Arousing the Mariner

He was so gentle, treating me as if I might break. Or disappear.

“Has anyone ever been up here before?” I asked. “I mean, up here for…”

“No. No no,” he stammered. He looked away for a second and scanned his dimly lighted, starkly furnished room. He looked back and leaned forward in his chair, sliding his hands across my slacks as I sat on his little breakfast table.

He reached up, pushed aside my unbuttoned blouse and fumbled around the front clasp of my bra. He looked up with sad eyes and I answered with an encouraging smile. I couldn’t shake the fear that he could see what I was thinking, that he knew that I knew.

“You’re the first …,” he stammered. “Um … can you help me with this?”

“Of course.” With both hands and a quick twist, I unhooked the clasp. I put on my best “come and get me” face and pulled the C cups slowly to each side. My breasts responded to their freedom, opening a bit to the left and right. I shrugged my shoulders, just to make them roll a bit. A girlish gesture, but he clearly didn't think so.

He shook his head slowly, staring at my chest. The sadness in his eyes was joined by something else: Hunger. My pulse quickened.

"Beautiful..." he mumbled. He traced the outer curve of my left breast with the back of his hand. His thumb nuzzled the nipple.

I stayed silent, allowing him to marinate in his lust. His other hand cupped my right breast, and then both hands were kneading my flesh, pushing my boobs together. His thumbs continued to play with my nipples, now swollen by his attentions. I sighed, genuinely, in gratitude.

He remained fully clothed – a compact frame in an oversized, gray sweatshirt and loose, faded jeans. My girls were exposed and the shoes were off, but my slacks were buttoned up. We were barely past second base, but he seemed ready to advance.

I leaned forward, pressing into his busy hands. He groaned. I reached behind his neck, pulled his face to mine and ravaged him with a kiss. I licked the line of his jaw. I nibbled his ear. He shivered. He rolled his hips.

He was ready.

“I want you,” I whispered against his ear. “I want you inside me.”

He groaned in response. His eyes were riveted to mine as he let go of my chest, put his hands on my slacks and slid them slowly from my knees to my happy place. I bit my lower lip as his fingers fluttered over my mound.

He was ready? Hell, I was ready. But I couldn’t hurry this. The ultimate goal was too huge. So, no. Not yet. I had to push him all the way to the edge.

"Getting excited?" I purred, and reached out toward his crotch.

His eyes flew open. "NO! No. Don't..."

I hesitated, but only to give him a reassuring smile. "Don't be so humble, stud..." My fingers draped over his jeans. I pushed gently.

What?

I stared at him, unable to hide my shock.

He was absolutely limp.

He looked back at me with wounded eyes. “I … I can’t,” he stammered. He pulled his hands away and wrapped them around himself. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have come here.”

My mind raced. How in hell could he aroused everywhere but there? OK, girl, time to regroup. I had to choose my words carefully.

“I understand,” I told him. “I do. Really. You can’t … you can’t trust yourself, can you?”

His downcast eyes darted up and stared into mine. He clearly didn’t expect that. So far, so good.

“Trust myself? What, do you think I would … ?”

“No. You don’t want to hurt me. Not on purpose, anyway.” I reached down toward his crotch again. He caught my wrist, stopping me. But he didn’t seem embarrassed. He was struggling to hold back an enormous truth, but clearly losing his grip. Good.

“Now,” I said, “you need to trust me.

Now that he had shared his fear, I had a pretty good idea of what was happening. But I couldn’t tell him that. Not yet.

Seconds passed. I concentrated on his face, broadcasting trust trust trust with my eyes. Finally, he let go of my hand.

My eyes remained locked on his searching, lonely face as I reached down and gently pushed his sweatshirt up and inch or two. Only then did I look down.

And there it was.

Though I had no reason to be surprised, I couldn’t suppress a gasp.

My fingertips brushed across the belt buckle. I couldn’t believe I was touching it. The real thing. Not an etching in a yellowed manuscript or an enhanced image from photos taken more than 100 meters away. The real thing.

I traced its bronze oval, ran my fingers over the runes, followed the curve of the anchor carved into its center.

All this time, his only movement was a deep rise and fall of his chest. He was waiting for me to say something. It was my move.

I looked up, summoned the steadiest voice I could muster, and said: “You’re the Mariner, aren’t you?”

He studied me silently. I pushed back fears that the remainder of my life could be measured in seconds. Then he reached down and touched my hand, the one studying the buckle. He pressed my fingers to the belt.

