Tonight the eel would return and he had to be as best prepared as he could. To resist, he had to reduce his libido.
He ejaculated. A grim grunt and a spurt and then all the shame he could handle. Despite this, and the soreness in his flaccid penis, he began again. Just to make sure.
But all the preparation had been in vain. As soon as the sun dimmed, not just one, but many arrived. A whole shoal, eager for food, eager for meat, a whole army whose powers meant that the women from the night before were not alone. Tonight there were hundreds.
On all sides, as the Neptune carved a path through the waves, gathered an enormous sexual congregation. Each meagre defence he’d erected was crushed beneath the illusion’s awesome weight. As far as the eye could see were scenes of erotic excess. On one side, three nubile women cavorted, each naked to his eye. On another, two more undressed slowly, trying to tease with every movement of fabric.
It were not just women conjured from the waves. Statuesque males, bodies toned and mighty, penises long and firm, grappled with their concubines. They did not seem threatened by the Mariner’s presence. They too refused to look his way.
All about the Mariner were offered orifices, scenes so tempting that not even the most devout holy-man could resist. Yet between the bodies and the ship, and in the brief gaps between them, the Mariner could spot hundreds of eels, all fighting amongst themselves for a close position, all determined to be the first one to taste the flesh of the deluded human. It were as if he’d already flung himself over-board, such were their frantic jostling. Yet their eyes remained glazed and cold. Glass eyes. The water churned with oily brown bodies as they slipped against each other, jaws snapping at air.
And yet he could not watch their horror for long, soon his attention would be drawn back to the sights they promised, all in exchange for the paltry price of his meat and bones.
All ages of eel must have gathered tonight as their skills varied widely. Some sprites were remarkably realistic, others were almost cartoonish in their simplicity, containing next to no detail except upon sexual organs. Some sprites, whilst realistically designed, lacked any beauty at all, and moved with a false jerking motion, utterly bereft of eroticism. It were as if each eel were competing, trying to lure him in their direction. In some regions, whole groups of sprites were controlled by the same eel, and these performed grand orgies providing the most alluring sights of all.
Yet in the distance, each eel desperate to exploit any possible sexual niche or kink their quarry might possess, extreme acts were conjured. Acts of sexual brutality, acts of sadism and humiliation. Nipples were clamped, throats choked, backs whipped and thighs burnt. Were these just for him? Would it be the same if another were aboard this ship in his place? Or would the fantasies created be utterly different?
Could these creatures see into his soul?
The Mariner strained his eyes looking into the gloom, trying to discern one body from another, leaning further out over the choppy waves.
He saw several men, roughly sharing a red-headed woman. She struggled and fought against her assailants, but their blows were the stronger. Beaten, she was forced onto her knees and took one into her mouth, whilst a second planted his hands upon her hips and entered from behind. She seemed resigned to the rough intrusion, rocking herself backwards and forwards and grasping the hilt of the penis in front for more effective manoeuvring. The third man looked on, slapping her breasts whilst he touched himself.
The Mariner could join them, abuse her in any way he want, if only he stepped off the boat.
He saw a group of women, powerful and united, strolling amongst the scenes as a shark would glide through shoals. As if by random they’d select victims, hauling them away from their current activities, and drag them back to the group. There they’d set upon them. Currently they had a man tied face down, arms and legs spread wide with ropes. His struggles were of no use. They laughed and taunted as one of their number donned a large strap-on phallus. He screamed with pain and humiliation-infused pleasure, as she thrust deep into his behind.
The Mariner could join them, give himself up to their sensual strength, if only he climb down the ladder.
He looked upon the two he’d seen the previous night. As if committed lovers they were once again entwined, the lesser detailed brunette on her back, the raven lying between her legs performing cunnilingus for their ignored voyeur. A man emerged from the water and mounted his original temptress, pushing his cock inside her from behind, his crotch slapping against her rump, juddering with every thrust. She did not remove her mouth, but proceeded to moan against her lover’s sex.
The Mariner could join them, live out any wet dream, be it juvenile, kinky or sinister, if only he put a foot into the water.
“No more!” he screamed and threw himself away from the view, stumbling onto his back, prone upon the decking. His groin throbbed. The earlier administrations performed upon his penis had done little good, the soreness only made him feel even more desperate for release.
The Mariner pulled his trousers down to his knees, expecting to find blood, his cock was so engorged. About him drops of rain began to fall, blown in sideways into his eyes. “No more,” he repeated to himself, shutting his eyes tight and clamping hands over his ears.
But they did not abate. The eels were hungry. Very little came through these waters, food was scarce, and competition fierce. The scenes about the Neptune continued, growing ever more extravagant, ever more extreme, whilst their prey wailed and cried.
The empty bottle of his last store of wine rolled about the deck. He’d drank it quickly in huge gulps, trying at once to abate his addiction and dull the arousal he felt. It had done no good, all it had achieved was to weaken his mind further, dissolving any resolve he could muster.
Desperate not to be lured to his death, the Mariner staggered to his feet. His movement was hampered by his trousers gathered around his ankles and rather than struggle with them over his erection, he kicked them off. Freezing cold and dangerously aroused he made his way to the door that lead below.
He knew that there was no point hiding. Their gasps and moans could not be ignored. No. He would use the door for something else.
The scenes outside were reaching fever pitch. He watched them, one hand steadying himself against the door, the other one rubbing furiously at his genitalia. Vomit surged up his throat, the wine rejected by self-loathing. And yet, as it seeped down his chin and splattered on his hands and feet, he still masturbated. Still he watched.
“No more.”
In the distance, the three men, eager to use the red-head in any way they wished, grew more violent, punching and kicking her, before once more inserting their cocks into whatever hole they chose. The Mariner wanted to stop them, to free the woman, to protect and preserve her dignity. But more so, he wanted to join them in defiling her, wanted to become a beast like them, a member of the pack falling upon their prey. He hated them, but was he not worse? For watching and enjoying?
The Mariner unsecured and pulled open the enormous slab of oak. It swayed heavily in his hand, its momentum uncertain with every wave the Neptune passed over. Overhead, lightning flashed, lighting up the orgy, searing images into his brain.
The woman using the strap-on upon her slave laughed at his attempts to pull free and slapped and pulled at his head for the enjoyment of the mocking audience. As if to prove the effectiveness of the torture, she reached beneath him, presenting for all the evidence of his arousal. The Mariner watched, wanting to feel pity, but instead drunk with envy.