by Carla Blake
“So, I’m guessing no sail for me today?” Ronnie smiled, as Roisin coiled a rope around her arm and pointedly ignored her.
Roisin had never told anyone about the terrible experience she’d been forced to endure the first – and last! – time she’d taken Ronnie out, and she had no intention of ever doing so, primarily to save her own blushes and also to save herself from being the victim of gossip, which in a small place like this, spread faster than beer tipped over on a table.
Ronnie though seemed almost proud of it and had cornered Roisin several times since, reminding her of her promise to ‘ have her, one day’ and always, always looking to get back on the boat with her.
“You guess right.” Roisin said now, storing the rope and turning to check the engine oil. “ So I suggest you sod off and leave me alone?”
Ronnie laughed. “You can suggest it, me lovely, but I can’t promise I’ll necessarily do it.”
“Fine. Then you can stand there all day if you want to. Bye.”
Roisin sailed out of the harbour, certain that Ronnie was watching her.
She shivered. Ronnie seriously gave her chills the way she was always hanging around. At the harbour. In the supermarket. Propping up the bar. And waiting. She was always bloody waiting.
She wondered how long she would get if she accidentally harpooned her.
Shale beach was deserted when she got there, but instead of mooring on the beach as she usually did, Roisin turned the little boat towards the sea and anchored herself a fair distance from the shore.
The sea was calm, the weather delicious, and stripping off her T-shirt, Roisin lay in white shorts and a bikini top and soaked up the rays.
Within minutes she was asleep, the gentle rocking of the boat and the quiet lapping of the waves against the hull lulling her into slumber, and she dreamt.
Of singing. A soft lament, filled with love and despair all at the same time. She could hear it and then she couldn’t and each time it drifted out of earshot, she longed to hear it again, her dream self sitting up to scan the waves, a hand shielding her eyes as she searched for the source of the lonesome melody that called to her, reached for her, made her look down the side of the boat and think how easy, how wonderfully releasing it would be, if she just tipped herself over the side and disappeared into the ocean forever.
The dream skipped and suddenly she was lying down again, the deck hard beneath her back. Her dream self recognized this and she realized that she was lucid dreaming. Pleased, she struggled to hold onto the sensation, sure that she’d read somewhere that whilst in this state of half dreaming, half consciousness, it was possible to dictate what direction your dreams took.
She thought of a gorgeous girl. A blonde. With a golden brown body and firm breasts. She pictured her climbing onto the boat, still wet from the sea, and lying next to her.
She imagined hands on her skin. Cool hands with fingers that unlaced the knot of her bikini and gently laid it aside. Followed by a kiss on her lips with a trace of salty tang behind it as a tongue fleeting traced the outline of her mouth before continuing down, across her throat and towards her breasts.
In her dream, Roisin felt her breath hitch in and her stomach contract. She tried to move her hands, to reach out for the beautiful creature that was making her tingle, but her hands would not move and all she could feel was the smooth, varnished deck of her boat.
So she lay there, helpless and unresisting. Unable to open her eyes, although that no longer seemed to matter. The woman was blonde, she was sure of it. And gorgeous.
Above her, the gentle stroking continued and a hand touched her breasts so softly it was difficult to tell if she was being touched at all. A thumb rolled across her nipple, then rolled back again until Roisin sighed and the first stirrings of heat rose deep within her groin. The thumb went away and was replaced by a mouth. Warmth smothered her nipple and Roisin groaned deeply, shuddering as a tongue pulled gently at the swollen nub and another rush of heat flooded through her pussy.
Fingers stroked her stomach and dipped into her belly button whilst the tongue continued at her breast, leaving the nipple to draw lazy circles across her skin. The popper on her shorts snapped open and the zip slid down. Her shorts seemed to fall from her hips as though they were made from paper. Beneath she wasn’t wearing panties. A hand touched her fluff.
