#female-centric sex

Nani’s third and last child certainly came as a surprise once she was able to take her baby in, less dizzy and drained from the pain that overtook her in the last couple hours. The trance from her three favorite sister-lovers’ singing, the warm lapping water, the hours of gentle lazy soothing sex was only able to stave the pain off so much. Sized as babies should be, all the fingers and toes, including the two webbed ones on each foot, the murmurs & fusses already melodic. Yet, the rarest of creatures, an oddity, albeit a pretty, no gorgeous one that washed her with love months before she opened up and pushed him out with her sisters help, whom she wanted months before she conceived. The emptiness, exhaustion from the birth flooding with love as she took in the warm deep eyes, already thick lashes, wide nose, lips like petals, chubby hand already curling around her finger…

But a differently shaped swelling, a particularity, between the thighs. He came out a he.  

Bren-don, her throat called out with the still synchronized beats of their hearts. That’s her baby’s name. His eyes met hers briefly, fluttering, throat hhhing back, as if understanding and agreeing. The sisters sung back, surprised but calm at it being a boychild, still fussing over them with strokes, occasional kisses, firmer rubs, over their bodies, hair. Him on her breast and tummy, still slick with her, the two of them breathing together. He latched onto a nipple, suckling softly, singing back what he could mimic of her songs, mixing in a couple repeated random notes of his own, when he wasn’t drinking. Her baby… It was just as strong as with her two daughters.

Zora stayed with her when the others left, cutting the umbilical cord, watching over, picking up the song when she nodded off, preparing the afterbirth for when Nani woke.

Male sirens are so rare, most pods (sized mostly depending on closeness to water, from two sirens to four dozen, with overlap from mixing families, travelling, making friends, lovers, sisters in spirit, switching groups) don’t even have the one. Many sirens never met a male of their kind. One, maybe two, out of a hundred births managed to be male. The reproductive system so hostile to the sperm of the human males necessary to choose to help them create children—even when males were born, they were sterile—almost always, only select, stronger x chromosomes managed to get far enough, pulled in by the ovum awaiting it.

That is, if the men were lovely, giving enough lovers to stay with her through the fortnight within eighteen days needed of hours upon hours of passion: so many crests that crashed, touches, massages, licks, sucks, pressing together, grindings, particularly on, with her clitoris, vulva. Worshipping her with his whole body, acclimatizing her to him, his skin, sweat, hair, saliva, dick, semen… over days, both lost in pleasure, rutting helplessly… It all would wear down the membrane shield to allow entry, induce ovulation, making her insides more hospitable, showing he was, or they were (like most sirens, she was partial to threesomes, foursomes…), worthy of being chosen to help her start a child.

The membrane would only dissipate partially on its own for twice yearly bleeding and fully for the usually two or three times in their blood years when their body prepared to birth. With the blood cycle’s womb contractions and before childbirth got too intense to think of lovemaking, sharing pleasure, with yourself, the other sirens, with humans, male and female, helped. Same lovemaking, although not needed nearly for as long. And still gladly, protractedly engaged in.

Brendon is the first in the flesh boy-siren in her memory, she thought as she woke, him still nestled on her, mouth on her nipple but relaxed, sleeping, both sticky. She slowly snacks on the meal Zora made. She submerges them both back in the water, gently washing the slick off him with Zora’s help, and he, still used to living, sleeping, breathing in her womb blood, sleeps through it.

The existence of them before this was only story, a queer, desirous idea; she couldn’t help wondering about the sex after her mom, aunt, first told her of them even before she got her first moon blood all those years ago. Apparently, they all were suited to be lovers, as good as the other sirens, as open as what only some human males let themselves be… Or at least, so the tales went.