His voice was rock-steady: “Yes.” Small, bright arcs of light leaped from the buckle and across our hands. The sensation was warm … and beckoning. “So,” he continues, “you’re here because of this? Because of the belt?”

“Y-yes,” I said, shivering because the buckle was making my fingers tingle. “I’ve been watching you … the Mariner. I’ve done some…” A bigger tingle. “…research. There’s things I can tell you. And some questions I’d like to ask.”

He let go of my hand. “So you understand, then,” he said. “That I can’t … let myself go. I don’t know if I could control it all. You might get hurt. Or worse. And I couldn’t live with that.”

My mind flashed back about two months, to the time I first saw a still image of the man people would dub the Mariner. Up to that point, all anyone knew was someone – something – that moved faster than the eye could follow was committing unfathomable feats of heroism. Lives were being saved by the hundreds. This person – this being – clearly had hyper-human abilities, along with an unerring sense of right and wrong.

And then, after weeks of after-the-fact accounts and, at best, blurry images, there he was, on the cable news, his figure captured in a frame grab as he stood still for a rare two seconds, hoisting over his head a school bus that had been dangling off a bridge.

He was … magnificent. A towering, living sculpture of power and virility. His thick, heavily muscled waist opened into a broad back and a wide, tall chest that nearly obscured his neck. And his arms – god – they were beyond anything seen on humankind, engorged and quivering with strength. Each monstrous bicep sported a glowing, red tattoo of an ornate anchor. His eyes were lit like stars. A white, short-sleeved tunic fit his torso like a second skin. His legs bulged against dark pants that ended halfway up a huge set of calves.

He was a mind-boggling sight and yet, to my trained eyes, hypnotically familiar. Here was this figure, springing in full flesh from the tales of gods and justice and chivalry I’d studied for years. Until that moment, my absorption into ancient mythologies had earned little more than an English teacher position at a small, upstate college.

And now. Well, the teacher was at a crucial juncture of one hell of a field trip.

“I’ve studied you,” I told him firmly. “Well, not you, exactly. I’ve studied the buckle. The belt. It has a history. Obscure, blurred by allegory and legend, but a history nonetheless.”

He tilted his head, and a fact I’d suspected about him fell into place. I pressed the issue. “You didn’t receive any instruction about the belt, did you?” I said. “No one gave it you. And you didn’t seek it out. Am I right?”

He shifted in his seat. “No. I just … I found it,” he said. “I work on the docks. Well, worked. I guess this is kind of my job now.”

His eyes stopped darting to my breasts; he seemed almost relieved to share this story. “One day I saw someone in a really bad way. In trouble, you know? And this …” he touched the buckle “… it was just something I discovered at that moment. It was just there, within reach. I don’t even remember putting it on …”

“It chose you,” I said. “It must have. It simply knew you were the perfect recipient of its gifts. And from what we’ve seen of your feats, it wasn’t wrong.” I smiled. He looked embarrassed, and shifted in his seat. Quietly, I reclasped my bra and buttoned up the blouse.

And then, for the next few minutes, I told him the story. His story.

The same day I saw the Mariner on the news, I flipped on my laptop and dived into the database of mythology and ancient cultures I had built over the years. I knew the Mariner was familiar somehow. I just had to find the reference.

It took a couple of days but I found it – a Mesopotamian legend about a fiefdom protected a man with god-like powers who meted out justice with an unerring eye. Now, ancient stories are stuffed with gods and near-omnipotent humans. But this was the only tale in which this protector gained his abilities from a talisman affixed to a strap cinched to his waist. And the runes on the talisman had aquatic metaphors, evoking the power of the tides. Yep, I thought. Bingo.

Days passed, and as I drove deeper into my research, more usable sightings of the Mariner cropped up on TV and the ‘Net. These allowed me to study images of the belt from several angles. And my heart jumped into my throat when the evidence seemed to confirm my Mesopotamian legend was very much alive and doing bicep curls with bulldozers.

But what was even more startling was an important wrinkle in the legend – the hero was not a solo act but a consort to the realm’s high priestess. They were apparently linked by talismans; the belt and buckle were his, but I never was able to find a description of hers. Nevertheless, they were bound to each other as ruler/protector, and as lovers. Oh, yes – the original sources of these tales don’t hold back when it comes to such details.

It made no sense, based on the powerful bindings of this relationship, that we had not seen the Mariner’s female counterpart. Why could a woman linked to so tightly to him, a person with so much power of her own, remain in hiding? I concluded that the Mariner was a consort without a liege. She was missing, or hadn’t been called forth as he had. I hypothesized that a man had stumbled across the belt or that the magicks imbued in the talisman had decided the world needed its powers immediately and had found a vessel.

