Birthday today...plus Delicasy
Aecyko was nice enough to beta one of my "old", original stories so I decided to put it up here right away. It's called "Delicasy". To say much of the plot would be too much of a give-away but let's say it's about...a meeting between a customer and a client.
It's not overly long and it's completed, so go read! You know you want to!
Delicasy
The Japanese business man bows his head slightly and looks me in the eyes. This alone should be enough to make me feel uneasy. I remember hearing somewhere that, in Japan, eye contact between strangers is frowned upon. Why is this man looking at me so boldly, with a hint of barely hidden surprise in his eyes? Am I not what he expected? I know I am not pretty. You could say I am not far from unattractive. But this isn’t the reason he wants me here. I have other attributes that he craves, so why does his disappointed expression so irritate me? I am used to hiding my feelings and thoughts from clients, but something about this man bothers me.
It is always hard to go meet them on their turf. You never know what you’re going to find. Smiling, the man gestures to me to enter the room and makes little excited bows at me. This man is far from the inhibited Japanese man that I expected, I say to myself. I can’t wait to find out what he’ll do when we get down to the business side of the meeting. Rhetorically thinking, that is. I could wait all day, and would if I had the choice.
The room was spacious and almost empty: simple, stern furniture (low table and a sofa) and two paintings on the wall featuring Japanese lettering that was unfamiliar to me. This is all well and good, but I need a bathroom.
“I need some water before we start. Down there, I mean. Do you have a bathroom?”
The smile on the man’s face widens at my choice of words.
“Bathroom here. Follow me, please.”
He leads me to a small hallway and to the 1st door on the right. I go into the bathroom, and he leaves me alone.
Sometimes it still amazes me that I’m in this line of work. Giving in to twisted people, fulfilling their fantasies of me and my kind. And sometimes it amazes me just exactly how my boss managed to find me. He has never answered me; however, a week ago I found out I am not the only one. He has found himself--and his clients--a younger one. Prettier too, I suspect. I know I am becoming dispensable. That is the main reason I am in this apartment in the first place. One last gig before retiring.
The man I am meeting has pestered my boss about me for ages. For some reason, my employer had always declined the favour until now. I know he is making big money out of me; I don’t know what changed his mind.
I take off my clothes and water myself from head to toe. As soon as the water hits my legs, they are replaced by a fishtail. Well, just a tail. Fish have nothing to do with me, and I certainly have nothing to do with them.
A stranger might wonder how I plan to get myself back into the living room with my tail. That is very simple. I have done this before. I have great arm strength. It isn’t graceful to watch, but graceful is not my middle name.
The man has been waiting for me eagerly. He has changed from his 3-piece suit to a silken robe. His yellow-tinted skin makes a strange impact next to my pasty, almost deadly white skin and his own bright red robe.
I feel a familiar desire to cover myself from his eyes. This situation isn’t new to me, but it feels like the first time every time. With every client. With every man. Feeling ugly before his eyes doesn’t help either. I don’t want to be desirable to him. That would make the circumstances even worse. But like any woman in any situation, it is crushing to be in front of a man, naked, fearing or knowing he doesn’t like what he sees.
I needn’t have worried. All he sees is my tail.
He slides his hands up and down my scales. If I had skin down there, it would be filled with goose bumps. As I do not, he notices nothing and goes on with his quest. I’ve seen this before. All they want is a freak on a leash. A miraculous freak of nature they can pretend to control. With me, the controlling is easier than with, say, a werewolf. When I’m with a customer, I’m on dry ground. My only defense is my upper body, mainly, my head. And I use it when necessary.
Do mermaids and mermen have babies? Yes and no. Like with seahorses, it’s the male that carries the eggs. I have a crevice similar to the ordinary female organ. That is purely for pleasure. More so probably for the men than me, but it can be pleasurable when I am with the right partner. Needless to say, none of my clients are.
His hands are all over my body now. He licks my tail where my knees ordinarily are and breathes heavily, making a nauseating sound. My tail hurts and itches; it’s getting too dry. I wish this slow torture was over, and I could go home, back to my boss. I don’t know where I’m going to go when he replaces me with his new find. I’m not like all of the other girls that he owns.
The dryness of my tail starts to worry my client also.
“Change back when it dries? The fin? No. Umm…the tail?”
“Yes. Well not yet, but in half an hour or so.“
The man is happy with my answer. Whatever it is that he is going to do to me won’t last for 30 minutes, I gather. So far, he hasn’t wanted me to participate in this vile act. As soon as the thought occurs to me, as if he knew what I was thinking, he asks me to touch my own tail.