Roisin sighed. The tongue was no longer at her breast, but had moved down to embrace her stomach. It, too, explored her belly button the same way the finger had done and she could feel the warmth of it followed by the coolness that was left behind as saliva dried against her skin. The hand, meanwhile, stayed at her mound, gently applying pressure and making her raise her hips in hopeful encouragement.
A giggle, like the ringing of a tiny bell, filled the air and a finger ever so carefully touched her clit. Gasping, Roisin rolled back her head and parted her lips. “ Please.” She sighed. “ Please touch me.”
In reply, the finger delved deeper and entered her slit. Wetness greeted it in a swollen embrace as the finger gently pushed through the yielding flesh and come to a halt at the entrance to Roisin’s vagina. The tongue found her fluff and nibbled.
“God.” Roisin breathed and struggled to open her eyes. She wanted to see now. She wanted to witness what this beautiful, sensual woman was doing to her body and know that she was as beautiful as she imagined, but her wish remained firmly denied. Her eyes would not open. Her hands would not move. She was trapped in an exquisite torture of feeling so much but seeing nothing.
The hand moved away from her pussy and onto her thigh. Roisin’s cunt throbbed in disappointment. The tongue gave up its nestling and let her bereft and she wondered what she had done wrong and if that was the end of the dream. If it was, it was cruelly unfair. Her body was aching to come. Her insides a maelstrom of want. One touch was all it would take.
One touch.
The hands came back, both of them this time, and slid up her thighs. In response, Roisin parted them, allowing whoever it was making love to her, to see everything. A thumb ran along the outside of her pussy lip and pulled it aside. The other thumb did the same. Now she was fully exposed. Her clit laid bare. Her pussy juices glistening in the sun.
The tongue found her clit with ease. The tip of it pushing firmly against the hardened nub until shivers of lust pulsed deep within Roisin’s cunt and she groaned softly.
“Please!” She whispered. “ Please!”
But the tongue did not move. Instead it pressed harder. Tormenting her. Waiting until Roisin’s fingers were gripping the deck hard enough to make her fingertips turn white before it began to move. Then it circled her clit, lapping gently at her juices. The thumbs gliding up and down her slit, making her slippery and wetter still as the tongue slid down and down and then probed the entrance to her cunt.
Making Roisin thrust her hips upwards, begging whoever it was that was fucking her to ease the all consuming ache that was melting her insides.
The tongue went back to her clit and lapped. Faster and then slow again, increasing the pressure and then backing right off until Roisin wasn’t sure if it was still touching her or not. The thumbs, meanwhile, stroked up and down her slit, moving easily between the swollen, pink lips of her pussy, and almost but never quite, entering her cunt.
Her whole body trembling, Roisin wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Her cunt felt like it was flooding with juices. Her nipples as hard as bullets. She wanted to come. Fuck, she needed to come! This was too much! She was going crazy! She really, really needed…
A thumb pushed deep into her cunt. Roisin’s back arched to the point of breaking.
“Yes!” She cried. “ Yes! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!”
The thumb fucked her. Firm and forceful. Driving itself in and out of her pulsating, throbbing, clenching cunt. Her muscles twitched and sucked and the thumb scre
wed her harder still, filling her up and driving her ever closer towards coming, whilst the tongue lapped and probed and wound itself around her clit. Bringing her closer and closer to the explosive orgasm she so desperately wanted.
She came. Deeply and hard. Her backside thumping against the deck as the thumb continued to fuck her whilst she rode the waves of deep, intense pleasure that swept through her cunt and produced gushes of juice the tongue eagerly licked up and swallowed down.
Then it was over. Done except for the rapid beating of her heart and a warm heat spreading between her legs.
Her eyes opened and she squinted against the bright sunlight, bringing one hand up to shield her eyes.
Blinking, Roisin looked down at herself, fully expecting to find herself still wearing her bikini top and her shorts. But she wasn’t. Her bikini top lay to one side, her shorts bunched up beside her knees.
