The nets came up empty and Theron cursed the gods the way a man curses when he knows they are not listening. Late sun sat on the Aegean like a hot coin. His boat was pitch and patches. He was a fisherman of no house, salt in the cracks of his hands, dirty-gold hair, a thick body used to hauling. He sang under his breath because silence on that water felt like a mouth about to close.
Kalliope heard the singing and rose for it.
She was not the pretty lie on a vase. She was a siren of the drop-off: ink hair to the cleft of her tail, mouth red, breasts heavy in the cold, the slit of her cunt hidden in the pale scale-soft place where a woman would part her thighs. Her song was not a poem. It was a hook behind the eyes. It unstrung a man’s will and left his cock useful.
She wanted that cock useful.
Two winters of empty heat had made her vicious. She did not want a drowned meal. She wanted to be mounted until her belly took. She wanted spawn with tails. A fisherman was livestock with arms. She circled the keel and loosed the first note.
The song hit the wood like a slap to the skull.
Theron froze with the line in his fists. His mouth fell open. Behind his eyes the world went warm and simple. Kalliope broke surface in a rush of foam, hauled her wet weight over the strake, smeared her tits across his chest, and poured the rest of the command into his ear, old wreck-Greek, each word a nail:
Come down. Kneel. Get that cock out. You want to breed the thing in the water. You will not stop. You will thank me for using you.
His hands went slack. The net slid. A bulge fattened the soaked wool of his chiton like the spell had gone straight to his groin.
She shoved him overboard and dove with him, laughing bubbles, dragging him under the shelf where her kind kept toys that still breathed. Air pocket. Stone slick with old spray. She slammed him to the rock and kissed him open, feeding song between his teeth, topping the bind like oil in a lamp. She bit his lip when he tried to speak.
“You don’t talk unless I ask. You breed. Nod.”
He nodded, glassy.
She tore the chiton down his hips. His cock sprang heavy, flushed, veined, the head already wet. Kalliope spat on it, stroked it twice with a cold hand, and smiled like a wreck.
“Good boy. Fat cock. You’re going to pack me with it until I drip.”
She shoved him sitting in the shallows, straddled him, coiled her tail around his calves like rope, lined that thick head at her slit, and sat down in one drop.
Wet. Tight. Salt-slick. His cock split her to the base and she groaned like a hull taking water.
“There. Take it. You don’t get to pull out.”
She rode him filthy. Up, down, slapping scale on skin, water sloshing around where they joined. Her clit dragged the hair at his root. She hummed the command on every downstroke so his will stayed soup and his cock stayed iron. When she came the first time she clenched so hard he shouted into her mouth. She did not climb off. She milled her hips on that buried cock until his balls drew up and he pumped her, hot pulses she felt painting her deep.
“Again,” she panted, still seated, still full. “Stay hard. The song says you can.”
She lifted off with a wet string hanging off his cock, turned on the rock, hiked her tail, and looked over her shoulder with her slit shiny and dripping his spend.
“Mount. Put that cock back in. Punch the place that takes eggs.”
He gripped the soft join where scale became ass and drove into her from behind hard enough her tits swung in the spray. The angle punched a sound out of her. He took her hair—black ropes—and used it. She shoved onto every thrust, talking filth older than his village.
“Don’t you dare soften. Breed. Pack it. I want your cock twitching when you empty. I want it running down my tail. You don’t own that cock anymore. I do.”
He reached under and rubbed her swollen nub while his cock hammered the clutch of her. She broke again, squirting thin salt around his shaft. He buried it to the hilt and came grinding, as if he could nail the load in place.
She barely let him breathe. She shoved him onto his back in the air pocket and sat on his face, smearing his mouth with the mess of both of them, riding his tongue until her thighs shook and she soaked his beard. Then she slid back onto his cock facing away, tail lashing his chest, bouncing until the cave sounded like fucking, not magic. She reached down and squeezed his sac.
“Hours. That cock doesn’t leave my cunt until I say. You will spend every time I tell you. You will think it’s your idea.”
On her back she hooked her tail over his shoulder so he could fold her open and sink that cock straight at her womb, short nasty strokes that made her mouth hang. On her side he threw a leg over her coils and used her like that, the wet head popping out and slamming home. She took his cock down her throat with no gag, nose in his hair, spit running off her chin, humming the bind around the shaft—then pulled off and fed it straight back into her cunt because breeding was not a throat job.
“In the womb. Not the stomach. Understand?”
He nodded, dazed, and fucked the spend back into her.
Four loads before the light outside died. When he slipped free his cock shone with her and him. She scooped what leaked and pushed it back in with two fingers, then caught his half-hard cock and stuffed it into the sloppy heat to keep warm until he fattened and could drive again.
“Stay in me. I want it seeping all night.”
She never saw that his eyes were clear.