- “Lower. Lower. Please.”
The sound he makes is more a moan than words. I do as he wishes. I want to detach myself from the act I’m doing, so I think of the sea. Cool, clear blue water. The home I used to have. Where everything was simple, and I didn’t have to do things like these to survive. Where my tail was wet and didn’t itch and hurt and…
I have to force myself from scratching my scales off. The man wants me to caress myself softly, and all it makes me feel is an itch even worse than before. Not the kind he’s looking for. But men like these usually don’t want me to enjoy this, to get aroused. They want me to pretend. They know I pretend, and they know I know that they know. And that gets them off in the worst way.
The sound and feel of water all around me, deep in the recesses of the sea. The echoing voice of a manatee. I’m just one of the many daughters of the sea. I know no other family. I long for nothing else than to be reunited with my mother and slide and sink into her arms. Down there where it is cold and dark and wet, where I can forget there ever was such a place as Japan.
I feel him on top of me now. He keeps very still. He hasn’t done it yet. Maybe he wants to remember the moment, wait for it a little longer. His hand creeps up my crevice, and he cops a feel. He seems pleased. I don’t know why. His organ is made for a human girl, and I am not it. I’m not made for him. I’m cold, and wet (oh how I wish I was wet again!) and I smell of fish. He cannot find my smell very attractive to his sinuses. Then again, maybe he likes sushi.
He gets it inside. He makes three plunges, and then he is done. I lay under him, and imagine his fluid in me. It sickens me. But I’m relieved! Maybe he isn’t finished with me yet, but the worst part is surely over.
He gets up and goes to the hallway. I can do nothing; I have no will power. He opens the door and talks to someone in what I assume is his native language. This frightens me. I thought we were alone. The last time my meeting with a client ended with a party is a memory I don't wish to remember, and an act I don't wish to repeat.
More Japanese men appear. I think they're my client's henchmen. They don't look nor act as though they are his equals. One of them ties a cloth of some sort in front of my eyes, while the others pick me up and start carrying me somewhere.
Shellfishes. Crabs. Sea urchins. Starfishes. The Japanese men in their cloaks- -
--no. No men. Only dolphins. And pikes. A herd of whales. Mother ocean.
In Japan they have a belief--that eating the flesh of a mermaid can grant immortality.
It's not overly long and it's completed, so go read! You know you want to!
Delicasy
The Japanese business man bows his head slightly and looks me in the eyes. This alone should be enough to make me feel uneasy. I remember hearing somewhere that, in Japan, eye contact between strangers is frowned upon. Why is this man looking at me so boldly, with a hint of barely hidden surprise in his eyes? Am I not what he expected? I know I am not pretty. You could say I am not far from unattractive. But this isn’t the reason he wants me here. I have other attributes that he craves, so why does his disappointed expression so irritate me? I am used to hiding my feelings and thoughts from clients, but something about this man bothers me.
It is always hard to go meet them on their turf. You never know what you’re going to find. Smiling, the man gestures to me to enter the room and makes little excited bows at me. This man is far from the inhibited Japanese man that I expected, I say to myself. I can’t wait to find out what he’ll do when we get down to the business side of the meeting. Rhetorically thinking, that is. I could wait all day, and would if I had the choice.
The room was spacious and almost empty: simple, stern furniture (low table and a sofa) and two paintings on the wall featuring Japanese lettering that was unfamiliar to me. This is all well and good, but I need a bathroom.
“I need some water before we start. Down there, I mean. Do you have a bathroom?”
The smile on the man’s face widens at my choice of words.
“Bathroom here. Follow me, please.”
He leads me to a small hallway and to the 1st door on the right. I go into the bathroom, and he leaves me alone.
Sometimes it still amazes me that I’m in this line of work. Giving in to twisted people, fulfilling their fantasies of me and my kind. And sometimes it amazes me just exactly how my boss managed to find me. He has never answered me; however, a week ago I found out I am not the only one. He has found himself--and his clients--a younger one. Prettier too, I suspect. I know I am becoming dispensable. That is the main reason I am in this apartment in the first place. One last gig before retiring.
The man I am meeting has pestered my boss about me for ages. For some reason, my employer had always declined the favour until now. I know he is making big money out of me; I don’t know what changed his mind.
I take off my clothes and water myself from head to toe. As soon as the water hits my legs, they are replaced by a fishtail. Well, just a tail. Fish have nothing to do with me, and I certainly have nothing to do with them.
