The Mariner

But then — something out at sea! A shape moving though the waves, pale silver just as they were, but causing displaced water to appear black, ripples of darkness giving definition to the beast. It moved gracefully and his heart raced at the thought of it being a dolphin or seal or some other helpful creature. He strained against the barrier, desperate to see the first piece of strange life in months.

It was a woman. Her pale skin shone in the brine beneath long raven hair. He could see her arms pulling the water aside as she swam breast stroke, heels alternately breaking the surface with each gentle kick. She was not exhausted nor desperate, hers were the actions of a lady at leisure; someone going for a brief swim before dinner, rather than one lost in the middle of an endless ocean.

The Mariner craned his neck looking from horizon to horizon, trying to see her ship, but there was none. Just the sea. Just her. And just he.

Closer now, she was a woman of youth, flesh healthy and soft, skin without blemish; a stark contrast to his own aged, scarred and sun burnt exterior. To his delight he saw she was naked, and surely she was aware of his presence, yet there was no modesty, either feigned or real. She swam as if it were an absolute delight. A natural joy.

The Mariner tried to speak, but his mouth had dried up. Shamefully, he stiffened in his jeans, but that could be excused. He hadn’t seen another thinking person in months, let alone a beautiful woman! Surely someone so brazen could forgive lustful thoughts? He paced back and forth, eyes fixed on the approaching figure.

He decided he would cast her a rope, pull her on board, then ravish her right there on the deck. Stars above, flesh below. It would be sweet, perfect, just like his dreams. He gathered a length in his arms, preparing for the opportune moment.

Below, the devils began to howl, though the Mariner was beyond noticing. All that existed to him was she; just her perfect round buttocks as they poked above the surface and her thighs opening and closing with each thrust.

The woman stopped swimming just beyond throwing distance. Her legs fell from behind and sank into the depths as she straightened to tread water. No sign of struggle could be seen; she floated buoyantly, shoulders clear above the surface, breasts firm and full. The Mariner’s lustful eyes did not remain on them for long, they were drawn to the maiden’s face. It was the archetype of heavenly, the embodiment of fantasy. The Philosopher Woman had spoken of Plato’s Form of Beauty and now it swam before him. Her large eyes called to his soul and her lips called to his loins, though she did not look at him.

“Come closer!” he called, clutching the rope in one hand and waving with the other. “I’ll pull you out, just swim a little further!”

She smiled. Not at him, her head was turned to the side as if looking at an imaginary lover, someone sharing the eternal waves, and the Mariner felt briefly like a spectator, a customer across from her in a bordello. That was nonsense of course. He was here and she was there, down in the cold night’s waters.

He felt giddy. Perhaps the water wasn’t as chill as he thought? Perhaps he should dive on in?

In one smooth motion, the woman lifted her arms out of the sea and placed her hands upon the surface. Instead of sinking, her hands found purchase, arms tensed, and she lifted herself up. The Mariner watched in amazement as her whole body climbed clear out. First her breasts, then her stomach, and finally her legs, giving a fleeting glimpse of her sex. Against all logic, she sat upon the surface as if it were a raft, rising and falling with the waves, each one only breaking a little as it clashed upon her thighs.

The Mariner wanted to take in the whole sight, to drink the image of her body, but he found it difficult to look away from her face. That sly smile beneath tragic eyes.

She raised her hands to her breasts, cupping them, pushing them together. Between her fingers he could see her nipples, erect and large, dark against her skin. She opened her mouth, letting out a gasp, her tongue moist and delicious.

The Mariner undressed, eager to join the woman below. But at the back of his mind was a voice, perhaps a voice in tune with the devils’ howls of protest, that said he should stay on deck. The water meant death. It always had.

The sea temptress leaned back, placing one hand behind her to steady herself. The other she traced a path along her right leg, running up the inner thigh, from knee towards the hips. As she drew near to her destination she parted her legs, knees raised, sex exposed to him fully for the first time.

The Mariner doubted he’d wanted anything more. Not company, food or wine. Not even The Oracle which he sought every day. All he wanted was to put his face between those milk white legs, taste her and lose himself in her scent.

If only she would look at him!