—

When your mom took you and your younger sister on a trip along much of the Hawaiian coast, you didn’t think you’d come across a male siren, but you did. You didn’t imagine you’d actually experience just how true those stories about boy-sirens were either, even though you spent hours wondering, especially when arousing yourself, fantasies, often as part of self-pleasure or in dream, but you sure did. Many were favorites. And, Goddesses, did he love showing just how true they were…

—

It was a four week trip, to celebrate your sister, Daria’s, first blood and to remind you to please wait on creating a child. Makani was your eighth and latest human male lover (twelfth human overall) and the second lover you opened with (the first was a woman, a few years older, wild, delicious, careful, Etienne, after your third boy, Liam, helped things along). And the first that you thought you might want to pick to actually start a child with, although feeling too unready. Too soon. He, Etienne, Liam, Matthew, James, Tamara were especially favored, ones you craved deeply to and could stay lovers with off and on (mostly on) for months. Plus, it was too dangerous this young. You should find a second, maybe third, lover first anyway that you’d want to help start a baby (what humans called paternity, fatherhood—terrible invention really, would be unknown, and your system would have more varied selection). Your mom was eager to second that notion, reminding you that you ought to wait until you’re at least twenty-one.

Nineteen was too soon for you too, but Goddess, could you get thinking crazy thoughts during sex—need his dick inside too, he’d help you start a beautiful, loving baby—after eleven days within two weeks, especially when you open… You had to pry yourself away from Makani, not fuck with other humans for a few days, only sirens, so you could, uh, recover. So the ova could dissipate, you could close back up. If your rational thoughts did get subsumed by your passions in that way during that time, you could take plants that would induce abortion, but it’s obviously better not to get pregnant in the first place (and seldom done outside of being young, very rare rape by a man during a time of opening, health concerns).

—

The first young man you picked on the trip became too hurried, rushed, rough. You kind of forgot the lessons, rushed in, too needy to share sex, didn’t see how he danced, touched, kissed when things where heated, but not intense. He lost that seeming easygoing friendliness, just a veneer, but you were aroused, full clitoris/vulva throbbing just from the sight of him. Gorgeous. But it became apparent there was no sensuousness, no promise of hours, days of waves of pleasure, orgasms, humping, rocking, stroking, kissing, sucking, tonguing, squishing, rolling around, grabbing, panting, moaning, anything and everything… No curiosity, desire to learn when you tried to show, tell him. You could tell he wasn’t worth getting deeper with, let alone naked or alone.

You ended it quick, having to change to a dangerous, back off melody to slow and confuse him, let you slip away from him. You wish human women had these abilities too, all of it.

Siren songs can soften, embolden, amplify what’s shared between them, what’s under the fakeness, rules, roles that mostly men and teen boys put on each other, young boys, girls, women. They especially influence adolescent boys and men, opening them up to their sway, gentle power. But they can only do so much, can’t create something not there, make something not there for them for them. Mostly working on the already pliant, eager, even if they don’t know how they can offer themselves to you, or felt like they needed to hide that impulse to surrender before, they want to learn, to be like sirens with them. With you.

Sirens didn’t dash men (and women) on the rocks, lure them to their doom, they opened them up to their selves, to them but only if they wanted them, to each other too, to desire, lust, love, pleasure, music, dance, touch, water, eagerness, orgasms… hours and days of them all… It wasn’t sirens’ fault men’s patriarchy couldn’t handle that, had to twist it.

—

You pleasure yourself until you’re wrung out, glans sore, cunt aching, tender, panting, soon after in the ocean. Memories of several lovers helping along the… eight orgasms: Makani, Patrick, Tamara, James… Going for a couple more when you’re in bed in the trailer because Daria and Mom are luckily still at the celebration.

—

Swimming for hours, hands and feet wrinkling, alone and with Mom and Daria. Drinking just enough to get tipsy, especially the fruity or salty or woody stuff. Dancing, coming in your swim shorts a couple times with one of them, but he has to pick up and comfort his sad, just dumped friend. Sweet boy.

—

You go to a rave about two weeks in. You wish you could try ecstasy, but it’s too hard and intense on sirens, drives your kind temporarily rather mad. You share a joint with this male-male couple. You love and they love that they can be so openly affectionate at raves. Celebrating Chris’ twentieth birthday. (George is your age.) You love watching them. Fuck. Gorgeously sexy. You hope you’re not being creepy, in part because they say they’re gay.