A stranger might wonder how I plan to get myself back into the living room with my tail. That is very simple. I have done this before. I have great arm strength. It isn’t graceful to watch, but graceful is not my middle name.
The man has been waiting for me eagerly. He has changed from his 3-piece suit to a silken robe. His yellow-tinted skin makes a strange impact next to my pasty, almost deadly white skin and his own bright red robe.
I feel a familiar desire to cover myself from his eyes. This situation isn’t new to me, but it feels like the first time every time. With every client. With every man. Feeling ugly before his eyes doesn’t help either. I don’t want to be desirable to him. That would make the circumstances even worse. But like any woman in any situation, it is crushing to be in front of a man, naked, fearing or knowing he doesn’t like what he sees.
I needn’t have worried. All he sees is my tail.
He slides his hands up and down my scales. If I had skin down there, it would be filled with goose bumps. As I do not, he notices nothing and goes on with his quest. I’ve seen this before. All they want is a freak on a leash. A miraculous freak of nature they can pretend to control. With me, the controlling is easier than with, say, a werewolf. When I’m with a customer, I’m on dry ground. My only defense is my upper body, mainly, my head. And I use it when necessary.
Do mermaids and mermen have babies? Yes and no. Like with seahorses, it’s the male that carries the eggs. I have a crevice similar to the ordinary female organ. That is purely for pleasure. More so probably for the men than me, but it can be pleasurable when I am with the right partner. Needless to say, none of my clients are.
His hands are all over my body now. He licks my tail where my knees ordinarily are and breathes heavily, making a nauseating sound. My tail hurts and itches; it’s getting too dry. I wish this slow torture was over, and I could go home, back to my boss. I don’t know where I’m going to go when he replaces me with his new find. I’m not like all of the other girls that he owns.
The dryness of my tail starts to worry my client also.
“Change back when it dries? The fin? No. Umm…the tail?”
“Yes. Well not yet, but in half an hour or so.“
The man is happy with my answer. Whatever it is that he is going to do to me won’t last for 30 minutes, I gather. So far, he hasn’t wanted me to participate in this vile act. As soon as the thought occurs to me, as if he knew what I was thinking, he asks me to touch my own tail.
- “Lower. Lower. Please.”
The sound he makes is more a moan than words. I do as he wishes. I want to detach myself from the act I’m doing, so I think of the sea. Cool, clear blue water. The home I used to have. Where everything was simple, and I didn’t have to do things like these to survive. Where my tail was wet and didn’t itch and hurt and…
I have to force myself from scratching my scales off. The man wants me to caress myself softly, and all it makes me feel is an itch even worse than before. Not the kind he’s looking for. But men like these usually don’t want me to enjoy this, to get aroused. They want me to pretend. They know I pretend, and they know I know that they know. And that gets them off in the worst way.
The sound and feel of water all around me, deep in the recesses of the sea. The echoing voice of a manatee. I’m just one of the many daughters of the sea. I know no other family. I long for nothing else than to be reunited with my mother and slide and sink into her arms. Down there where it is cold and dark and wet, where I can forget there ever was such a place as Japan.
I feel him on top of me now. He keeps very still. He hasn’t done it yet. Maybe he wants to remember the moment, wait for it a little longer. His hand creeps up my crevice, and he cops a feel. He seems pleased. I don’t know why. His organ is made for a human girl, and I am not it. I’m not made for him. I’m cold, and wet (oh how I wish I was wet again!) and I smell of fish. He cannot find my smell very attractive to his sinuses. Then again, maybe he likes sushi.
He gets it inside. He makes three plunges, and then he is done. I lay under him, and imagine his fluid in me. It sickens me. But I’m relieved! Maybe he isn’t finished with me yet, but the worst part is surely over.
He gets up and goes to the hallway. I can do nothing; I have no will power. He opens the door and talks to someone in what I assume is his native language. This frightens me. I thought we were alone. The last time my meeting with a client ended with a party is a memory I don't wish to remember, and an act I don't wish to repeat.
More Japanese men appear. I think they're my client's henchmen. They don't look nor act as though they are his equals. One of them ties a cloth of some sort in front of my eyes, while the others pick me up and start carrying me somewhere.
Shellfishes. Crabs. Sea urchins. Starfishes. The Japanese men in their cloaks- -
--no. No men. Only dolphins. And pikes. A herd of whales. Mother ocean.
In Japan they have a belief--that eating the flesh of a mermaid can grant immortality.