Insistently, Clia pulls you along through the curtains of kelp and algae, until at last she stops, hovering near to the seabed in a nice, secluded little spot. It's surrounded on all sides by tall, swaying tufts of seaweed, but in the middle of it all is a bowl-shaped impression in the sandy sea-floor. "Here," says Clia, her voice thick with desire and anticipation, "this is perfect!"
Before you can say or do anything at all, the mermaid pulls you into her arms and kisses you deeply, almost forcefully. It's powerful and possessive, like she's finally and truly claiming you as -hers-, and it's also a huge fucking turn-on. You respond in kind, sliding your tongue into Clia's mouth to dance with hers and running your hands from her gorgeous red hair, down her fair neck (tickling her gills as you go) and her back, and down to her waist where skin very abruptly and jarringly becomes fish-scales.
"I love you," Clia whispers, as the two of you continue to make out and drive each other to the heights of passion achievable with lips and tongues and soft caresses alone. Your bodies are crushed together, Clia's impressive breasts pushed up against your own chest, and your tails twine together as they so often have before during your morning love-making sessions. You grind your nigh-featureless merman-pelvis against the mermaid’s, and she moans into your mouth—you can feel a pleasant warmth coming from your balls, trapped and inaccessible though they are, deep inside your fishtail.
Even during the mating-time, the sensation is merely pleasant: enjoyable enough, but it doesn’t feel anywhere near as pleasurable as human intercourse did. It simply can't.
Of course, by now, you’ve discovered a thing or two about giving pleasure to a maiden with nothing but flat scales where you’d wish to find a vulva and a clitoris. Your lips break away from Clia’s and begin to explore: she shudders when you nibble on her earlobe, and as you move down to her neck, your hands move up across her belly (first the slick scales of her fish-belly, then the soft skin of her human stomach, still slightly swollen from her feeding) until they come to cup her breasts. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever been with,” you whisper. Then, while kissing Clia’s neck, you brush tongue gently across one of her sensitive gill-slits and and the same time tease her nipples with your forefingers and thumbs.
Clia gasps (with a burst of bubbles) and cries out your name, suddenly clutching you even more tightly against her. Pretty soon, you lower yourself down along her body so that you can suck on one of her nipples and play with the other, and after a short while the mermaid is breathing rapidly (you can tell by the way her chest heaves, and because of how rapidly her gills flutter open and closed) and letting out a steady, mewling keen. All of her fins—caudal, dorsal, and especially pelvic—stand straight out at attention, and her tail goes rigid underneath her, as straight as if it had been a leg locked at the knee.
She is quivering with pleasure now, and you recognize that you’re already driving her up to the edge. But before you can decide on what to do to perhaps push her over, she lowers herself down so that her face is once again level with yours, and she gives you a coy grin and says, “Your turn, lover,” before kissing you again. You suddenly realize that she is now teasing your nipples with light brushes of her fingertips, and it sends a jolt of arousal like fire rushing down to your piscine loins. You lean into Clia’s kiss and continue to play with her breasts, and your mutual nipple-play eventually brings you both to a now quite familiar brink.
You’ve only come this close once before as a merman, when you attempted masturbation. You know what always comes next: a frustrating limit, where your nipples eventually become so overly-sensitive that any further stimulation brings more pain than pleasure, followed by an inevitable come-down from the plateau.
Clia’s cheeks and breasts are flushed red: her nipples still hard, her areolas swollen. You wonder if she’s starting to approach the same oversensitive state you are, but she doesn’t show any signs of stopping you.
Until she suddenly does. Her hands come off your chest, and they wrap around your wrists, stopping your ministrations. And your heart sinks—for just a moment. Because, when you open your eyes and look into Clia’s, you can see that hers are glassy with arousal, and her smile is one of absolute bliss. She draws your hands down and places them on the belly of her tail, between her pelvic fins, where you can actually feel now that her tiny opening is, well, open. “You’re amazing,” she gasps. “It’s only the first day of the cycle—and I’m already ready!”
“Ready?”