You’re stroking the skin of this beautiful girl, Roselani, as she grins at you, moving into it eagerly, nuzzling. Edge of seventeen like the song, literally with a birthday Monday, making you more careful with her. She kisses your shoulder as she leans on you, so you hum more, eyes moving between the couple and her. It’s her first rave (snuck out from strict Christian parents); she wanted to try E too, but was shy, worried, so you sung to her to give her small similar sensations, feelings, of what’d be like. You can feel her unfurling, swaying under your lapping waves. It makes you picture her vulva like petals, spreading them… What a fitting name…

Picturing the four of you naked, in twos, threes, fours, all these configurations, ways of lovemaking… Your mouth, neck, nipples, punani (another fitting name), thighs, skin… craves all of them. You can sense the boys opening more too. Chris makes you think of sea anemones, salt and sand and fish in his scent, on his skin, George of vines growing on a tree, wet earth, blood coloured berries, butterfly wings. If George didn’t smell so human, you’d think him a nymph. And Chris his merboy?

Turns out, by gay, they don’t mean Kinsey 6. Chris, is pretty outright bi—even better, you probably even prefer it to straight guys too. George tells you he thinks he’s 75/25 tilted towards guys, stroking your wrist as his boyfriend shyly, gently kisses you. You think of flowers again as your lips, tongues, play.

You invite them to the beach, blankets in tow, skinny-dipping, sharing pleasure quickly melding into outright fucking, as it often does, there’s seldom clear lines, in the water. Making out, grinding on each of them, thigh, tummy, hip, dick or vulva, respectively, them grinding back. The guys making out as you rock into the lighter one, George, from behind, building… Sirens find it easier to come in water, and you do three times, pants and moans giving way to singing the second and third times, once as Chris rocks to his first between your labia and thighs as you french, still coming like a teenaged boy, keeping going until you come again.

And that’s just before you wind up on the blankets, helping Rose to two orgasms, first one not coming until over an hour in, encouraging her to say and show what works for her best, to try things she has been too shy, shamed, boxed in to do, some things she couldn’t even think of before tonight. Inviting her grind against your and Chris’ mouths, hands, thighs, genitals, knees, tummies, breasts, bums… George kissing her through it, offering a thigh, his dick and balls, belly, hands shyly playing with her beautiful vulva too after a while, urged to go gently on her clit, licking the taste off his fingers before going down on her too… Blooming poppy flower, protective cover bursting to show pink and red ruffled petals, dripping from the rain. Her and their moans, gasps, pants, begs, shy eager asks… all like song to you. Love hearing, seeing, feeling, tasting, smelling them, their desire, pleasure, orgasms… George has one as you jack him, play with his balls, he loves firm handling of them, while grinding on his thigh, you five more throughout the night, and don’t forget Rose’s two more and Chris’ second…

The nymphs have a king sized bed, and you four taxi down and fall into it, having an only 3 hour round the next day, in between fruit and granola and coconut milk. Roselani leaves for the bus home, and you can only stay a couple more hours with them before you’re really late to meet your mom and sister. You tell them some of the details of your first human foursome as you hike, fascinated also by the gorgeous, vibrant, stunning flowers, trees, fruit, birds, waterfall, swimming in the water there too….

Daria looks forward to turning sixteen so she can give humans a try. She, like other sirens generally, has been playing sex games with the similarly aged since she was little, but… not humans. Not males. “Especially the males. So many pretty boys here, especially the locals…” Smiling more at ones that have dark chocolate eyes, hair, brown or more mixed skin, plush lips, limbs muscled from dancing, traditional skirts… You’re getting distracted too.

—

Three weeks in, you see him. You soon wish it happened sooner, or your trip were longer.

You take the fawn in, breath caught, heart and clit and lips pounding, and when your eyes can just see his two webbed toes on each foot in his flip flops, part of you thinks “siren?”

A woman about 30 years older, shorter, that looks a lot like him appears, in black sandals—her feet seemingly confirming your wonder. She probably is (humans rarely have webbed feet), so maybe he is too?

He sings to her and she smiles, and you wish you were talking to him minutes ago. So you start now. She looks at you, warm even before the recognition sparks in her. You trill your hello, and those plump lips part, his tongue flicks out. Oh boy. Pounding between your legs turning to painful ache, moisture, thinking about pressing your front along his, kissing him, tongues playing, rocking on him, needy… in front of who is probably his mom, the passersby even.

She grins at you both. “Should I leave you two to it? Give me a call when you want to meet back up, k, baby? Or when our cord gets too stretched,” she asks, giving a squishy hug.

