The Mariner (6 page)

5
THE THIRD NIGHT OF OUR TALE

T
HE
M
ARINER SCREAMED AND TORE
at his ears, and yet still the visions remained. The ship, the ‘Neptune’, as it had been named many long years before, screamed too, though her complaints were for the ferocious winds that tore at her frame, and the staggering waves that clashed at her hull.

The day had been spent in preparation. First job had been to tend to his wound. The row of punctures created by the eel’s teeth were each individually deep, yet by a stroke of luck the creature had failed to tear out a larger piece. The Mariner found some old, damp bandages in a cupboard below deck, and rapped them as tightly as he could to stop the bleeding. Infection was his main concern. The whole region throbbed and grew increasingly maroon. What sorts of diseases did eels carry? What sort of poisons could they secrete?

Once he’d stopped the bleeding he attended to the ship, preparing it for the imminent storm. He bolted hatches and reinforced sails. He put everything not nailed down below deck, and yet still he was afraid. They were a long way from land. How long had it been since he’d bid farewell to Absinth and sailed East? Countless days. Endless nights.

Finally, absolutely sure he’d done his best to prepare the Neptune, he’d sat down on the floor and masturbated. Conjuring the sights of the previous evenings, it was easy to achieve an erection, though knowing an eel was behind what he’d seen made him feel nauseous. He sat there, feeling so sick he could throw up, yet so aroused he couldn’t help but rub vigorously, replaying the previous night’s events in his head, and hating himself every moment.

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.

“NO-”

The man who’d intruded upon the lesbian couple, turning it into a ‘ménage à trois’, put his hands around his lover’s neck, and tightened his grip.

“-MORE!”

The Mariner gripped the door in one hand, and positioned his genitals between it and the frame with the other, still unable to look away, still sick with his own urges.

Somewhere, amongst all the moans, screams and gasps, he heard the sound of Isabel, choking on blood and broken teeth.

Screaming, he swung the door shut-

The redhead, face bloody and bruised, pulled her ass-cheeks aside for the next intrusion-

To the audiences delight, the slave-man gave up fighting and began bucking back against his violator-

Despite her asphyxiation, the dark haired lover turned her head to the side, giving a better view of her partner’s cunt-

- and the door clamped down hard on his penis, oak tearing flesh and crushing muscle, agony erupting up through every inch of his body.

He fell back, legs unable to offer support. His mangled genitals, red and swelling, leaked blood, small pools running in tiny rivulets along his thighs. A hollow chill ran up his abdomen.

The pain was not kind enough to bring unconsciousness, but it was cruel enough to bring paralysis. He lay there, unable to move, and stared into the sky. He screamed and cried, but between sobs he also laughed; neither the eels nor his demons would get him tonight.

6
BEFORE, ROTTEN PHILOSOPHY

A
FTER LEAVING THE TINY ISLAND
of Brighton, the Mariner had only seen one piece of land and that was a small rock jutting out the water, two days after setting sail. It was small, a ball of snot compared to the Neptune. In the thick fog, it could easily have been missed.

Fortunate it was then, that the Mariner was sitting starboard, legs dangling over the side, drinking from a recently scavenged bottle of wine. He was already inebriated; with each swig he took the journey from lap to mouth became clumsier, the glass tapping against his teeth that bit more forceful.

The rock appeared from the mists, and on top of the rock, the Philosopher. She was substantially older than he, a sexagenarian. Her clothing, utterly unsuitable for the sea, looked too colourful and soft. Impractical and vulnerable to the elements. That was not the worst of her worries though; she was chained to the stone.

The pair watched each other as the Neptune glided closer. Eye contact was made way before either attempted to speak. Both sets were full of sorrow, his drunk with wine, hers drunk with hunger.

She lifted a weary hand, shaking from the weight of the chains wrapped about it. He nodded his head in reply.

“There’s nothing out there, you know!” she called to him a motherly tone, though her exhaustion was plain.

“How do you know that?” The two were close enough to talk, the Neptune slowing down on its own accord as if intent on the exchange.

“We tried sailing that way before and had to turn back. Just open water. No fish, no birds. No food. You don’t want to try it.”

“Who are you? What did you do to be tied to that rock?”

The woman scrunched up her face, wrinkles folding over one another in disgust, “I didn’t do anything to deserve this, they just put me here.” She looked as if she’d been left standing in the rain, rather than deserted on a rock to starve. She smiled, trying to put on a brave face for company. “My name is Gloria. I teach Philosophy. What’s your name young man?”

“I don’t have a name.”

This did not meet the same distrust he usually received. “Very well, in absence of a mother, I shall name you..” she rolled her eyes upwards, scanning the heavens for inspiration. “Edward. That’s a handsome name. Noble, yet dashing.”