The Mermaid Wished For Legs, Not Knowing What She'd Find Between Them

Transcript

The sun is so much brighter above the waves, so much hotter. You feel every bead of ocean water trickling down your buttocks. They swim in schools down the curve of your tender backside into the creases of your thighs.

The tide rolls in and laps at your calves, and your eyelids flutter, your eyes roll back, wet. You've lived underwater your whole life, you've never felt this wet. The sea witch was evil, that's what everyone told you.

That any creature who entered into her bargain was a fool. You were so driven by desire you didn't care. You imagined her eyes would glow like dinoflagellates, her lip would curl to ensnare the sea king's daughter.

You steeled yourself to give away anything, to be with your one true love. You did not imagine she would tell you no. Why, you asked, could she not do this thing, make you human, replace your fins with legs, your gills with lungs?

Easily, she said, I could split your iridescent tail, grant you two new limbs with the speed of a sailfish on the hunt. But what you wish for is not what you will have. You are wishing for a prince to fall in love with you, which he will not do.

Legs cannot make a princess of the sea a princess of the earth. All you will be able to do with your legs is spread them. And make no mistake, princess, that is what you will do.

You think you're the first of our people to fall for one of those short-lived barbarians? I have sent men and women alike to the surface in search of their one true love, and not a one was prepared for what their new form entailed. Understand, princess, what you call love is a mere yearning for what you cannot have.

Your earthbound prince has a pretty face, I grant you that. But how does he differ from any of the pretty things you collect from the surface world? If he were merfolk, what would you do? You would caress that pretty face? You would bask in the jealousy of your sisters to possess so fine a trophy? And when the mating season arrived, you would lay a clutch of eggs for him to fertilize? And then your attention would turn elsewhere, for that is all there is to it under the sea.

We mate when it is time. That is not the way of humans. They have no time.

They are not tied to the tides and seasons as we are. They are chaos-made flesh. Their loins burn and overwhelm their waking thoughts.

So you see, princess, what you are asking of me is not to transform your body, but to poison your mind. The moment I trade your cloaca for a cunt, I guarantee you, your prince will not be man enough to satisfy it. Would that you had listened.

But you are as stubborn as your father, as dangerous as your mother. Threats did not persuade the sea witch, and neither did begging. It was only when you offered her your tongue.

Your cherished instrument of song, that her eyes glowed in the water, churned with boiling bubbles. That was worth a bargain. But not before, once more, she warned you.

You will go mad. You asked only one question. Will there be pain? At first, the nerves in your legs and feet will awaken like daggers in your veins.

And then the pain will become a sweet memory when pleasure takes its throne. How, you asked. How could pleasure ever yearn for pain? But the words dissolved in your mouth as your tongue became hers.

You awakened on the shore. Your native ocean lapped at your fins. No, not fins.

Through bleary eyes you gazed the small, round digits that wiggled on the tips of your feet. And ankles. And calves.

Knees. Thighs. And the wet space between.

The witch did not exaggerate. As your consciousness returned, it seeped into your new limbs. All wonder at this miracle ceased as your body was wracked by fire.

Yes, pain. But unique pain. In body parts like, and yet so unlike, your own familiar arms.

You dragged yourself through the surf, screaming without a tongue. That horrid, coughing sound scratching at your throat. You screamed to your gods.

To your father. Your dead mother. For aid.

For release. For death. Your fingers sank into the sandy shore, and you rolled in it, kicking the burning legs.

Kicking. And kicking. You could kick.

Through the pain. Through the crimson mist that dimmed your sight. You wondered at that alien sensation.

Kicking. Heels dug into soft sand. Fingers pushed you aloft.

You fell backwards. You pushed. And fell.

And pushed. And tottered. Pushed.

And hissed. At the pain, but. ..

Your curiosity overruled your agony. And with each beat of your heart, the daggers in the soles of your feet grew shorter and duller. With each new push, each new attempt, you felt the strange tendons tighten and flex.