“I’m twenty, mom…” he sighs. Then squishes back again, kisses her with a mwah. “But I still feel it stretch.”

“Have fun, honey.”

He mmms, and you can feel it in your lower belly, your cunt. Even his lovely “Bye, Mom.” His seeming the a momma’s boy just adds to his appeal. (You’re still not over that being an insult with humans.)

—

His apparent mom smells faintly of siren (it lessens after menopause, but it could also be because she fucked or was otherwise very physically intimate with a siren). He smells a lot like siren up close, but sweeter. A bit less ocean, but even more music, electric too. Virtually sure, you ask straight up “Siren?” adding a bit of song to it.

“Yeah, darlin.”

“You sure are a rare one, huh?” Then feeling stupid, “Goddess, you’ve probably heard that lots.”

He just smiles, kind and shy. “I hear there’s only one other, on this island anyway. Haven’t met him yet. Hope to.”

You hope so too. Especially if you get to see it. And join. But you’ll settle for seeing it.

Your tummy growls, and you’re more than prepared to push it aside for even the whisper of sex with him (although you are so also down for food during sex) but he says “Dinner? I know some places.”

—

He is quite probably the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen—must be the gentle allure at work too. Maybe even the most beautiful person, female or male, siren or human. He holds at least as much sway over others as any other siren. He even catches the eye of a lot of straight seeming men. “And a lot more than eye,” he giggles when he sees you notice the third man with a woman linger his gaze, his touch in one case.

To be fair, all three of those women looked too. Something pulls on you with the third couple, and you wonder if he feels moved towards them too, briefly imagining them with you, with him, with you both. If he feels as much like his tide is coming into yours as yours does with him.

So… are most boys, men not… straight, period. Or is it… because he’s a siren? Most of those you’ve been drawn to, and all but one that you’ve had sex with, their being attracted to guys sometimes or more than sometimes, having dreams and fantasies, usually having different kinds of sex with them, especially as particularly curious eager adolescents, comes up. Maybe those men are more like you, sirens than the straight ones. You don’t know how representative that is, or if more open men get picked by female sirens, or if it’s you, or if men are open with sirens in ways they can’t be with others, like most men are into both deep down but hide it…

Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Goofy, infectious, and musical. And theatrical. Expressions, hand gestures, voice, bounding with energy and a big streak of femininity. He missed a lot of the repression, shame, demeaning humans get (especially from older human males), and most of what he did get didn’t stick. Colourful electric guitars. Make up. Colourful flowers, mixed with vanilla. Performing for the crowd, wanting to please people, and you sense that before he tells you he’s in a band. Drama kid, but mostly with his mom and sisters, too anxious to really do it with others. Mixed also with soft cotton, soft skin, soft hair, soft touch, soft lips… A whole lot of soft. Red, orange, yellow, pink, blue, lavender, all sorts of colours of warmth too. Faint scent of used leather, lace, satin, velvet. Sweat. Plumeria and hibiscus and piano bursting on his arm, taste of them gentle on your tongue. Your senses overlapping more than they do with humans and female sirens.

Those eyes, and his lips. Goddess, those lips were made for kissing, sucking, worshipping cunt. You want to play with his shaggy hair, gentle, with little tugs, scratches on his scalp, stroke his hair as softly as it looks, as he licks, sucks, swirls… over it, just right. Teasing, making you crest and crash, easy and serious, soft and firm, as you rock back more often than not…

You wonder if it would be different or the same as two females if you both sang a sex (lust, passion, desire, pleasure…) song together.

You don’t register much of the meal other than that it’s quite good and that there was some talk of names, ages, family, plus those things that flash through you. And you did pay attention to most of it, you swear: mom is Nani, he’s Brendon, two sisters (Kara and—another K name), you both like a lot of the same music—and his whole fucking body is a gift from the Goddesses and his mom (bless her), there to please and be pleased, make love, fuck, help climax, kiss and grind and everything endlessly. Usually it’s easier to concentrate on things other than just sex. Not a lot easier, but still.

—

You’re going to come out with it… “I wanna hold your hand” you softly sing.