Turns out I was right. And here he was.

“Without the full role as a consort – without your other half – you are incomplete,” I said. “Compare it to a rechargeable battery. I believe the Mariner isn’t operating at full strength. You’re able to do so much, yet with the woman you could do so much more.”

He had been listening silently and intently. Now he nodded. “It’s true. I can feel it. God. Every time I use the belt, there’s a rush, y’know? But there’s something else. A hollowness I can never fill. A sadness. I’ve never understood what it is. I made no sense.”

He took my hands in his. “Now I see. He’s incomplete. He …I… can’t be everything this world needs without … the lady.”

And there it was, the opening I’d been waiting for since I first determined a week ago to confront him. I steeled myself and spoke: “We need her talisman. In the stories, it was the object that linked her to him, through the belt. It was how they shared the power.

“I believe the belt can locate the talisman,” I said, putting as much hope in my voice as I could muster. “All we have to do it listen to it, and it should guide us. We could start the search tomorrow. Together. It might be in Asia …”

“No,” he said, cutting me off. “There’s no need. Her talisman forged a link that made the summonings simple to access. But it’s not absolutely necessary.”

He looked down. I thought he was looking at the buckle. In hindsight, I was wrong. “A ritual,” he said. “A ritual of completion.”

He reached down, past the buckle and to the front of his jean. He undid the four brass buttons on his fly. Well, this was unexpected.

Carefully, he pushed aside the folds his jeans and his gray boxers, and exposed a still-unaroused nub of his manhood. He took hold of my right wrist, drew my hand toward him and placed it on his crotch.

“Please,” he said, moving my hand in small circles. “I believe in you. And it’s the only way.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. I rubbed his dick gently, brushing my thumb across the top. He closed his eyes and groaned, shifting in his seat. I felt a slight spasm in my hand as his arousal bore fruit.

Slowly, his penis filled with attention, rising from the opening in his boxers. I ran my fingers up and down the stiffening flesh. This is not what I expected. Not all all. I thought we would search for the other talisman, which might lead to a moment roughly like this. But now the script wasn’t mine. The only thing in my hands was his firm but unexceptional manhood. This was his kabuki, and all I could do was respond to his cues. Without the talisman, I had no idea what to do. But he clearly knew, or something in him knew.

He opened his eyes, his chest rising and falling with arousal, then reached out, put his hands behind my head and guided me downward.

“Now,” he said in a gentle monotone. “Drink.”

Drink?

Oh. OK.

I took him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around its head while continuing to stroke with my hand. His groans kicked up a notch, his hip grinds deepened. I ramped up my ministrations, stroking more quickly and working my mouth up and down. Drink? Swallowing was something I’d never done successfully before. But then I’d never performed oral sex with supernatural ramifications. Oh, god …

That’s when I felt an electric tingle on my tongue. I opened my eyes and looked up. The buckle was shimmering, sending tendrils of white light around my fingers and into his dick. He growled. The pounding blood in his shaft grew stronger, pressing against my hand. And then, with the next throb, this man’s manhood, well jesusgod, it grew. A little thicker. A little longer. Its pulsing veins pushed harder against my lips.

There was no time to be shocked. With two sharp, loud bellows, he reached his orgasmic plateau. His cock, pressed tightly in my mouth, spurted loads of semen to the back of my throat. I should have gagged and coughed. That’s what occurred the one and only time I tried to swallow a partner’s seed. But no such thing happened. My mouth accepted his juice with hungry ease. And the taste wasn’t unpleasant or rough or salty. It was … beautiful. Perfect. All these time I’d read about ambrosia in medieval legends, and here was legend made real, sliding down my throat, warm and comforting. I swallowed several times. I sucked on his tip and licked it, yearning for every available drop.

Gently, he nudged my head away from him. I licked my lips, woozy with sensations I couldn’t put into words. He took one step, two steps away from me. The belt was alive – I could hear its song as it glowed brighter, arcs dancing on his partially exposed stomach as he placed his left hand on his thigh and wrapped his right around the belt’s loose strap.

And then -- oh, dear god in heaven, then – he pulled it tight with all his might.

The strap stretched at least a foot away from the buckle, which exploded with light. Lightning crashed around him, coming from everywhere and nowhere and plunging into his body. He tossed back his head let out a guttural “UUH.” And then his body changed shape, swiftly and violently, squeezing small and narrow around the belt and pushing out like curved pistons on his chest, tightening his shirt and then shredding it, exposing a maelstrom of muscle.

