Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers

“Sometimes in the past we have had robbers,” she explained. “It is for your own protection, in case we are attacked.”

“Are we likely to be?” he questioned, alarmed, thinking of Chinese triads, or Burmese bandits, or even Indonesian pirates. He did not know where he was. It could be any of them. Perhaps even Cambodian rebels looking for hostages? “I don’t like this—where are my clothes?”

Slim long-nailed hands restrained him, pressed against his hairy chest, forcing him back down on the bed with their sheer daintiness.

“You must not worry. It is all in the past.”

“Are you positive?”

“Yes.”

Her small buttocks somehow worked themselves underneath his hands. The gun was back under the pillow. He was fondling crevices again, finding his potency amazingly fresh. Never had such energy coursed through his body before this night. Jody would have at first been delighted, men not so delighted, then finally weary of him. He always suspected she pretended a high sex drive in order to humiliate him. He could have used this newly discovered potency to destroy her domination over him.

Where had it been when Jody was at her most demanding? It had not been her fault. It had not been his. It must have been the fault of the time and place. He should have thought of mirrors before. It was, after all, simply narcissism taken to extremes. It was fun to watch.

He found, after a while, that he enjoyed her mirror image better than the flesh and blood. If she was lovely in life, she was superlative in glass. They tried many different positions and he adored the reflections which tumbled away from him in all directions. Superb forms, equal to those produced by any sculptor he cared to name. Poetry in moving images. He preferred the silence to words or music. This was art. This was profound. This was the sport of angels…

“Hey!” Alarmed, he sat up quickly. “Did you see that?”

“What? What have you seen?”

He stared into the right hand wall. He could have sworn… but it was impossible. He was surely drugged by that heavy narcotic called sex.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, resuming what he had been doing, what she had been doing to him. “I’m seeing things.”

But then it happened again and he was sure this time.

“I did see it,” he cried, pushing her away. “That—that…”

It was the hundredth, no, perhaps even farther back than that, about the hundred-and-fiftieth reflection of himself and the girl. This distant set of reflections had been doing something different. Walt and the woman had actually been in one position, and this particular couple, out of the thousands before and after them, had been in another! Surely that was impossible. Unless there was some sort of flaw in the mirror. But wouldn’t that affect all the images? He tried to decide whether it worried him or whether he was merely intrigued by this strange phenomenon. Eventually he decided on the latter. Maybe it was because he was sated. Overload? His mind was playing tricks on his eyes. Yes, he was seeing things. It might be interesting to go with it, allow himself to be swept along with the illusion.

He lay back again and she eased herself on top of him.

Walt’s eyes scanned the mirrors, watching for the one rebel image to appear. All around him were couples locked in the shape of a reversed T. Wait! Yes, there. One pair on the far wall, way back down the line, had flipped over with the man now on top. Walt stared in fresh amazement as this movement fanned out from this single couple. Forward down the line the images began riffling, running down toward him like a row of dominoes. Flip, flip, flip. It was a fantastic sight. He had seen computer images do this, but these were simply mirrors. Then the line reached him and his consort.

He suddenly felt himself being flipped over. Their sexual roles were instantly reversed. He was now on top of her.

At the same time as this physical miracle took place he had an orgasm that was like a massive jolt of electricity rushing through his loins.

“Jesus!” he yelled. “Arrrggghhhh! Christ!”

The sweat poured from his naked body. He had never felt anything like this before, not even his first time over that gravestone at the back of St. Peter’s church. His head ached from the absolute pure passion of the moment. Semen gushed from him in a torrent. And yet afterward he did not feel drained of desire. There was still a river of raw lust rushing through him. Her hands were all over him still, rousing him again, bringing him to a new and superhuman state of sexual excitement.

“Again!” he cried. “Let’s do it again. Did you feel it too? You must have felt it. I heard you yell. You loved it didn’t you? Christ I feel randy. I’m ready for half-a-dozen of those. I bet it’s better than any drug. What do you say—let’s go for another one, eh?”