His hands are even softer than they look, and you brush your thumb over the one you have clasped. Imagine how they’d feel between your legs, stroking your neck, shoulders, breasts, tummy, thighs… You wonder if the rest of his skin is as baby soft, wanting to press all of him against all of you, and melt and grind and roll and… Wet, vibrant, warm, needy, passionate… You’d be so soft together. And muscled. He’s got his share of those too, mind.  You want to kiss, suck, caress, rub, grind your cunt… all over him. Plumeria, orchids, sun, ocean water, grainy sand, throb of bass and drums, sangria, throb of heart beats and necks and breasts and cunt and dick…

You wonder how male sirens taste, their skin, lips, penises… Wait, do they have penises? Yeah, according to the tales they do… And balls. Do their genitals look, taste, smell, feel the same as humans? Probably much the same but even better, if you do play the sirens’ own praise song there.

You’d get lost in 69ing with him… Your senses getting more mixed, intense… Fuck, being in each other’s mouths… Watching him slick with your saliva and vulva juice, slipping in and out of your mouth, mouthing over his balls, rubbing that delicate skin where balls meet anus… Him licking, slurping, sucking, up and down, side to side, over your whole cunt, focused on the glans, or the glans and inner lips… The best mushroom you’ve ever tasted, absolutely intoxicating scent of a phallic flower…

You’re both singing, hands still entwined, arms or thighs sometimes brushing, and you’re not sure who started it, or who is copying whom, or when you got on the same page, but it’s, fuck… You need… The words and music entwine in your communicating, notes sometimes supplanting but meaning words.

“Goddess, you’ve got to be able to tell how much… I… need… Bren?”

“I—yeah… Can you tell how much I want to too?”

You press along him, sway into him, breathing him in, grinding a little. Honey.

“Know how much I want to pleasure you? Need to… feel, see, taste, hear… help you feel good, come, for hours….” You interrupt him with long slow kisses, with tongue, hands stroking down his back to that juicy for a boy’s ass of his. You want to kiss, lick, massage, rub your front down it, his butt too, rock your vulva along him… To all of him.

You’re so close to the water now, as if by mutual need, somehow at a spot there’s no one around, and you two are jogging toward it. Stripping as you go. Pulling him into kisses when he’s in underwear and flip flops, before moving away to get naked and closer to the shoreline. You want to look at him, take him in before he gets in, so you do, showing yourself off too. The beginnings of sunset just add to his beauty.

“You’re gorgeous too,” he murmurs.

He’s smaller there than a human, and it takes a second to register the fact it’s bifurcated: the tip split in two, and you’re thinking about it rubbing over both sides of your clit at once, your glans fitting between it, sliding down your labia, maybe your inner lips would kind of fit between it too, back up, fitting back together…

You cup his balls, surprised to find them lighter, smaller, like half a ball each almost—it makes sense, you guess, considering he’d be sterile. Your body, skin, blood, genitals, throat, calling to his. Stroking over his soft skin—softer than on a man, even a woman’s labia—there and his dick, fucking his thigh, gasping into his mouth, hands gripping his hips, ass as you come, hard, desperately, noisily. Blue, red, purple bursts of colors, berries on your tongue, hand drums in your mind, heart. Your cunt has been aching for a couple hours and it’s been more than enough teasing. You know there will be more time for teasing later anyway.

As he pulls away from you, you’re aware of precum (you think) on your tummy and side, and before you can grab at him to pull him back along you he’s on his knees, your leg hooked over a shoulder. Hand on your ass to hold you up, sucking, tonguing noisily, panting, moaning. It conjures a song that you manage to get out some of alongside your needy moans and sighs and notes, but it’s him seizing up, shuddering, more intensely than you tend to. And from going down on someone too, apparently. A few human male lovers could get like that too from using their mouths there, two of them often.

“Yeah,” he says, flushed, breathy, embarrassed and proud sounding at the same time, gazing up at you, nuzzling your mound, thighs. “Happens a lot. Guess male sirens are the most… sensitive? And not just from this, either—although this? Fucking awesome. A fave.”