The song had slid off him like rain off pitch. He heard every nail of it and felt nothing but ordinary heat: a beautiful monster in his boat, tits wet, mouth red, telling him to ruin her. He went slack on purpose. He went over the side on purpose. He played empty so she would not bite his throat for failing the spell. And because he wanted to be used exactly like this. He fucked her like a man with no will and kept his own will behind his teeth.
When she finally sagged across his chest, dripping, humming sleep, stay, be mine, he almost smiled at the stone.
Kalliope woke sure she owned him. She fed him raw fish from her fingers and made him suck the oil off them. She shoved him down before he had swallowed and sank onto his cock with a hiss, tits in his face, grinding tight circles until she soaked his lap.
“Suck. Good. Now breed.”
She dragged him into deeper blue by the hair and pinned him to a coral stack in open water, impaling herself on that cock with no rock and no sky, tails knotting, little fish scattering. She breathed for him mouth to mouth, then laughed and told him to drown a little, it made the cock twitch nicer inside her. She came in the current with her nails in his shoulders and ordered another load. He gave it, bubbling a groan.
On the dusk rock she laid herself out and had him lick her clean and filthy at once until she came on his tongue, then dragged him up and locked her tail around his waist so that cock had no escape. “Breed. Breed. Breed.” He emptied into her with a sound that was not all acting.
“I will change you,” she said after, palm on his human heart, mouth on his pulse. “Gills. Tail. You will not drown. That cock stays in the sea. Ten children. I have decided. Nod.”
“Do it,” he rasped.
She thought that was the hook.
The change was cruel. She bit the soft hinge of his jaw and poured pre-Olympian craft down the wound—blood-bright, cold, the magic used when a siren means to keep a mate instead of a meal. His scream went to bubbles. Legs fused. Bone ground. Skin split into scales the color of his ruined boat. Gills tore open. She held him through it still seated on his cock, still rolling her hips through his agony because she was not a gentle god, and when the tail finished she came on the new shape of him with a shattered cry, clutching a cock that now belonged to a merman.
After, he was long and powerful, new flukes beating the dark. She kissed the raw gills and took him in the blue, two tails winding, her cunt swallowing his cock to the base on every current-driven thrust.
“Still a man’s cock,” she gasped. “Good. Use it. Fill me.”
He bred her in open sea until her belly felt packed and she went limp in his arms, smiling with all her teeth.
They surfaced at her island on the third day. Marriage in the old style: no priest, no dowry, a vow bitten into his lower lip until he bled and answered. She still thought the yes was hers. She sat on his cock to seal it, slow and deep, and made him spend inside her as the words finished.
The years were not a hymn. They were a ledger of heat.
Kalliope swelled early and grew meaner with it. She dragged him onto noon rocks so the empty horizon could watch a siren on her back, tail thrashing, a dark-tailed man between her coils pounding her pregnant cunt in wet slaps, his cock shining every time it drew out. In the nursery shallows she made him take her from behind with one hand on the rising dome and his cock in short deep strokes so she could feel shaft and child at once. She woke him with her mouth on his cock and finished with it buried, humming leftover command out of habit.
“You don’t pull out of a full belly. You add to it.”
She littered in the shallows screaming, his hands in hers: a daughter with ink hair, then a son, then more, the count climbing as she had promised in that first filthy cave. Ten living. Mermaid and merman both. Little tails slapping the cove. Mouths already sharp. She nursed on the rocks like any mother who had gotten the ruin she hunted, and when the babes slept she pulled her husband back into her—still stretched, still greedy—and told him to put the next decade in her if the sea allowed, his cock working the same sloppy devoted rhythm.
Only when the tenth was weaned and the cove was loud with children did he tell her.
They lay in the original air pocket. She traced his gills, smug as a queen of wrecks, his cock already thickening against her thigh because she had been stroking it while she bragged.
“Your song never held me,” Theron said.
Kalliope went still as a spear.
“I heard every word. It passed through. I went into the water because I wanted my hands on you and that cunt on my cock. I played empty so you would not eat me for failing. I stayed because you were the most terrible beautiful thing I have ever seen. The children are not a spell’s work. I bred you because I wanted you dripping.”
Sea-silence.
She could have opened his throat. Instead a laugh came out of her—low, incredulous, furious—and she shoved him onto his back and sat on his cock with no song at all, only weight and heat and pride bleeding.
“Then do it without a net,” she snarled against his mouth. “Breed me knowing I cannot make you. Prove that cock was always yours. Fill me anyway.”
He gripped her hips and drove up into her until she broke on him cursing, no bind in her throat, only want. He packed her full in the same cave where she had first been sure she owned him, and she came apart on it angrier and wetter than the night of the song.
Outside, ten children beat the breakers with two kinds of tail. The poets never got it right. They like hooks and drowned men. They do not like a siren who thought she had stolen a will, a fisherman who had stolen her instead, and the filthy honest years after, when she still hummed out of habit and he still fucked her like he was spellbound—because by then he was, and the spell was not hers.
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