“To spawn,” she says. You share another tender, long kiss, and then Clia lowers herself so that she hovers just above the sea-bed. At the same time, she pushes you down so that your head moves lower, past her breasts, past her belly, down to her egg-vent. You realize that she’s directing you to something that she hadn’t seemed to want before, and hesitantly at first, gingerly, you oh so carefully bring your tongue to her fishy opening.
Compared to human anatomy, Clia’s is, well, honestly kind of . . . “boring” isn’t quite the right word, because you are definitely anything but disinterested right now. “Simpler” might be a better way to put it. There are no folds, nothing resembling lips, certainly nothing like a clit. It’s just a plain opening in the scales, and all you can really do is lick the outside of it or dip your tongue a very short way into the tiny hole. But instead of finding your actions unwelcome as she did when you tried to make love before, Clia now responds warmly indeed. She shudders with each pass of your tongue and begins to cry out. Now this is more like it! you think yourself with a grin. You’re not just playing at making love anymore; you’re actually doing it!
You were experienced as a human; you always knew your way around a woman’s nether-lips, even from your first forays into the art of love. You might have even called yourself a natural at it, if it didn’t sound conceited. For Clia, the challenge is a little different: it’s a matter of keeping her at that pleasurable brink, given that her fish-genitalia simply don’t have the concentration of nerve-endings that clit or a G-spot does. And so you keep at it, marveling at Clia's very womanlike reaction to your giving head (and at the oddness of doing so without a sensation of urgency or even so much as the slightest hint of stiffness or moisture coming from where your own manhood used to be). As you lick and probe with your tongue, you also reach up to once again massage her breasts and tease the pebble-hard little nubs that you find there—and that is what at last pushes her over.
Of a sudden, Clia thrusts away from you and spins around where she floats, so that her belly faces the seabed, her opening pointed at the bowl-shaped little valley in the sand. The face she makes in her climax is first you’ve seen in a long time indeed and a beautiful sight for very sore eyes. You even find it endearing when her gasping cry of passion gives way to a rather unladylike groan, and you see a cloud of − something − poof into the water. It looks like an emission of some kind of fluid or vapor from her opening, a bright red-orange in color, and as it clears away, you can see a pile of little round orbs of the same color, about the size of shooter-marbles, settling into the depression.
Clia’s orgasm continues, and with each contraction, another few eggs spill out of her middle and into the sandy nest. Even as it peters out, Clia opens her eyes and her gaze locks onto you—a mix of hunger and satisfaction you’ve never quite seen anywhere else before.
Though she moves with a pronounced lethargy now, she pulls herself back into your arms and begins to fiercely pepper your body all over with kisses of love and gratitude. “That was—the best thing—that I’ve ever—I can’t even describe—”
“I’m glad you liked it,” you chuckle while returning her kisses. You’ve finally satisfied your mermaid; you feel more like a man than you have in many days now. And you’re eager enough for Clia to return the favor—which is exactly the topic she broaches next.
“Now you have a decision to make, O sexy merman-mine,” she says with a giggle. “Do you want to cum on my eggs?”
At the same time Clia asks her question, something new happens. The cloud of whatever-it-was that came out with the eggs, perhaps the fishy equivalent of amniotic fluid, has dispersed into the water, and as soon as the rush of chemicals and pheromones reaches your nostrils, your body reacts instinctively. It’s like the most potent aphrodisiac you’ve ever felt, and it’s starting to override the rational side of your mind.
You do have a decision to make: on the one hand, you’re not quite sure that you want to be a father yet. But on the other, there’s nobody you’d rather settle down with than your amazing, beautiful mermaid, and in this wild ocean full of predators and who only knew what else, there were no guarantees any eggs you fertilize would ever live long enough to hatch. You might wind up with no children, or one, or too many.
Through the haze of arousal, you manage to breathe out, "Wha . . . whatever that stuff is . . . we could make a killing if we could bottle it and sell it."
Clia silences you when her lips find yours, and her tongue is very quickly silencing any inhibitions you might still have left. You know that you aren't thinking straight, when you make your decision.