He gets back to it, and in seconds of suckling at your clit like you moan for him to, of you fucking his mouth back, you’re climaxing, trembling, light headed… Your bottom halves are now in the water, seeing sparkles, him seeing them too. He’s rocking his knuckles over your closed vulva, which spreads as you open your legs as you picture it in your head, making him brush more directly over your clit: shock waves, but not quite. Blue clitoria flower trembling from the vibrations of him playing guitar. He thumbs gentle circles like you ask and in seconds, another crash of waves within you. He cups the whole thing, rocking, and you do the same, all of his sex fitting in your hand, to his gasps. You kiss him, over and over, and he’s fully hard now, fingertips brushing over the two tips. Satin panties.  You slide down to his balls, and he gasps, whines. Not sure if you’d rather them on you or him, or if you’d be able to keep them on either of you long. But red satin panties. And sheets. Velvet blanket. Warm bath. Lavender and vanilla bath bomb.

“Um… so like. I dunno if it’s me or males like me, but… Uh, these are pretty much as sensitive too.”

“Mouth and balls, huh?” you say, kissing him, licking his lower lip, sucking on it as he moans, another two spurts of pre-cum, this time on his lower belly. You want to lick it.

“And… nipples are pretty erogenous too, but not as much as the others. And um… my ass.”

You moan, grinding against his hand, moving down to lick his slick up, a faint sweet taste. You mouth where thigh meets groin, his balls, lingering, sucking, licking them—they, the skin, must be as sensitive as the length of his dick. Fuck, you love seeing everything slick with your boy lovers, the balls move too within the scrotum with changes in arousal, not just his shaft, feeling them, and he’s no exception. You wonder how he’d like a vibrator on them, settle for humming with them in your mouth, them pulsing a few times. More slick to lick up, both tips in your mouth at once, tongue swirling around both as he babbles, rocks into your mouth, inner cheek rubbing against them a couple times, and he’s coming again—the crescendo of Let’s Live for Today—but… it’s just the same as the pre-cum.

Maybe that’s why you’re instinctively more oral on him back than sirens are with human males (getting a lot more than giving), more like sirens are with each other—like you knew even before you tasted it that he’d taste yummy when he came. His dick, balls, are faintly salty like human males, mixed with a similar sweetness that’s in siren and human females, a mushiness. Golden delicious apple.

He’s still mostly hard as you rub his tips along either side of your labia, clit, and mmmm. You’re both singing, more than your usual moans, gasps have been. There’s like a pulse that pushes the tips against you, again and again, subtle but distinct. You move his dick and your hips together, still feeling those pulses, both of you slick, and you’re coming again.

Slide down his length—not even four inches now—to his balls, and you instinctively rock, his length trapped between your mounds and bellies as you nudge into his balls. “’m, I can take it. They’re like, harder…” he says, leg going up over your lower back, bringing you down firmer. They feel harder now compared to the lightness of before. Harder than a semi. The heat of a humid rainforest…

Before your brain registers it, he’s pleading, getting his other leg over your shoulder, shifting you two so you’re on your arms grinding, bouncing in little thrusts, mostly on his balls, the top halves of his dick just tapping against his lower tummy, and what, how… You’re shaking, sweating, so close, and he actually beats you to it, grabbing your back, ass, and you manage to see his dick pulsing up and down against his belly before your eyes and arms slip, his leg sliding off. He squishes you to him, sucking on your neck as you get your rhythm back, panting against your neck, licking. Delicious sexy talk: he wants to see you come, come until you can’t anymore, do you know how amazing your orgasms look and taste and smell and feel and hear, to come all over him, he needs your juices… You open your legs some more, rock faster, and you are. Panting, you trace fingertips over his lips and he sucks them in, moaning softly, both gently swaying into each other, rubbing together.

When you schluck apart, you’re still close enough to kiss, for his hands to play with your hair as he tells you the colors of your coming, mostly reds, blues, purples, pinks, reminding you how much you want to play with his—so soft, your soft lovely boy—grinning dopily, almost dazed, at each other. “That’s my girl. Like peaches…” he sighs, mouth grazing over your neck to settle on your nipple, sucking as he gets a thigh between yours for you to lazily rock on. He’s… where’d he go?

“It, um, retracts… When it needs a rest from all the awesome sex. Or generally when nothing sexy is happening.”