You watched the muscles in your thighs catch and hold, like the lines of a human ship. The familiar clench of your abdominal wall was answered by squeezes in your buttocks and down, down to your tensing calves. You were walking, planting fledgling feet into soft, oh, velvet soft sand.

It was a curious sensation to feel so many toes descend into the wet, sucking grip of the shore. You watched your feet disappear into the clear water, swallowed by the sand. Your eyes traveled upward following the sun's brilliant reflection on your smooth, scaleless legs.

Your legs. Your knees. Up, up to that curling thatch between your thighs.

What business had that thatch there? You sent your fingers skating down, seawater scattering from its curls, to discover what lay within. Not another mouth.

And yet, it had lips, and, and. .. You stagger, the salty wind lapping at your wet, sand-flecked legs, and between.

It blows between your bare thighs, and you shriek at it. No, it's too much. The nerves are waking up, one by one, but they all meet in the same damned place.

They go taut, like over-tightened harp strings that, at the merest touch, may snap. You can feel every curl of your pubic mound, every bead of seawater on your labia, and that spot, that infernal spot that makes your heart quaver and your nipples sharpen like jagged coral. You look around, desperate for your prince.

If he were here, he could save you, as you saved him from his shipwreck. Save you from the ocean's spittle and the wind's insufferable slap. Save you from the tingling, tickling, torturous prison of your body.

You cup your mound to shut out the elements, but the heat of your own palm makes you bend at the waist. Dizzy, you fall to your knees. The surf tickles your toes and spanks unsparingly at your buttocks.

You cannot help yourself. Your fingers once again delve into the curls and find that burning button. You tease it, like an animal biting at a scab, touching it, pinching it, turning the harp strings and commanding it to cease its impetuous music.

If it would only stop, if the sea would leave your bare skin alone, you could think. But your mind is ablaze with images of your prince's pretty face and how his lips would feel against all this flesh. The tears in your eyes play havoc with the sun.

Reflections and refractions of the stony beach make your head swim. You are kneeling, your fingers buried in your cursed sex, this open slit where naught but periwinkle scales once shimmered. It is difficult to make out the sound of one voice over the sea's unending song, but, bless my soul, but through the tears, beneath the sun's harsh glare, a shape takes form.

A man shape. In the past the sight of a human would have you swimming back to safety, but it is as if you have been planted here in the surf. The figure resolves, as does his boat and the net.

His hair is streaked with grey and white, his beard thick as a cloud. His old tunic is rolled up to his sun-darkened elbows. His skin is nothing like the prince's.

After a lifetime beneath the sun it is the color of old leather, the muscles bunched and knotted like the cables of a tall ship. He stares at you. You are too lost to the torment of your body to know what his expression means.

He has fished these shores for decades, blessed in all those years with only meager catches from your father's domain, until this morning on this barren shore he comes to a naked maiden kneeling before him. Her hair is long and unbound, slick with seawater. Her face, her anguished face, is that of an angel.

He drops his boning knife. You are still whimpering, your fingers rooted to the tuft between your legs, these wretched legs, when he stumbles over the sand to you. Girl! He barks.

Girl, what has happened to you? You open your mouth and all that emerges is a desperate croak, a wail of shame. He recoils, the breath catches in his throat.

No tongue, he whispers, no tongue, no clothes, and what's that? What's happened? He reaches down to your hands not knowing what gruesome horror awaits.

His fingers are calloused and thick as they take hold of yours and pull them back. Have mercy, he whispers. He expected a wound, the way you were moaning and clutching yourself, he thought perhaps you had been mutilated below as you had been above, but no, no, what he sees is a plump puffy vulva dripping with salt water, perfect, as if molded by the teasing gods below.

He licks his cracked lips. What ails you, miss? he asks.

