Page 12 of A Siren Song for Christmas

What would he do if Mr Marin was in bed with him now?

Trent bit his lip. He wouldn’t know how to touch Mr Marin. Or even how to kiss him properly.

Mr Marin no doubt would know how to do all those things. Would he want someone as inexperienced as Trent?

He shoved the thought aside as he lay on his back. He was in his room with an imaginary Mr Marin in his bed. In Trent’s fantasies Mr Marin desired him, even if the siren would probably never want him in reality.

He stared at the dark ceiling, thoughts on Mr Marin’s webbed fingers. Trent slid his hand down his bare chest and over his flat stomach. Goosebumps pebbled on his skin. He closed his eyes, imagining it was Mr Marin touching him. He envisioned those hands, so different from his own, stroking his skin.

“Mr Marin,” Trent whispered as he untied his drawers and slid a hand down. He gripped his already hard cock. “Please.” Softly, he slid his hand up and down. He teased the tip. “Oh!”

“That’s it, such a good boy,”the fantasy Mr Marin whispered in his ear. “Show me how much you enjoy this. Show me how much you enjoy my touch.”

Trent whimpered. Tightening his grip, he visualised pale-blue eyes watching him.

Then, as Trent jerked himself, he imagined tentacles rising from behind Mr Marin. His breath caught, and his hand quickened. The tentacles descended on Trent. Each slippery tentacle slithered along his skin, caressing, encircling, and squeezing.

Trent cried out as he jerked himself faster, hand gripping tighter. Then he pictured one tentacle slithering around his waist and to his lower back. It continued down the crevice between his cheeks. Seeking. Searching.

Trent squeezed his eyes shut as his balls pulled up tight. The fantasised tentacle probed against his most secret spot.

“Do you want me to fuck you with my tentacle. Or my cock?”the imaginary Mr Marin asked.

Trent choked and thrust into the tight grip of his fist.

He could see Mr Marin’s smile.“Perhaps I’ll fuck you with my tentacle until you come. Then I’ll flip you over and fuck you with my cock.”

Trent’s whole body tensed and arched as he teetered on the edge of his orgasm for a split second. Then his cock jerked, and he cried out. His seed spurted inside his drawers.

He collapsed. He blinked into the darkness. Slowly, his spend cooled on his skin and his fantasy lover retreated from his mind.

His breathing sounded so loud in the empty room.

Chapter

Seven

Malachi plunged into the lake. He held his breath as he swam downwards. The icy water caressed his naked body. He wore nothing but a simple seashell, which hung from a chord around his neck that Malachi never took off.

He swam down and down until he neared the bottom. There he stopped and floated above a large growth of mayaweed.

The seaweed bobbed in the water. An eel darted through the brownish-green foliage. With a pair of scissors, Malachi hacked at the seaweed. His tentacles reached forward and gripped the clumps before they could float away.

When he had enough, he swam upwards. As his head broke the surface, he inhaled the wintry air, taking in deep lungfuls. Sirens could not breathe underwater. But they could hold their breath for many minutes.

He swam to the edge of the lake and pulled himself out. He dropped the seaweed on the ground. With a towel, he dried himself. He’d taken several trips this morning into the watery depths of the lake to collect different plants.

He’d also harvested from several rivers in the forest. He had about as much as he could carry on his own. In the comingweeks, the lake would freeze over as the temperature continued to drop.

The sky above lightened, and the soft rays of sunshine reflected on the surface of the lake. And as the sun rose, Malachi barely spared it a glance. The colours always appeared muted to Malachi’s eyes. No beauty existed in his world anymore.

Malachi dressed. Then he organised his aquatic plants. Whilst he could grow a lot in the emporium, especially when assisted by tanks and equipment that had been magicked, most aquatic plants thrived best in their true habitats.

Usually, Malachi came out early in the morning once a week, and on that day, he opened his shop later. Bending over, he studied the mayaweed as he shoved them into small hessian sacks.

The plant still looked quite healthy despite the cold temperature. Once the lake froze, the plant would die back. He stacked the sacks into a crate. Then he reached down and lifted his rucksack, also filled with plants.

Malachi froze. Two voices, joined in song, floated across the lake, breaking the early morning quiet.