A golden fish (part I)

1. A golden fish for poor bellies

By the wide and foamy sea, a fishercouple lived the dull-hollow song of hunger. Their seameat had long ignored wormy temptations, knowing the hook. Garden carrots vamoosed the month before. Now scant boiled-potato-only bellies crooned meanly. But one purple-thunderstorm day, a catch! Scales dazzled in each pulse of electric heaven light. With these reflections the fisherman’s face went golden. The creature spoke:

“See here. I am a magic talking fish.”

The man nodded, his face a golden mirror.

“Magic,” reiterated the fish. “So I have a special request.”

Hypnotized, the man nodded. Barely did he refrain from licking the shiny watermeat body.

“All my life I’ve dreamed a strange fetish. I’d like to be eaten – alive. It is my most erotic fantasy.”

The man frowned. He tried to disperse the roasted visions bubbling about his head. Imagined munching moving flesh, found saliva drying. Basic instincts quarreled. He faltered. “But – ”

“If you eat me this way,” the fish said, “I will grant you unlimited wishes.”

The man told his wife. Squirreling away a secret skepticism, she agreed to the tragic meal.


2. Pisci-vorarephilia

In a sad little stone cottage, the glittery watercreature said it would allow human husband and wife to sprinkle its metallic carcass with citrus and herbs.

“But NO cooking,” it reminded them.

“Not even a scant flash-in-the-pan?” the poor man implored.

“Not even. If I’m subjected to any heat before the perfect warmth of your tongues and wiggly glottises, the deal is off.”

So the hungry couple doused their cold magic fish in lemon juice and chives.

“Ooooooh, stings so good,” it said, and bulbous black eyes blinked painful ecstasy.

The man looked at his wife. He brought the very alive thing to his mouth, and with amped voracity, chomped down on the creature’s underbelly. A sound like gelatin being rent by coral – a scratchy gelatinous gurgling – issued from the finned one. The man grimaced, chewed slowly amidst his grimacing. Bright blood meandered through five-day stubble. The lady had covered her ears, looked a sicklyyellow fear. But fish, with half backend missing, guts raggedly dripping, screamed out:

“Keep going! Think of the wishes! Food, gold, the moon is yours!”

So fisherwoman snatched it and teethily ripped off its top middle. Betwixt the aural atrocities of its orgasmic death moans and the vile textures of its still-livingness, man and wife eventually finished the mystical fellow.

Then they waited, nausea-bellied, to digest.

~ by kingzoko on December 14, 2015.

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