Your mouth opens and you wince at the ragged thing your voice has become. You pull your hands from his and touch yourself once more. This, you try to say, this is what ails you, sensitive and sore, pulsing with the beat of your heart and strangely empty.

You feel empty, as if you were made half complete and some essential piece must be restored. And he is still staring at those salty lips. Every day of my wretched life I have prayed to the sea to give up its bounty, he mutters.

His big hand closes over yours and once more pulls your hands away. You moan at the man, you plead with your eyes, help, help. This is a cruel trick, it must be, he thinks.

He is an old salt and has known men taken by mermaids. You will offer him a beguiling glance, a soft hand, and then drown him. It must be a trick.

No act of this old sailor has been virtuous enough to merit so fine a gift. He looks up, to the ocean, then to the beach and the rocks, searching for your people. There is no one, no one but this beautiful girl, naked on her knees.

He is old, yes, he knows the smell of danger, but, if you are to be the end of him, he can think of much crueler fates. I should help you, he mutters, you need clothes, girl. But his hand slides over your soft belly, he does not want to give you clothes.

Your hand closes on his big knuckles and once more brings it between your legs. Are you a strumpet, he asks, run out of town for tempting old lecherous men like me? His white beard falls between your thighs and you gasp to feel its softness on your skin.

You don't understand what he is doing, you feel the sudden tug of air as he inhales and then the rumble between your thighs when he groans. But his tongue rolls out to lick the salty dew from your new flesh. You scream, your fingers sink into his wet bedraggled hair.

Is he eating you? What horrible creatures are men? Why did the sea witch not warn you? You push and beat at his head and shoulders but it only seems to spur him on and then his tongue dips inside you and your hands freeze.

In that moment the horrible ache inside you finds an answer. As his lips suckle at your nethers, pulling them into his mouth and lapping at you like a wriggling eel, your pussy throbs to life. Your fingers dig into his scalp and you pull him deeper in.

Oh, if he is feasting on you it is no burden to become a meal. With each hungry mouthful your fledgling nerves are battered into submission. You cry out with your ugly voice and undulate as you once did beneath the waves.

Far you want to tell him, but your voice is gone so you buck your hips and let him bury his nose against your throbbing button. A wave rushes up to shore and crashes against your back, inundating you both. Your eyes is dripping from your lap and takes you by the shoulders.

He throws you down in the surf. You gaze up at him, not knowing what new sensation he will visit on you. He looms over you, his eyes drinking you in.

His salty lips seal over your mouth and his hands squeeze painfully at your breasts. You don't know what this is, this touch of lip to lip, but it inflames the wet nerves between your legs. Even your familiar breasts feel like new body parts as they swell beneath his greedy fumbling fingers.

His tongue enters you, though it has no partner to play with. Poor girl, he grunts as he pulls your hair and kisses and kisses and kisses your face. Poor girl, without a tongue to tell this wretched old sailor what a sinful fiend he is.

You moan against him, your nails scratching at the back of his neck, his broad and unyielding shoulders. By all the gods, he moans as he bites into your chin. One nipple slips into his hairy mouth and your whole body curls up like a snail darting into its shell.

His ragged fingernails scrape the skin of your ass. You are a wriggling, throbbing maelstrom, bending and bowing to his every touch, his kiss, his tongue and teeth. You cannot help yourself, pushing his head down, down again to kiss you again between your legs.

Yes, there, yes, there his mouth seals once more, planting rougher kisses and fucking you with his tongue. And then he sucks your button into his mouth. You scream like a dolphin at play, the sun's rays blind your eyes and the ocean threads up the crack of your ass and through your hair.

Day becomes night and your back arches like seaweed trapped in a rip curl. And as good as that feels, your body craves more. The sea witch told you humans were chaos made flesh and there is chaos in your womb.

You begin to scream, to screech because the emptiness inside you is now growing. There is a cavern cut into your firmament, a deep pit with no end. His human tongue cannot possibly reach its bottom.

No, not his tongue, but there is something else.