompetent? No, impossible. This was intentional. The Admiral had seen the madness in the eyes of Anderson’s little circle of freaks, their vacant and monotone mumbling at her… Their willingness to sacrifice the rest of the crew for… for what? In what way did this further their perversions?

There was no use pondering a sick mind. She clambered to her feet, heels sinking into the sand and turned to the lush jungle behind her. It was distant, but she could hear activity, speech, laughter. Other survivors! She darted towards the noise, pushing her way through the undergrowth, leaves slapping against her.

After some time following the noise, she came to a clearing. There was a small, recently-made camp. Past that, on a large throne cobbled together from flotsam bound with rope, sat a woman with vibrant aquamarine skin and fins protruding from her body. Surrounding her were Anderson, the Navigator, the First Mate and the Purser. Each of them knelt around her, hands tenderly running over the stranger’s flesh, leaning and kissing both her and occasionally each other. The woman reached out and ran her fingers through the Purser’s hair, a satisfied look of pride on her face.

The Admiral let out a most undignified yelp, averting her eyes in horror. “Y-you… You…” Traitors? Deviants? The words catching in her throat all felt weak in comparison to the disgust she felt. All attention was dragged to her now, though none of the sailors moved an inch.

“Oh? Another human washes ashore?” the woman asked with mild surprise, finger twirling through one of the Purser’s curls. “You told me all the others had died on the ship.”

“Admiral?” Anderson’s expression was far more puzzled. Phillipa’s survival was entirely unexpected and unforeseen.

The Purser turned to the woman and insisted, “Lady Mariana, s-she’s not… She has no interest in women! She’s disgusted by such relationships! She didn’t react to your voice like us! She’d be of no use to you!”

“Really? Well, there’s a simple way to test that…” Before the Admiral could ask what on Earth they were talking about, Marina sat up straight on her throne. Her eyes closed, a peaceful, serene look coming over her. And then she began to sing.

The siren’s voice was high pitched, precise and elegant, more so than any other Phillipa had heard in her life. It rang out, filling the vast and empty space above the island with an ease that even the acoustics of the finest opera houses in the Empire could not match. The sailors listened in awe, their eyes widening with the same wide and empty look as they’d had on the ship, redoubling their efforts to please their lady, kissing, licking, touching her.

But for Phillipa, things were quite different. The vibrations wrapped around her, twirling in her head, conjuring a furious deluge around her. She felt a furious storm beating down against her skin, and a familiar flow of water filling her throat, draining down from the whirlpool in her skull into her lungs. The weight of it became too much to bear. She fell to all fours, coughing and spluttering and gasping, water spilling down her chin and pooling on the ground.

And then, silence. Her mind was clear again. She could breathe. There was no puddle beneath her. It was as if nothing had happened. It was all an illusion.

But she couldn’t stop shaking.

“Goodness. You girls were right. Her poor, weak little mind thinks it’s drowning. How adorable.” Mariana had climbed to her feet, stepping away from the others, much to their disappointment. They shuffled after her, eyes remaining transfixed. “I’ve never seen it in person… With women like this, the body usually suffocates itself long before they get this close to me…” There was a morbid fascination in her voice, as if studying a mouse struggling to free its tail from a trap.

Her hand reached out and grabbed the Admiral by the jaw, lifting her so she could see the frightened look in her eyes. She chuckled. “How much more pleasant things are for these needy little dykes.” They were already squirming, desperate for her affections, driven into a frenzy by her melody. “But they’re right. Someone like you is of no use to me. I cannot cultivate adoration in lands where it cannot grow. Goodbye, Admiral. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Phillipa’s eyes darted around, shuffling back. It felt as though the clearing was closing in around her, the island shrinking ever smaller. There was nowhere to run. There would be no escape from the siren’s voice. Nor was there anyone who would save her—the perverted freaks hanging on their mistress’ every word would gladly watch her die just to see her smile. “W-wait!” Phillipa quivered in panic as the siren began to open her mouth again. “P-please, don’t… I-I… I’ll do anything! Just spare me!” she cried with her last breath as a single piercing note rang out.

But it was cut mercifully short. Mariana stared at the pitiful, pleading thing before her and cocked her eyebrow.

“Anything? That’s a dangerous word, Admiral. Would you do that?” her head motioned towards the crewmates. Without attention from their lady, their desires overflowed, and they had taken to groping at each other instead. Anderson was atop the Purser, face buried in the crook of her neck. The Navigator was eagerly kissing the First Mate.

Phillipa couldn’t bring herself to answer. The display disgusted her, their wanton lusts unrestrained. Her hand reached and twiddled with her wedding ring, as if it could provide her any protection.

