The Siren

The Siren

FemdomFanboy85

I. A Dangerous Meeting

This is not a love story. If it is anything, it must be the story of a man seduced, taken, and ultimately destroyed. Most would label such a thing a horror story, but this might not be entirely accurate, either. It can’t really be denied that I felt a kind of love, even if it would be more fitting to call that a perverse, twisted sort of love. She certainly loved the whole process and its outcome, and, by the end, even I came to love it and love her.

Believe me when I say I was not the type of man that could fairly be described as weak-willed. On the contrary, I was a devoted son, a hard worker, a friend to those in need, and an all around gentleman. Yes, one is always the hero of their own story, but there are plenty who could attest to the truth of what I’ve said. Don’t hold it against me that I could not save myself from what happened.

The uncomfortable reality is that I was no worse off at the time than the average man usually is. I pondered my future and whether I wanted to stay with my employer or strike out into greener pastures. I worried over my parents and their ailing health. I dated and met prospective partners with whom things eventually fizzled out. Through it all, though, I persevered and did my best to stay positive.

It was in the middle of life going on as life normally does that I met her. Who would imagine that one could meet such a magnificent creature in a used bookstore? I had gone in looking for something fun to read for the holiday season — perhaps some Edgar Allen Poe — and stumbled across the unexpected. We reached for the same book, like something out of a movie, and sparks seemed to fly. Those hazel-green eyes haunt me even now.

Earworm. What a nasty little word that is, isn’t it? It’s talked about like some cutesy term for a tune that gets stuck in your head, but the picture it puts on your mind is hardly cute. She is the earworm par excellance; the song that refuses to leave my brain. The moment she told me her name, it hung dreadfully there, as if by some dark magic.

“I’m Adam,” I introduced myself.

“Hi, Adam,” she answered in the kindest voice I’d ever heard. “I’m Lilith.”

As a tall, reasonably fit fellow, there are few things that alarm me when I come into contact with them. Violent people, wild animals, and other dangerous situations are the obvious exceptions. I’m no ladies man, but I’m not what you’d call socially awkward, either. I get along well most of the time. There are occasions when someone takes my breath away. This time, though, I had the bizarre experience of feeling drawn in at the same time little warning bells were firing off in my head, telling me something was wrong.

It would be an understatement to say this feeling was confirmed more and more as the days unfolded. I hadn’t had the courage to ask for her number or invite her out on the first time. Then the stars began to align. The second time I ran into her, I was stopping to gas up my car. She waved from a couple pumps over, I waved back, and by the time I finished filling the tank, she was driving away. On the third occasion, I had just backed out of a parking spot at the grocery store before I saw her come out. Again, our eyes met and she waved, but much as I would’ve liked to stop and ask her out, the car behind me impatiently honked as I hesitated.

The fourth time I saw her, I nearly missed her. One evening I was driving home from seeing friends, down a small stretch of road that passes a bus stop I’ve passed hundreds of times. There she was, sitting calmly on the bench, face down in a book. With no one behind me, I decided to take my chances and slowed the car down as I pulled up near her.

“I’m starting to think fate is smiling on us,” I said with a chuckle after rolling down the passenger window.

She looked up from her book and grinned. Oddly, it was not the sort of surprised grin you’d expect from someone who had no idea who was pulling up next to them. The entire scene was characterized by an eerieness I’d struggle to explain. The road I was on was deserted, the sidewalk she was on was deserted, and here we were, meeting for the fourth time in only a short while. I told myself it was only normal to be a little nervous and pushed these feelings aside.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a fatalist,” she responded cheerily.

“I’m usually not,” I answered. “But some things you don’t really want to resist, whether or not they’re fated. Could I maybe give you a ride?”

For a minute, I wasn’t sure she would agree, as those hazel-green eyes reflected at me in the fading daylight. Then, without uttering a word, she began to gather up her things and stood up. I could scarcely believe my luck as she came over and opened the passenger door. She put her book and purse on the floor in front of her seat and buckled in.