“Fuck.” She sighed and reached down between her legs. She was wet. Sopping. Her thighs sticky with it. Touching her clit was one sensation too many and she hastily withdrew her fingers again amazed that she had come! Really bloody come! In her sleep. Christ!
Sitting up, Roisin grabbed her bikini and shorts and put them back on. Then she sniffed her fingers, figuring if she’d been playing with herself, which she must have been, then her fingers would smell of her. But they didn’t. They smelt of sun and ozone and deck varnish.
Then who the hell…?
She glanced at the deck. It was wet. A finger dipped in it told her it was salt water.
Someone had been on the boat!
Her first thought was Ronnie and panicked she ran to the sides and peered over, certain she would see the cow swimming away with a big shit-eating grin on her face. But the water was empty save for a few white horses far off in the distance and a sail boat that would have had to be going at the speed of light for someone to climb onboard her boat, fuck her and then get that far away that quickly.
She didn’t know what to think.
Had she got up in her dream, scooped water into her boat then lay down again and given herself the fuck of the century? It didn’t seem likely. There’d been hands and a tongue working on her, and okay, she might be fairly flexible but she wasn’t bloody double jointed, not even when she was asleep.
Feeling shaky and grateful for the cans of beer she always kept on board stored away in her tiny fridge, Roisin downed one then started up the engine and headed for the beach. She didn’t want to go back to harbour yet. She was frightened she might run into Ronnie and have her worst suspicions confirmed or be met by one of the locals who would spot right away that she was looking a bit ‘peaky’ and offer to make her tea whilst trying to wring out the latest misfortune to have hit her.
The beach was mercifully empty when she arrived. Roisin wasn’t surprised. This particular inlet was difficult to reach from land. Towering cliff tops formed the back and sides and only the very confident or very fool hardly attempted to climb down from up there. Someone had driven it once. Not intentionally. The story went that the driver, very drunk and driving in the dead of night, had missed the turning further along, hadn’t noticed and had turned right where he thought he should, which on this occasion, happened to be right off the edge of the cliff and into the sea. He’d survived the fall, as only the incredible pickled can, but had wrecked his car. He’d also become something of a local legend and as he’d gone round from pub to pub telling his tale, the pubs had duly supplied him with enough beer to help him make the same mistake all over again. Once he’d got his license back.
Roisin tied up her boat and stepped out onto the soft sand. It was early afternoon now, thanks to her little doze, and she carried with her a basket containing her lunch, a blanket and several bottles of soft drink. She also had a book, but she knew she wouldn’t read it. She never did. There was too much to see going on around the cliffs, with all the birds swooping about, and when she got bored with that, there was always the sea to stare at. Reading just couldn’t compare.
She ate her lunch watching a Kestrel search for his, then threw the crusts for the seagulls. Once they had gone, in about five seconds, she folded up her blanket, threw it across the basket and went to stretch out on the rocks to watch the waves.
Her little boat, ‘Ocean blue’ bobbed happily before her, and lying down, Roisin laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the sky. This was undoubtedly the life. No noise, no pollution. No sirens screaming in the distance. No idea who had fucked her.
She furrowed her brow, again trying to understand how it had happened.
Her mind kept going back to Ronnie. It must have been her, she reasoned, except there’d been no sign of her, and strong swimmer though she was, there was no way she could have made it out of sight in that short space of time. Unless she’d been hiding under the boat?
The thought sent a shudder rolling down her spine and shaking herself Roisin told herself not to be so bloody stupid. It hadn’t been Ronnie. For the pure and simple fact that Ronnie would have wanted to gloat and brag and generally make her feel crappy for having enjoyed it so much. So strike Ronnie off the list.
Which left – no one.
God.
No, strike him off the list too. There was no one. No one!
The sky was a beautiful duck egg blue, dotted with tiny, fluffy clouds and, staring up, Roisin pushed everything out of head and looked for shapes. In minutes she’d found a dog with a slightly wonky leg. A shoe with an impossible long heel. A helicopter with two rotors – God, she was getting good at this!