Mariana sneered with disappointment. “That’s what I thought.” Before she could object, Phillipa was submerged in the music once more, the siren’s song forcing her brain to dance to her melody even if it meant betraying her body. The force of the storm bearing down on her mind was immense, dragging her into depths she didn’t know were reachable on dry land. As her consciousness flickered, the sea witch leant in, pressing her lips against Phillipa’s in one final, teasing goodbye.

As she kissed her, the Admiral found herself in the eye of the storm. The threat of drowning paused, so long as she was this close. Despite the tempest continuing to surround her, it was a moment of safety. A moment of clarity. A moment where she could still breathe—all seemingly anchored to this bizarre creature.

She wanted to pull away. Feeling a woman this close, even an inhuman one like this, her flesh against Phillipa’s, stealing the sort of tender moment only her husband had ever shared with her… It was sickening. But it was her lifeline. Her only hope of survival. Her driftwood.

The Admiral reached up, taking the back of Mariana’s head in her hands, and pulled her in closer. She felt the siren’s lips curl into a cruel smile, still humming the melody, an ever-present threat. A blue tongue slipped into Phillipa’s mouth, sending the vibrations deeper into her core, a test of her dedication. Her body jolted, almost pulling away, but the air she breathed greedily through her nose was too necessary, too vital.

Even when she felt the hands of the crewmates reach out to her, exploring her body, moving with the rhythm of Mariana’s song, she dared not pull back. The Admiral merely whined helplessly in protest as they tore her already dishevelled uniform from her body, leaving her naked and exposed. Each of them seemed to take great pleasure in inflicting such an indignity upon her, and her pitiful whimpers blended into a perverse duet with the siren.

Phillipa felt the tongue probing her mouth start to pull back. Her heart skipped in panic, trying to lean in closer. As their lips parted, she felt the storm in her mind close in once more, and she pulled her naked flesh in towards Mariana in desperation. She found purchase by kissing against the woman’s neck, then shoulder, then breast, then stomach, tongue trailing downwards along vibrant flesh each time. The sea witch once more stood to full height to enjoy her handiwork, never once breaking song—indeed, her voice only grew more intense.

Her webbed fingers reached down and ran through Phillipa’s hair, guiding the Admiral’s head  between her thighs. Disgust and shame once again flooded Phillipa, the warmth radiating off the pussy just inches from her lips a potent reminder of precisely what she was doing. With each second, the hand against her head became more forceful in its guidance. Hesitantly, her tongue reached out and gently flicked against the siren’s clit, introducing a gentle warble into the song.

All the while, the crew were eager to have their revenge on the cruel Admiral while aiding their lady, her voice eliciting lust and loyalty in each of them. Fingers groped and teased Phillipa, running across her breasts and tugging at her nipples and tracing along her inner thighs, each from a sailor glad to inflict humiliations on the woman who would have done far worse to them for their ‘perversions’.

Even as the physical sensations left the Admiral’s body ever more sensitive, she tried to pay it no attention as best she could. Her tongue lapped up and down, with no technique but to match the rhythm of the music that rang out in response. If her inexperience bothered Mariana, she didn’t show it, her hips thrusting forward with encouragement, burying the woman’s face deep.

The final indignity came when Mariana shoved her leg forward, ankle pressing firmly into Phillipa’s own cunt, moving up and forward ever so slightly. Phillipa had assumed any wetness down there was part of the illusion, a trick of the mind that her brain had conjured, but the effortless way the siren’s leg slid up and down made it evident that she was exceedingly slick. Without breaking song, her tormentor looked down, expectantly. She was testing the limits of what she could do with this exciting new means of control.

But this was too mortifying for Phillipa. It was enough to build up a feeble bulwark of shame in her, enough to stop her from going further, enough to refuse. That was until the First Mate wound the Admiral’s hair tightly around her hand. She leaned in and hissed, “Show how grateful you are to Lady Mariana and grind, pervert,” voice laced with venom. With a yank, Phillipa’s head was pulled backwards, away from the siren’s body. Her mind was plunged into the darkest depths of the ocean, water surrounding her entirely. Immense pressure instantly forced all air from her lungs, replaced with brine that stung and force that tore at her flesh.

And then she was in the eye of the storm once more, clinging to her driftwood, humping and grinding pitifully against Mariana’s leg, with her face buried in the folds between her thighs.

Her body had rejected dignity in favour of survival before her mind had even been able to consider it a choice. The siren looked down with an immense, cruel smile on her face, satisfied by this development. She tossed her head back, reaching a crescendo as she orgasmed across Phillipa’s face, smearing herself firmly against her lips. Her song finally ended, and the storm that hung over the Admiral finally parted.