“Thank you,” she said, before making a sound like her mind was at work. “No, wait, don’t tell me. I’ll get it. It’s… Adam, right?”

My name fell out of her mouth in the same way a person tells you what their favorite food is. I was so pleased to know she’d remembered that I gave little thought to it. After all, I had not forgotten her name. It seemed to have been on the tip of my tongue even before I spotted her at the bus stop. So when I returned the courtesy and said her name, it left my lips with all the subtlety of an infant crying for attention.

She asked me to take her home. In between the usual discussion of directions, we talked about love, life, death, and sex. The topics of conversation fascinated me as much as her opinions did. It wasn’t unusual to encounter this level of dialogue with someone else who loved to read, but I had long since gotten bored with small talk when it came to meeting people. Her intelligence and erudition impressed me. I felt important to be trusted to have these high-minded discussions with her.

Yet the drive to her place was inexplicably exhausting. Perhaps I had just had a long day, or perhaps making the trip was simply tiring. Nonetheless, after some time, it seemed as if every word of our conversation was taking something out of me. I could almost feel the breath leaving my lungs in a strain as I talked with her. Weirdest of all, as this sensation grew stronger, her energy only appeared to blossom.

Half-asleep, I pulled over to the side of the road as instructed when we arrived. I vaguely recall her unbuckling, saying thank you, and leaning over me, taking my head in both hands, and kissing me. My memory then gets too fuzzy to be of much use. All that sticks out is a murky feeling of pleasant surrender. When I came to once more, Lilith was gone and I was still parked by the curb. Around me were no houses, just a scattering of streetlamps illuminating the night and the trees bordering either side of the road.

I drove to my apartment worrying that I had passed out and ruined the evening. At home, I discovered there was a new text message waiting on my phone. It was from Lilith, who had evidently been added to my contacts at some point. The text said she appreciated the ride and had enjoyed our discussion. But it was six simple little words that sent my heart leaping: “We should hang out again sometime.”

Before bed that night, I masturbated frustratedly to thoughts of her. I jerked and pulled to the image of her perfect shape. I gasped and moaned to the sound of her voice in my mind. The fantasy shifted as it went on. It was her lips beckoning and kissing mine, her body moving in my lap, and then it was her hands touching my head, working their way slowly down past my chin until they were tightening around my neck. Between the legs, I was at my hardest, turning red from the rush of blood, and poised to explode at any second.

In my fantasy, her hands kept squeezing. I pushed on, struggling against the frustration, and the more I fought, the more powerless I felt. Eventually, I laid back on the bed, sweating lightly, and groaned as soft tears leaked down the sides of my cheeks. I was painfully stiff, and as this started to recede, I was defeated in body and spirit. In a brief moment of madness, I wondered where she was and why she wasn’t here to witness this.

My dreams that night would be wild and restless.

II. Visions of Mortality

“Can I read you something?” she asked me excitedly.

Our next meeting, our first official date, began at a little food trailer near the park. We met for tacos, sat at a small wooden table, and fed crumbs to the birds for a while as we talked. This time, the conversation started out with questions about me, my family, my work, and my opinions. I reciprocated, asking her about herself, her family, what she did, and what she believed in. Eventually, we came to the subject of literature, as she pulled a paperback out of her purse and asked to read to me.

“I’d love that,” I answered her.

“Wonderful,” she replied approvingly. “I’ve been reading Shelley’s Frankenstein again. It’s one of my favorites. There’s this part in the introduction, though, that stood out to me this time. I’d love to hear what you think.”

As she read, my thoughts twisted and turned on her voice.

“Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning ideas suggested to it.”

“Shelley was brilliant, wasn’t she?” I said, not quite sure what she was getting at with this.

“She was. It’s always felt a shame to me how little her brilliance was appreciated in her own time. But her work has endured.”

“She certainly created something that outlasted most of her critics, didn’t she?” I added.

I could swear that on hearing this observation, a light appeared behind her eyes. She looked me over as she held the book in one hand, a finger carefully inserted into it, marking out the page she had been reading from. Again, I got the sense that I had said something right, and I beamed with pride at her reaction.