He released the belt, tightened both hand into fists and raised his arms, which detonated with growth, destroying his sleeves. Two fierce bolts slammed into his biceps, which shook with the impact then soared toward the ceiling, covered with glowing veins and bright-red anchor tattoos.

I watched, bolted to my kneeing position on the floor, unable to blink, as power poured into this quiet, humble man. And even as his frame expanded in width and height, even as his faded jeans ripped away, revealing superhuman definitions of thigh and calf, I felt – serene -- as if I was watching something I’d witnessed many times before.

Light swirled around him as the transformation reached its apex. The Mariner stood before me, steam rising from his fully exposed flesh, his dark, tousled hair nearly scraping the ceiling. It was everything and nothing I had dreamed of. This Mariner cut a different profile from the thickly built engine of power I had seen on the news. This iteration was far more sculpted. The inward sweep from his wing-like back muscles to his waist was more pronounced. His arms still were immeasurable, but cut more deeply, covered with pulsing veins and topped by two throbbing peaks. And his legs seemed proportionately longer with a touch of lithe mixed with the swells and valleys of his thighs and calves.

He was less a roughly hewn man of infinite power and more our shared vision of a deity. A demigod, for lack of a better term, fearsome and beautiful, gazing at me with star-like eyes. Clothed in nothing but the magic belt, his magnificence was on full display. It was mesmerizing.

He reached toward me. Before I could respond and rise, I felt something take hold of my body. Invisible, gentle hands lifted me from the floor. I remained calm, soothed by an assuring look from his glittering eyes as my body unfolded in midair. He made a small gesture with his left hand and I floated toward him. Energy from his buckle swirled around me, kissed my neck and rubbed the soaked fabric around my sex.

Now I was inches away from him, floating, our eyes level and locked. A shiver ran through me as he placed his hands on my hips. I traced my fingers over the rolling hills of his triceps. I reached in and pressed against the rippling plates of his chest, pausing to tease a pair of erect nipples with my thumbs.

He smiled slightly, then took my right hand and placed it on the tip of his cock, which had remained at attention but, unlike the rest of his body, had not changed. It was the same size it was when he came in my mouth. Again, I wasn’t surprised by this. Some corner of my mind knew exactly what was happening but revealed no details; instead, it transmitted a feeling of assuredness and serenity. And my hungering flesh was more than willing to go along for the ride.

Slowly, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He caressed my hand as I circled fingertips around his cockhead. Our bodies, our souls, the air around us crackled with anticipation.

The belt buckle flashed, sending out tendrils of light that swirled around and through the Mariner’s bobbing dick. We groaned in unison as I felt his manhood respond with a surge that pushed my hand upward. Another throb, another push. And again. His cock grew longer, hotter, thicker, rising toward me.

An eldritch bolt shot up from his cockhead and spread light around the apex of my slacks. I rolled my head and growled as the crotch of my slacks and my panties dissipated like smoke, exposing engorged lips of my sex to the beast rising from his groin. Still holding me at my hips, he rotated me this way and that as his lengthening dick met my pussy, pushed though its drenched folds and slid inside. Arcane bolts surged from his penis, lighting me up from the inside. I felt a three-alarm blaze of pleasure and heat and desire. I pulled on the front tails of my blouse. My nipples tented against the fabric.

Though half-crazed with passion I could sense the belt’s power was hard at work inside me, co-mingling with his seed. The Mariner’s face was filled with purpose, his muscles rising and falling as his searing rod drove deeper into me. Everything was burning, filling, pushing, screaming, promising.

And I exploded.

Lightning burst from my fingertips and toes. It arced between my swollen nipples as I threw back my shoulders and bellowed with ecstasy, watching as my tits pushed out against my blouse. They spread across my chest, full and round and hungry. I felt the bra clasp snap open. My nipples – thick, dripping, pumping out lightning – punctured my blouse. My surging mounds pulled tight against the buttons and forged ahead, opening gaps between. I watched cleavage rise and heave and lengthen. I yanked again on the bottom of the blouse and the buttons came free, releasing a rage of titflesh that bobbed and shook and continued to grow, reaching out to the Mariner’s broad chest. I set my jaw and turned my shoulders, sliding my nipples across the hills of his pecs. He growled and drove his hips forward and back, ramping up the onslaught of the serpent beast in my body.

