She raised her hands to her breasts, cupping them, pushing them together. Between her fingers he could see her nipples, erect and large, dark against her skin. She opened her mouth, letting out a gasp, her tongue moist and delicious.
The Mariner undressed, eager to join the woman below. But at the back of his mind was a voice, perhaps a voice in tune with the devils’ howls of protest, that said he should stay on deck. The water meant death. It always had.
The sea temptress leaned back, placing one hand behind her to steady herself. The other she traced a path along her right leg, running up the inner thigh, from knee towards the hips. As she drew near to her destination she parted her legs, knees raised, sex exposed to him fully for the first time.
The Mariner doubted he’d wanted anything more. Not company, food or wine. Not even The Oracle which he sought every day. All he wanted was to put his face between those milk white legs, taste her and lose himself in her scent.
If only she would look at him!
The cold night air whipped about his body as he removed the last of his garments. He was naked now, just as she. Exposed in equal measure. His cock was hard, ridiculously so, desperate for release. Without realising, he took it in hand as he watched. Without thinking, he pumped it as he craved.
Her hand had traced its way up her thigh to her opening. She slid a finger up and down, feeling the length of her lips, teasing forth the moisture within. In a powerful motion she threw her head back, crying out in pleasure. Hair, only a moment before soaking wet, but now dry and perfectly groomed, cascaded around her shoulders.
Faster and faster her fingers worked, at first teasing her clit, then moving down to dance inside. Her hips rose and fell, fucking an invisible lover, a lover that could be him, if only he dared join her.
The Mariner felt warmth rising within and a tingling spreading from his groin. He could no longer resist, he came, his cock spilling his seed over the side in a great arc. The thick white substance hit the water below as a tiny sticky string. Literally a drop in the ocean.
And as it did, the woman, still in the throes of ecstasy, lost all substance. Her dark hair melted into her flesh, her fingers blended together, her arms fell into her chest. Her entire body became water, and fell back into the sea.
He looked on in disbelief, brought back to reality by the post-orgasm bring-down. All that remained as evidence of the encounter was his sperm, floating in the water below.
But then, so fast that he almost missed it, he saw an eel. It zigzagged out of the depths and in one gulp ate his semen whole as if it were snatching a fly. A flash of muddy brown and then back into the gloom. The process ended so fast the Mariner could almost believe that the whole event had never took place, except for the drying evidence upon his fingers.
The Mariner slumped to the ground, exhausted, naked and confused.
Wretched and alone.
2. BEFORE, A DAY BY THE SEASIDE
THE STORE WAS STOCKED WITH all sorts of useless items; plastic spades, inflatable reptiles, books about places that didn’t seem to exist. The Mariner browsed them all, trying to find something salvageable.
Elsewhere, doing some salvaging of her own, sniffed Grace, a plump dog-like creature he’d found tucked away on his ship. She must have snuck aboard at some point during his long journey, and now they were too far from her home to take her back, wherever her home happened to be. He had no idea which island she could have come from. None seemed likely to support these vicious little beasts.
A set of shelves boasting multi-coloured plastic orbs suddenly caught Grace’s attention. She wedged her body into the darkness beneath as best she could whilst snapping her jaws at whatever small rodent had fled there, distinctive white markings on her fur the only sight in the shadows.
The deserted storehouse was located at the end of a pier he’d docked alongside. A stubby wooden walkway jutting out of a stony crumbled scratching of an island. This wasn’t the island, the one he’d been searching for since memory began, but it never hurt to restock. The pier itself was old and dilapidated, its wooden support beams rotten and dragged into the sea by the weight of their own inadequacies. Faded paintwork, once childish and bright, but now cracked, dull and sinister, lined the gangway. There was no cheer here.
The Mariner moved quickly, always aware that he was at his most vulnerable when on land. Each footfall echoed throughout the rickety structure, the waves below doing little to conceal his presence. At night, this abandoned tomb to the past would have been unbearable, and indeed, even on this bright sunny day, the shadows proved intolerable. It stank of death, all rotten hopes and the ghosts of civilisation.
Finally he found something that may be of use; an elixir, promising protection from the harmful rays of the sun. A shield in liquid form. The Mariner never ceased to be amazed at such finds.
Leaving Grace to her hunt, the Mariner strolled, a little faster than necessary, out the gloomy store. The midday heat was harsh upon his brow, light reflecting off the water scorching his eyes. It seemed as good a time as any to test the new-found potion.
He scrutinized the small white bottle. It claimed to be ‘factor 40’. He sighed. Why did all these relics of the past have to fall back on their alchemy to describe what they did? Once squirted out into his hand, he found the contents thick and creamy. He gingerly brought some up to his face, fearful of some trick. There seemed to be none, the light dabs felt cool against his dry skin.
“You shouldn’t put that on in the daylight,” a female voice called from the shore. “If you put it on with the sun shining you’ll trap the rays in and you’ll cook from the inside-out.”
The Mariner swung round, scrutinising every shadow until he saw her; a thin silhouette warily edging along the pier, keeping close to the side of the store. Her face and build were still concealed, but the light bounced off her tangled copper hair, nestled about her shoulders.
“Who was Winston Churchill?” she asked him, maintaining her distance.
The Mariner found the situation absurd. She was wary of him, just as he was of her, and for the same reason, they feared each other were of the Mindless. But the fact that they were not attacking one another immediately proved otherwise. Surely?
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He’d never heard the name before.
This seemed to throw her. She recoiled as if ready to run, her body braced and tense, but stood her ground.
“Name a country within Europe!”
He thought for a moment, eager to please his questioner and put her at ease. “It’s a trick question. There are no countries within Europe. It doesn’t exist,” he guessed.
“Ha! Ain’t that the truth.”
The Mariner looked down at the bottle in his hand, concerned that his flesh were about to cook, but feeling no heat and sensing no smouldering. “How do you know about this ‘trapping of the sun’?” he asked her.
“My father told me,” she replied, still tense and prepared for flight.
“Why don’t you come out from there? I’m no Mindless.”
After a pause she hesitantly emerged from her hiding place and into the light.
He could not guess her age. Hard times would forever mask the natural entropy of her flesh. Yet despite her bruises and scars, her eyes were deep and face noble. She had the toned physique of someone forced to survive on their own merit. The Mariner knew this well. He survived by his own hand too.
“Who is ‘Winston Churchill’?” he asked her as she drew near. “Is he some sort of pirate?”