“Anyway,” she interrupted, “I like her thoughts on invention. I have a bit of an artistic side myself, and sometimes it’s tough to remember you don’t need to reinvent the wheel, you know? Everything starts from something.”

“Definitely. I’m not like a pro or anything, but I like to play music. I do write on occasion. Sometimes you just need to see that inspiration in something that seems like a mess. You learn to put the pieces together.”

“And sometimes you have to tear something to pieces first to put it in the right order.”

We both laughed a good laugh at this. I felt my mind wandering toward hers, but found myself distracted by something else. Her laugh brought a beautiful smile to her face that revealed her strong white teeth. Amusingly, in this moment, inspiration struck me and motivated me to extend a compliment.

“I admit,” I said, “I do love a creative side in a woman. You’re obviously intelligent, I can already tell, but that impulse to make something… or to unmake and remake something… is one of those things that I can’t help but admire. It’s pretty amazing what some people do with it, like giving life to an entire reality from their imagination.”

“Aren’t you a sweet talker? You’re a musician, though, so I’m sure you get it, too. What do you play?”

“I play bass guitar.”

“Oh, nice,” she said. “Often understated, but always important. Like the backbone of a song. What do you like to play?”

“Just about anything. As long as it has a groove to it.”

“A groove you can dance to?”

“Preferably.”

“Is that what you’re looking for? A dance partner?”

“Maybe so,” I said with a smirk. “Someone fun. Flexible. Light on her toes. Lets me lead.”

The sound of the birds pecking at the discarded crumbs on the ground below seemed to grow louder. Lilith put her book back into her purse and reached across the table for me. She took one of my hands in hers and pulled it closer to her, palm up, until it was resting in the center of the table.

“You do have the hands of a musician,” she said, glancing up at me from between her bangs. The fingers of her right hand traced the lines in my palm delicately. “Not to mention the hands of a scoundrel.”

“Oh, a scoundrel?” I repeated, pretending to take offense while we both chuckled. “If this is the kind of palm reading I get, I think I want my money back.”

“You should stay,” was her sudden response.

“What? Stay here?”

“No,” she answered. “Stay with the job you have.”

I grinned politely. It wasn’t a hard guess to make. Still, her remark was unexpected and odd.

“Your parents will be alright, too. They’re just aging like everyone else, but they’ve got many more years ahead of them.”

My eyes widened at this, even as she kept her gaze focused on my hand. Another lucky guess? I remembered the night I drove her home and began to feel strange. As I watched her nervously, I noticed her countenance change in a rather peculiar way. Her hazel-green eyes looked up and met mine.

“You’re not a failure,” she told me, as I jerked back slightly in her hands. “It only feels like failure because you keep fighting to be someone you’re not. You keep telling yourself you need to be stronger, more careful, have more under control. You console yourself by blaming the ones that walk away for not being what you need. The truth is that you don’t know what you need. You don’t know who you are. You don’t know why you’re here. You don’t believe that your greatest fear and your greatest need is to let someone in.”

I yanked my hand back anxiously. She let go and waited, watching me closely. My pulse was frantic and my head was drowning in thoughts, worries, questions, and total confusion. I could have tried to dismiss the whole thing as exceptional guesswork, and part of me badly wished I would, but what she said would be no less true. Even if she had cast a wide net and landed on something fruitful, this in itself seemed like unnaturally profound insight. Then, leaning forward and looking me in the eye, she uttered words that at once devastated me and put me in a state of wild admiration.

“You’re afraid to let someone in because you know what that means for you. It means surrendering everything.”

“You can’t possibly–”

“That’s your choice, Adam. Believe or don’t believe. I do know one thing, though, and I know this from personal experience. Only one of those gets you closer to the trust you’re missing out on.”

III. Altar of Sacrifice

There is no use in denying that Lilith entranced me. Five dates and countless conversations later, with growing affection for one another, I felt as if I was drawn into something frighteningly and excitingly inescapable. Her song lingered on my ears each day, gradually melting away what reluctance still remained.