“Does, huh?” you smile. “Well, these nipples don’t play peek a boo,” you giggle, referring to both you two’s nipples, running your palm, fingertips, thumb over the little pebbles. He sighs, mmms contentedly, gasps, mouth on the other.  You shift, and he loses your nipple, instinctively going to suck it again, but you shift down, rub your breasts together, kissing him, rubbing the nape of his neck as he moans, mouth shifting to his neck—another prime erogenous zone for you both—then nipples. Your teeth graze it and he carefully tugs your hair. Electric. Your stroke down his back, ass, circling, massaging, hands and water wiping the sand away.

“What part of you should I rub on next, hmm?”

“What part of me do you wanna come on next?” he asks, eyes heavy, warm.

You slowly tongue a nipple while rubbing the delicate skin between his cheeks. His hands slides down your back, lightly scratching the small of it, adding to the shivers and tickly but achy arousal, making circles with his fingertips—warm breeze and endless massages and fucking and syrupy tanginess—and you want to make love with this boy until the oceans dry out.

You shift up to his neck, shyly on the earlobe because that’s kind of a weird spot for you but he leans into it, moans deep, and his hand slips between your cheeks too, massaging… “Can’t decide if I wanna screw your nipples or ass next?” you pant out low in his ear, aching to come again..

“Fuck. Please. Goddess knows we’ve got lots of time for both…”

You sure do. You grind on his nipples, slide up to his mouth, back and forth until you come twice more. You look back because you hear it, and guess who’s come out to play again? He’s carressing, stroking over himself, rocking into it. So you reverse yourself, lean over to suck, tongue him down some more. Unlike with male humans, you love him coming in your mouth, suck and swallow it all down; he’s got a nectar taste to him that has you seeing yellow and pink and orange. Why don’t human males taste like this subtle sweetness? Precum in men can taste nice, often little taste, but not even sweet like this.

He massages over what he can get to as you just lay on him, panting, nuzzling his dick and balls, breathing each other in, him lazily nosing, mouthing your vulva back. Breathing now mostly in sync.

You do that tip around clit thing again, then go back to rubbing your vulva along his shaft… Kissing him silly before you come again, riding it out.

You get another massage, on your belly, mostly in the water this time, him going under to get at the front of your pelvis, vulva, caressing you into bliss, then more seriously into ache. Makes you need him, that you’re getting tired, exhausted fading in importance, giving him a massage back, cunt rocking along whatever parts your hands aren’t covering. The only thing that would make this better would be a proper bed and oils. Flavored oils. Fuck, all the crazy ways you could slip, slide, rock, grind, massage… together. You especially want to scissor the fuck out of him. When you’re less sleepy, anyway. Not that most ways to scissor are high effort.

Even this precious boys feet are erogenous, especially the webbed toes… The back of his knees. Inner thighs, small of his back, side of the neck like you, but his back generally too. Hips. Including with nibbles, teeth scrapes. The nape too, which you discover as you’re sucking, licking, biting lightly on his neck, shoulder as you screw on his bum, desperate to come, sore with the need “Such a good boy.” The orgasm overtakes you, and you slide onto his back, cuddling him close, recovering from dizziness, needing snuggles and squishes and nuzzles. Fluffy clouds in the sky. A sunset. Smell, sight, sound of a crackling fire.

Soon after, he’s moving under you to get on his hands and knees, legs spread. “More?” He doesn’t have to ask you twice. He adjusts with you, spreading to get his ass in the best position, and you get him by the shoulders, hips, to press him close to you, fucking in short, firm humps. He’s almost as noisy as you (mostly from you also fucking his balls), rocking into it.

“Bet you’d come from this if you hadn’t come so much already,” you moan out, guttural, fucking faster onto him.

He moans helplessly, reaches down, strokes himself about four times, and is doing just that, adding even more to your wantneedplease. You can’t decide whether to stroke that penis and scrotum of his until he’s cresting again…. Or make him wait a bit, till you come a couple more times, then go down on him again, or kiss, lick, his ass while you stroke his dick and balls… You tell him most of it.

“Or if we had a bed, could just hump it a few times… oh, fuck, and I’d be done for. But your ideas? Even better.” Turning to a plea to come all over his ass, let him hear it, please, as you started panting you were close, and it became two orgasms in a row.