The sound of a woman singing.
Her heart stalled, then thudded hard in her chest. Roisin hitched in a breath and sat up, one hand clasped to her chest as she searched the sea, the beach, the cliffs.
There was no one there! No one at all. But she could still hear it. Plaintive singing. Heart wrenching singing. The kind of song no one could possibly have sung unless they’d been hurt beyond all human suffering. She should have hated it. Wanted, more than anything, for it to stop. But she didn’t. It called to her from the depths of the ocean. It captivated her, encircled her, drew her towards..
Her boat.
She stepped aboard, still listening to the sound of singing and without thinking, cast off, started the engine and sailed out to sea. She went further than she usually did, until the cliffs could be blocked from view with a hand in front of her face and the noise of tourists became non existent. The singing continued through, drawing her on, and she searched for it always. Shielding her eyes and staring out across the glassy water as the sun hit it in dozens of eye watering diamonds.
Eventually she stopped, the sane part of her realizing that if she went any further, she would not have fuel to get back to shore, but the singing went on. Filling her ears with its emotional plea, its desire to be found.
And Roisin listened. Knowing something wasn’t right, certain, deep within her subconscious, that she was in danger and that she should get the hell out of here. Except she couldn’t. She couldn’t just leave. She had to know who was making that incredible sound.
She moved to the side of the boat. ‘ Ocean blue’ dipped with her weight, a last desperate warning by her little boat for her to do something, anything other than what she was about to do.
Roisin gripped the sides and stared into the deep blue.
The singing filled her ears.
She smiled and took a deep breath.
She was still smiling when she slipped into the water.
Roisin was never found. Ocean blue was. Her little boat busy trying to drill its way into the side of a cliff a little further down the coast when a local fisherman spotted it. Eventually her basket, blanket and bottles of soft drink, two of which were untouched, were also discovered, ironically by Ronnie who’d managed to persuade another hapless female to take her out to the tiny inlet.
They held no clue though and eventually it was decided that Roisin had fallen overboard and drowned.
The Cornish, though, weren’t happy with that, and being the lover of a good tale, quickly whisked Roisin and her fate into legend. She’d been carried away by the Mer-folk, they said. Taken down into their watery home to spend the rest of her life amongst the sea creatures and the fishes. But you’d hear her one day, they insisted, even though the lass was gone. You’d hear her singing. A sad but beautiful song that told of the life she’d had to leave behind.
But you should never listen. Never! Cos to listen to a Mermaid’s song meant being carried off by them. Into the seas. Into the deep, blue sea. Forever.
It was past midnight and Ronnie, having left the Tavern on the Hill, a joke in itself, more like the pub on a bump, made her way down to the cliff path, intent on getting some fresh air and the opportunity to clear her head and think about Roisin. Something she did a lot, because even after all these months, she still felt bad about what had happened to her.
The night was dark and using a small torch she picked her way carefully along the path until she came to the top of the inlet where Roisin’s picnic basket had been found. Pausing, she stared down into darkness, seeing nothing much but hearing the tide lapping and swirling around the rocks.
“I’m sorry Roisin.” She whispered, sitting down and drawing her knees up to her chin. “ I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt yer hon. I was a cow. I’m real sorry me darlin’.”
The sea whispered back, softly hissing against the sand. The wind blew sharply then died away again, disappointed there was no one left to hassle but Ronnie.
Ronnie picked at the grass and let it fall from her fingers.
She sat there for some time, her mind idling and it was because of that, that she wasn’t sure how long she’d been listening to the sound of singing before she actually heard it. But once she had, she was on her feet and running. Towards the edge. Knowing that in the light it was dangerous enough, certain that in the dark it was practically suicidal, but no longer caring. She just ran. Then she scrambled. On hands and knees, Crawling and dragging herself through the long grass and the brambles and the softer clumps of wild flowers, down and down, until finally, dirty, bedraggled and grazed in a dozen places she made it to the beach.