I ask you, though, what is it that makes the difference in what we regard as miracles or malevolence? Is it not fear? When faced with the inexplicable, the extraordinary, and what seems like the otherworldly, why else do we treat some things as signs of the divine and others as signs of evil? She came into my life like an apparition, but perhaps the strangeness in that was not in her so much as it lay in my own fear.

And were I to ignore the desire of an angel by mistaking it for that of a demon, would that not be the most miserable act of self-condemnation?

It was on a chilly day in December that she asked me to join her down at the shore of the town lake. I had dressed for the weather in a long-sleeve shirt and pants, while she arrived in a crimson sweater dress and black boots. We embraced, kissed, and walked down the shore together, listening to the waves come in as the birds called out overhead.

“You’re not cold?” I asked.

“I like the cold,” she replied. “I like the dark, too. They make me feel alive.”

“It is a really beautiful day today,” I agreed, staring out at the sun breaking through a fog of clouds over the edge of the lake.

“I have a question for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Who am I to you?”

I stopped walking and turned to her, puzzled. She also came to a halt and tilted her head back, looking to me expectantly.

“How do you mean?”

“I want to know what you see when you see me. Am I just a pretty face? A manic pixie dream girl? Am I a one-dimensional figure in some guy’s story?”

“Wow,” I said, as we started to walk the shore again. “I hope that’s not how you think I see you.”

“Who am I, then?”

I opened my mouth as if to speak, but left it ajar as I thought of what to say. Down the beach ahead, I could see cliffs rising into the sky a few yards away from the shore, serving like earthen sentinels guarding the entrance to some long forgotten land. The pure beauty and serenity of the scene impressed itself on me, and I found myself with the simple thought: I hope they’ll let me in.

“I don’t know that I’ll ever see it all,” I spoke.

“See what?”

“See all of you. There may be too much there. Maybe all we ever get are glimpses of someone else.”

“And what about those glimpses?”

“They kind of add up, don’t they? Not to a full picture, but maybe the closest we can get. The rest… I guess we have to trust. Trust that someone is paying enough attention to put the pieces together in the right order.”

“So who I am?”

The cliffs I had seen before us now began to ascend in jagged lines to our right. Up and up they went, a curtain of rock, mineral, and grass. Here, the waves were rushing in faster, slapping lightly against the sand. Except for the two of us, the shore was empty.

“You,” I started, before stopping to make eye contact with her. “You’re a siren.”

Her hazel-green eyes glowed at me on hearing this, as her hair tossed gently in the wind. Standing there seeing each other, I felt as if she was waiting, perched in anticipation for the moment she would either get to return my feelings or be forced to end me.

“I am?” she questioned.

“You’re not a monster,” I quickly added. “But you are dangerous. You’re endlessly interesting to listen to. You have a mind and will like no one else I’ve met. You know things I don’t understand. Your inner beauty crowns the beautiful form you wear on the outside. You challenge me and inspire me.”

“And why does that make me a siren?”

“Because the whole of you — or what I suspect is the whole — pulls me in and threatens to drown me. It makes me feel like I could get lost in you. But mostly, I know you don’t let anyone define you. I see you as a siren… because you want me to see you as a siren.”

“I am a siren,” she declared emphatically, stepping forward into my space confidently. “You need to believe. You need to know that although I could have any man, any woman, any mortal, I choose you.”

My heart was hers at these words. Or perhaps it had been hers and this was only the door closing and locking behind us forever. Either way, I knew then and there that whatever she asked, whatever she commanded next, my answer would be the same. I was helplessly caught by her song, so much so that I had lost even the will to imagine a way out.

“I believe,” I offered to her. “I don’t understand why I’m your choice, but I don’t need to know. I only hope to know I’m yours.”

Lilith pressed herself against me, winding her right arm around my side and up my back, while her left hand touched my face. She kissed me and drained the breath from my lungs until I worried I would collapse. Whether it was my own strength or hers that kept me standing, I don’t know. All I know is something inside me was dying to hear what she said next.