Dreamsong by Elizabeth L. Brooks
531 Words
Dreamsong by Elizabeth L. Brooks
He floated in a dream, in a song. In the dream of a song—or was it a song of a dream?
Never mind; he floated, and that was enough.
The song was old. Warm and welcoming, it promised a balm to ease his pains, rest for his weary limbs, solace for his lonely heart.
He strove for the song, for its source. He yearned for it. Thirsted. Strove. Reached.
He could not see. The song had blinded him to all but the song and the dream. Yet he was content, for he had the song, and the dream. What more might a man need? Nothing. Naught else.
The song changed.
Still warm and welcoming, it added a fresh note: desire.
Desire?
Indeed: desire, lust, a thirst that only he himself might slake.
He surrendered himself to it. The song, the dream, surrounded him, touching him with its cool fingers. It caressed his skin, embraced his c**k as it swelled. The melody stroked him with the rocking rhythm of the sea herself.
He spread himself, letting the cool touch into every crease and crevice of his body. It lapped at his neck and slithered between his toes; it curled behind his knee and licked at his armpits. It pored over his c**k and poured over it, a cool pressure easing into the slit that forced his own heat to compress and intensify.
It teased at his arse until he relaxed, and it was inside him, then, pushing and receding with the same rhythm that caressed his aching prick.
He strained against it, wanting more, needing more. He did not get it, only the same gentle ebb and flow. He flailed in frustration, but the cool touch neither satisfied his hunger nor released him. The song grew hungrier, though, pleading with him even as he demanded, commanding him even as he begged.
At last, he stopped fighting it and simply floated again, allowing that cool touch to hold him, to caress him, to invade him, the inexorable tide of it wearing away the roughness of his mortal shell.
In the moment of his surrender, his body shuddered and his seed poured out of him. It wasn’t a violent explosion of release, but a slow, rhythmic pulsing that went on and on for minutes that seemed to last for hours, even as the song thrummed in his ears, at once hungry and satiated.
When at last he could spill no more of himself out, when he had been drained to the very dregs of his being, there came a pause in the song, and he was able to look up into the face of his lover.
The siren’s eyes were wide and black from corner to corner. It had no nose at all, merely a pair of small slits for nostrils. A pair of octopus arms grew from each of its shoulders, and its hair was the blue-and-purple tentacles of a Portuguese man o’ war. Another man might have been afraid when it opened its mouth to reveal row after row of shark-like teeth. Another man might have tried to flee.
He closed his eyes and relaxed into the siren’s embrace and waited for the song.
- Writer
