Squirming in place on the already-smoldering vinyl cushion of my stool, I closed my eyes. I let my mind go placid, numb, figuratively limp, then clearly imagined the huge, cerulean word OCEANOFAIR across the forced-clear backdrop of my mind’s eye.
So suddenly I felt almost literally cold, actually drenched, my body was diving into a horizon-to-horizon ocean of wave-lapped slightly frigid waters. Once I was submerged, I wiggled forward with almost no effort, toward a waiting, legs-scissoring figure, whose dark hair was clipped professional-swimmer short. Only a gently waving thatch of sea-grass-shifting hair was on the top of her head, and a matching close-trimmed wedge of sharply angular pubic hair covered the rising mound of Venus. The straps of her diving gear crisscrossed between her small, nipples-jutting breasts, and the clear diving mask over her nose and eyes revealed a light dusting of pale freckles over her nostrils and lower bridge, and a pair of orbs whose dark-brownness was intensified by the light-diffused blue-green waters around her.
With each kick of her flippers-encased feet, she moved closer to me… me, who wore no diving gear at all and who just then realized that I didn’t need it. My own legs and lower body now sported overlapping, glistening scales, which culminated in a fin-leg tipped with delicately feathery fins which undulated and writhed in the rippling waters which surrounded me.
Glancing down at my own breasts, I saw that they were coyly cupped with purple-and-white mottled shells, strapped with thin ropes of sea-kelp. My hair – now suddenly long, waist-touchingly long, was floating about me like a nimbus of green-tinged gold. As she moved nearer, her left hand reached out to caress what would’ve been my own mound of Venus, but now, as I glanced down at it, was a small, tight vertical-lipped orifice resting parallel to my former hip and pelvis area. As her fingertips, cool yet subtly ridged along the fingerpads, made contact with my rippling, scaled flesh, I quivered. The touch of her skin on my own transformed fish-skin was exquisitely sensual, like being finger fucked with a leather-gloved digit.
As the first pulsing wave of pre-orgasm rippled through me, moving in ever-smaller concentric rings toward the narrow base of my tail, my body began arcing backwards in the cushioning waters, until I completed a full circle in that ocean. She maintained contact with my transformed mermaid’s cunt, keeping that one pressing, gently probing finger in contact with me as she matched my gyrations in that soothing liquidity, now using one of my breasts to better hang onto my whirling body.
Remembering that I, too, was free to touch her, I mashed my hands – now greenish-tipped, with pearlescent nails – over her taut breasts, feeling the tender, puckering nipples dig into my palms. As her ribcage heaved toward me, pressing her manna tighter into my kneading hands, she shoved her finger all the way into that hermetic glory-hole, until the tip brushed against what had to be my deeply buried clit.
As we cart wheeled in aquatic free-fall, the depthless blue of the waters now frothy with bubbles, I heard her clear, chimelike thought-question: Your name… what is it?
Not missing a rotation in those buoyant waters, I thought back, Sima Rozyczka… that’s Scottish for “listener” and Polish for “rose”.
No sooner had the thought burst from my mind than she and I were out of the water, out under the low-hanging brassy sun, resting on a beach covered not with sand, but with millions upon billions of tightly curled, dried white rose petals. Their scent was an overpowering contrast to the salty brine of the sea, whose waves lapped at our now bare feet and outstretched legs. Both of us were nude, our shining skin covered with dewy beads of some exotic scented oil. I was once more shorter-haired, the artfully braided and beaded coils only reaching down to my shoulders, and a glance at my pelvis revealed my usual thatch of golden-brown curls. Beside me, her sheared-short black thatch was dried to a lacy covering over her swelling labia and high-rising upper mound. But both our breasts were tipped by raisin-shrivelled nipples, the darker brown flesh around them dimpled and pulled taut above the smoother pale mounds below.
As she lay on her side next to me in that shifting shore of petals, she fluttered her thickly-lashed dark eyes and thought: Mine is Claudia Muirfinn… the latter is also Scottish. For “dwells near the beautiful sea”. My sea is beautiful, is it not?
An encircling expanse of calm azure waters surrounded our isle of convoluted, deeply curled petals, the sunlight shining off the surface like a wide-flung scattering of golden coins.
Very beautiful, I thought back: then, as I rolled on my back, letting the sun press down on my waiting body, I asked: And Claudia stands for…?
I felt a swath of shadow cool my midsection when she stood up abruptly before padding out to the edge of the sea with long, loping strides. Turning her head sideways toward me, so that I could see one dark winking eye, she flashed back: Something you’ll find out all too soon… I’ll swim back to you soon. What is your MindByte?
She was already diving into the waters as I concentrated: Listener! As her left arm rose up above the waters, followed by the strong kick of her legs and feet, I almost slid off the counter stool, and broke my almost-fall by slamming both hands hard against the inside edge of the counter.
That had been the most intense MindByte sample I’d ever experienced. Usually the newletter’s customers only expended a minimum of intense imagination when leaving their MindByte, just enough for a brief taste of their mind. But Claudia Muirfinn’s Byte was more like a feast, a gushing forth of long-stifled images and experiences, concentrated in – I glanced up at the clock, and was astonished by what I read there – a mere three minutes of actual thinking time.
But, as I massaged my sore palms after getting to my feet, I realized that Claudia’s MindByte was merely that. Her ad had clearly stated that she was an Empath, too, yet I hadnt felt one thing she was experiencing during the Byte.
For Claudia, “soon” meant a mere hour later, when I was back in my west-side apartment, soaking in a tub filled with a sprinkling of fragrant herbs and a few drops of lavender oil. As I went to gently massage a huge sea-sponge between my slightly parted-at-the-knees legs, I instead felt her fingers wrapping around mine. We lolled in a circular tub whose surfaces were composed not of porcelain, but of close-set slightly domed individual small tiles, in a mosaic of ombre blues, violets, indigoes and deepest black, a swirl of grout-divided colour that extended up onto the deep ledge which also surrounded the tub, extending out three feet or more. Beyond the tub and the ledge was a room mirrored in black-veined smoked mirrors and dividing panels of oiled ebony wood. Only one of the wooden panels was knobbed, a smooth black-enamelled irregularity in all that linear shining perfection.
The waters which lapped and splashed around us were lit from a frosted greenish bulb set into a fixture located at least twelve feet above us in the domed ceiling. The bathwater itself felt sensuously silky, almost oily; its warmth brought the scent of sea salt and some bright, green odour to mind, something living, something tangy to the nostrils, yet sweet, too, as if concealing a flowering centre.
The inside of the tub gently sloped, so that we could recline side by side without slipping to the bottom. My hair – now pinned up to the top of my head, only ringlets hanging down to my wet shoulders on each side of my face – rested slightly damp on my head, as if Claudia had imagined me being in the tub so long that the surrounding moisture would wick into my tresses. Claudia’s hair, while still short, still sleekly wet, had been coaxed into one coy, tight curl along the left side of her forehead. Letting my hands glide down along her lithe, limber body, I rubbed my fingers over her Mound of Venus, the short hair down there now silky smooth and soft over her fleshy cleft. As I eased one finger into her slick, tight quim, she reached over and began fingering my nipples under the water, massaging each of them in a counter-clockwise motion, while she thought: This is better than your tub, isn’t it? Would you like to body-feel it? Actually… see it?