“Can’t be upright anymore, dear Goddesses,” you pant, hands inviting him on top of you. His dick slots between your thighs, labia, to your joy, and you two grind together, him coming in seconds, you following a couple minutes later.

B’s dick retracts again, but you keep grinding on his hip, thigh, breasts, balls scissoring and otherwise, the area between thigh and groin or bum, depending on how positioned. Hetero scissoring is weird, usually unimaginable/unimagined to most humans, even at first to some of your lovers, but certainly not to him, the minx. Very nymphy too. He keeps using his mouth, hands, thigh, ass, foot. All until… you think your clit broke. Glans especially, but probably the hood and bulbs too. Or is on vacation or in clitoris and vulva recovery hospital for the next couple hours at least. Glans too sensitive for fucking, he does give gentle smoochies, massages, licks to the rest of your vulva, especially careful on the inner lips. Wrapped in red velvet.

The sun starts to rise, several hours after you started, and he invites you home for more. After some food and a nap, and clit recovery, do you ever take him up on it.

—

You love everyone you have sex with, albeit in somewhat different ways, some probably deeper than others, but you think you love him most. At least so far. You think it after you shower together, kissing, giggling, humping, squishing, washing each other, until your fingers and toes wrinkle up, when he’s going down on you in the bathroom, fingers in his hair, until you’re sloppy slick again. By the way, he loves the detachable showerhead too, especially on his genitals, anus, thighs, scalp, even bumcheeks… It makes you want to find a waterfall with him later. As you straddle him, rocking on his ass, massaging him back with oils, still slick yourself, crying it out as you come. Again. As he’s straddling you, your legs spread to open up, grinding his balls and your upper cunt together, both coming a couple times before he collapses, dizzy, for kisses and now lazy rocking. Both drifting off like that briefly, before schlucking apart for food, soft songs, switching between feeding each other, playing with yourselves, humping, hands on the other, going down on each other, sucking each other’s tastes off the other’s fingers and genitals and all over…

—

A couple days later, you wish you had months together. You make love for hours, even more days than you have together with only breaks for eating and naps, if anything, more insatiable than you normally are, with other sirens even. You’ve had so many orgasms your womb, vulva, especially the bud, ache. His penis has reached the point it won’t erect, or even be softly limp, staying retracted to a little nub for the last couple hours as he kept helping you feel pleasure, orgasms, even when you kiss, stroke, lick, rub your cunt over his hips, scrotum, nub, balls, nipples, buttocks, back, webbed toes, mouth…  You knew guys would still be into all sorts of things, on you and them, limp, but he’s still up (well in) for all sorts too also when retracted, even going easy on the nub that one can just tell is really halved when it’s hiding away.

You manage to remember your plans with your mom and sister for that museum, calling and briefly talking while you rock on his offered thigh, his lips trailing over your shoulder, collarbone, neck before you have to break it off to moan and beg him to not stop sucking softly there, grinding firmer until you come again. You’ve lost count of the orgasms.

He massages your belly, hips, thighs, pelvis, outer furry vulva when you’re sore from all the sex, aches in much of it. Turning into stroking your inner flesh, just to feel good, still avoiding the glans. Back and forth over the areas, as you nibble on berries, eyes slipping shut, nodding off.

You wake about an hour later, and you stink of sex. The two of you. You love it. Don’t want to shower. You nuzzle against his backside, rocking, stroke down his front, but this ass fucking doesn’t stay the one way. After you come twice, sleepily but eagerly, you go on your belly, wriggling, inviting him to climb aboard, rocking into the bed while he humps between your thighs and over your cheeks. Followed by some more sleepy scissory fucking, vulva to scrotum, and bits to thighs, then his face buried between your thighs like it was his main meal, even though you two really should eat. An actual meal, that is.

“Pussy is my favorite food…” he sighs.

—

You’re supposed to leave the next morning, so you call your mom, asking if you can stay, at least skip out on the next town, that you’ll head back home with them in a couple days as planned. You resist the urge to go into great detail why. You’ve met someone. Yes, of course you’ll get his number, but really, you want to keep making love for the next couple days if you can help it.

And such a rarity, even by siren standards, really should be thoroughly enjoyed. This siren should be fully appreciated for how wonderful he is.

“Wait, siren? He?”