But Phillipa continued. While the immediate threat was gone, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be back. She would prove her loyalty, her dedication, if it meant she could avoid being drowned in the siren’s song. She clung to the sea witch, eyes clenched tight, grinding and thrusting against her, until she too climaxed, her body shaking and quivering until she went limp with her head resting against Mariana’s thigh.

“Oh, you are a delight,” her lady cooed, fingers gently toying with the Admiral’s hair. The crewmates of The Tispy Maiden watched on, their lust and loyalty tinged with jealousy—she was already far more enamoured with her newfound method of control than them, despite their far greater eagerness to please.

Mariana paid them no mind. Jealous or not, she could make them do as she wished with no effort at all. But this one… She was much more interesting… “I’m going to have a lot of fun with you, Admiral…”

Phillipa wasn’t listening. She was grateful to be freely breathing once more. She would never take it for granted again.

_____

Vice Admiral Harriet Digby gazed through her spyglass, scanning the portside horizon. A clear day, not a single cloud in the sky, and far more importantly, no pirates, thank goodness. These had been a difficult couple of months out on the Western Seas, but things had been largely uneventful in the last week, and she intended to keep it that way.

“Vice Admiral, ma’am! There’s an island with smoke in the distance, starboard!” the Lookout called down from the crow’s nest. Harriet turned on her heel, searching… Searching… Aha! There it was. And a small shipwreck too!

“Well spotted, Miss Parker!” she called back cheerfully. She turned to face the rest of the crew on the deck and called out. “Prepare the rowboats. Let’s show some lost souls that the Queen’s Most Loyal Navy still means something out here!”

A few hours later, she was sitting on a small wooden craft on choppy waters, holding tight. There were bound to be rocks in these shallows, given the state of the wreck, but her crew were both careful and skilled. With some effort, they landed on the beach.

The source of the smoke came from further down the beach, past a crop of palm trees and thick bushes. There must have been some sort of camp somewhere, survivors stranded. Who knew how long they had been here? What ordeals they had gone through? She was loath to imagine!

Marching ahead of her entourage, she was first to round the corner and notice something. In the distance, there was a figure, sitting alone on the edge of the jungle, a smouldering campfire several steps ahead of her on the sands. She was entirely naked, staring off into the distance, twiddling with something in her hand.

“You there!” Harriet called out. “Goodness, I’m so glad you’re alive! Are you…?” She ran ahead of the rest of the group with enthusiasm to greet the woman, but as soon as she reached her, she stopped dead in her tracks. While the figure was a little gaunt and unwashed, it was utterly unmistakable.

It was Phillipa Cavendish, her superior officer.

“Good Lord, Admiral! Admiral Cavendish, it’s you!” she beamed.

Phillipa seemed to snap out of her stupor, placing her wedding ring back on her finger as she looked back with equal shock to see a familiar face. “Harriet? Y-you’re… You’re…?” She was utterly lost for words.

“My word, you’ve been here this whole time? You poor thing! When you never returned to Davonwell, some assumed you had deserted… But I knew you wouldn’t! The Cavendish I knew would never—"

“Harriet… You have to get out of here…”

The Vice Admiral blinked. She had almost been expecting a dressing down for not saving her sooner. For her to ask about the Northeastern Campaign, a failure in absence of good leadership. For her to ask about her husband, still hardly having accepted her disappearance. This woman in front of her was a husk of the domineering woman she had so often had barking orders at her.

“Phillipa?” the Vice Admiral asked. It was only after saying it that she realised she had never addressed her by her first name before. “It’s okay. I know this must have been a difficult experience, but we’re here to—?

“Harriet, you need to go now!” the Admiral yelled. Not an order, but a plea.

A rustle from the bushes and another woman emerged from the undergrowth. This one was a stranger, and a strange one indeed—equally naked, but with bright blue skin shimmering in the sunlight and fins along her arms and legs. A cruel and hungry smile was painted across her face.

“Who—?” Harriet wasn’t given a chance to speak.

“Excellent work, my little Admiral…” the strange woman teased. “What terrific bait you make…” She chuckled, reaching down to idly twirl a lock of Phillipa’s hair. For her part, Phillipa stared glumly up at the Vice Admiral. There was nothing more to say. She had issued her warning. But it was too late.

“Bait? I-I don’t understand—"

The siren’s eyes lit up with delight at the sight of more crew rounding the corner. “Oh, even better… I wonder how many of these will make adoring worshippers… I wonder how many are like you…” The thought of the latter seemed to excite the sea witch far more.

Harriet stared blankly at this bizarre woman’s ramblings, backing away a little bit. It didn’t matter. It was too late to escape.

Phillipa crawled forward and wrapped her arms around the Mariana, already burying her face in her crotch and grinding her cunt against her leg. As the Admiral clung to her driftwood, the siren began to sing.