Pressures. Promises. I threw out my slender arms, squeezed my fists, snarled some dirty words. My flesh rumbled and shook, swarming with ravenous energy. My arms begin to fill out, rising around my elbow and upper arms, splitting the sleeves of my blouse. Hot veins surged around my bicep and triceps as I bent my elbows and my arms growled with power, thickening and surging and rising. My shoulders and trapezius muscles surged with power, bunching up high and hard against my neck. The remains of my blouse shredded and fluttered to the floor.

Floating a foot in the air, impaled on a manthing pumping me with sun and earth, I felt my hips widen, felt strength flow into my pussy, feeding muscles that contracted and relaxed around his growing rod, making him grunt in unison. I reached down and tore away at the legs of my slacks as they pulled tightly over an onslaught of muscle and bone that filled and lengthened my thighs. I pointed and relaxed my toes, squeezing calves that grew wider and thicker with each contraction.

My hair rose and fell and thickened, falling around my growing shoulders as I put powerfully carved arms around his bull neck and rose in the air, cheating gravity til his cockhead was nearly clear of my dripping mound. With an evil smile I plunged downward, enveloping his beast. Rose. Fell. Rose. Firm, undulating stomach muscles tightened and relaxed with each stroke.

I pumped him faster. He growled and thrust his hips in rhythm, our blood pumping in union. I felt the world in his touch, the planets in his cock, the stars in the exploding power of my body. We wrapped muscular arms around each other, pulling in tightly, reaching the precipice as one. We were infinite, limitless …

He roared with the arrival of release. The heat of his semen streamed into me, washing over my thunderous orgasms. Lightning and light crashed around us as our bodies grew longer and larger still, exploding with the full potential of the belt’s gifts. The twin peaks of my biceps, draped over his shoulders, thickened and surged and pressed against his neck. My chest muscles groaned and rose along with a extra heave of titflesh, squeezing tighter and higher against his pecs. Devouring each other in a deep kiss, we rose, turning in the air, crashing through the roof of a man’s little studio apartment and into the night air, gaining speed until we were above the clouds.

We released from the kiss, but remained entwined and very much connected – not just by the sword-like manhood shifting gently inside me but by an ancient, arcane bond reborn. But the roles, I could sense, were not as they had been interpreted in a less-enlightened time. This man of might – this hero – was not my charge, and I certainly wasn’t his liege. No, we were partners, empowered in these modern times to save innocents and ensure justice when and where we could.

And to enjoy the hell out of these bodies during our down time.

“Welcome back,” he said in a deep, perfected voice. Gently, he levitated downward to slide out his rod, which remained full-metal erect. His hands explored the long curves of my breasts, then playfully thumbed my nipples. “I longed for this. I just didn’t know you are what was missing.”

I smiled. “My love,” I responded, my voice strong and sultry. I held out one arm and curled it upward. The bicep groaned and rose, higher and higher, becoming larger than any I’d seen on a person, save the ravishing creature in front of me. And the power my arm it contained – god. It felt like a nuclear bomb a half-second from detonation.

“These forms don’t endure for long,” he said. “At some point, when they’re no longer needed, the belt reclaims them.”

“Ah. OK,” I said, still mesmerized by my arm. “And what then?”

“We can call on the power if we need it,” he said, then smiled. “Or want it.”

I turned to look at him, and floated down until we again face to face, glowing eyes to glowing eyes. “But we don’t have my talisman. Without it, I can’t summon all this by simple means. So how … ?”

His smile broadened. “It appears we’ll have to repeat this ritual. Every. Time.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Really?” I floated down, running my fingers along his abs, then down the length of his throbbing shaft as I rolled my tongue in the opposite direction. Then I wrapped his wet cock in the warmth of my breasts, pressed my tits together with goddess arms, and began to stroke.

“Works for me.”

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Comments

mlcred1111's picture

A very unusual premise and a well-written tale.
Thank you, Huck. Hope to see more from you.
Only one thing:
does that mean they hafta "repeat the ritual" every time before they can use their powers in an emergency? ;-)

To quote a former governor of Alaska: "You betcha." I understand what you're implying, though. What if time is of the essence? Well, it's been established that the Mariner can deliver the goods on his own if needs be. But I imagine if the situation requires the two at full power and there's a couple of minutes to spare, they can "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am" with the best of 'em.

mlcred1111's picture

Since you're the creator, I'll take your word for it ;-)
Might be a sequel for ya!

Wonderful detailed description, and a nice fresh premise!

Every superhero needs weaknesses and limitations or they are boring. The time to activate, his need for the belt, and her need for him, are as good as any.

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