Times of Austerity Ch. 02

Not that she was inclined to resist, the effects which the costume had produced in her spilling over into her own sense of arousal at both being able to play the role of a mermaid and seeing the desire that she had sparked in him by doing nothing more than presenting herself upon the bed. Martha was surprised to realise how far back amongst her thoughts was the question of just how the tail would function in relation to the act of love-making, whether it might be a hindrance or somehow render the sensation very different to the one that she had come to know. In the spontaneity of that particular moment, such concerns did not seem even worthy of consideration and only served to get in the way of actually living the experience.

Everything was instinct, but that was no impediment to them as he pushed her swimsuit up and uncovered her buttocks, covered by the scales of the costume. Nothing that truly mattered had been displaced, and Martha was more than ready for him as he entered, amazed at how natural the feeling was. It seemed that Leon was more than familiar with the specifics of the anatomy which was bestowed upon her by the costume, not stopping or needing to think for even a second as he began to move in time with her own reaction to his presence inside of her.

The sex was not the longest nor was it the most astonishing time that they had come together in that way, but as far as Martha was concerned, it counted as perhaps the most enjoyable choice for an act that could initiate her into the experience of playing the part of a mermaid.

It was certainly something, she thought as she fell asleep afterwards, that everyone should try at least once before they died.

Martha woke slowly and with the sense of satisfaction from the exertions of the previous night still lending her mood a definite glow that inspired her to crack a smile as soon as she was fully free from the last lingering effects of sleep. There was no need to rush out of bed, having taken a week off work to concentrate on the blog, and so she did not hurry to either look at the clock or fill her head with thoughts of what would have to be done once she was up and about.

The covers felt especially heavy and restrictive that morning, and at first she could not think for the life of her what was making them so as there was no more than a light duvet on the bed, the weather being unusually mild for the time of year. Martha pulled the bedclothes back in what was perhaps an overly dramatic gesture, and soon managed to remind herself of just why there was an unfamiliar feeling about so familiar things on that particular morning.

It had not been her intention to sleep in the tail for fear of damaging the valuable object before it went back to the place where it was supposed to be even at that very moment, but one thing had led to another, so that by the time they were both done in, she could not have contemplated getting out of the costume even if she had wanted to.

Not that she minded much the sight that she was treated to, her own naked body melting into a shapely tail below the waist, the fin at the end twitching slightly as she imagined her feet buried somewhere beneath the layers of material.

Perhaps it would be good thing for a person in general, she thought, to wake up on occasion and have the pleasure of seeing a different shape to their body than the one to which they had become used to expecting each and every morning. That was the kind of start to the day that could really make you aware of the possibilities and wonders waiting to be discovered out there in the world at large.

Martha smiled again, aware of the unspeakably good mood that waking up to discover herself still a mermaid had inspired, and sure that it had set her up for an exceptionally good day.

While she had such good energy flowing through her, she wanted to make proper use of it.

Taking the tail off was not the first thing that sprang to mind from an ideal perspective, but from a purely practical one she realised that it would be simply ridiculous to try going about the business of preparing the photo-shoot without the full use of her legs. And so with a reluctance that was almost enough to make her sigh out loud, Martha set about exploring the scalloped edge of the tail at her waist, searching for the best means to extricate herself from the costume, at least for the time being.

"Aaaah," she cried out in sharp exclamation of unexpected pain, "shit, shit, and shit again!"

Martha had succeeded in getting no more than the tip of her nail under the edge of the tail where it met the skin of her belly, thinking that it would be easiest to perhaps stretch the top of the costume open and thus gain enough space to begin to wriggle her legs out. She was rewarded with a sudden and rather nasty jab of pain, which reminded her of pulling out a bothersome hangnail, only magnified by a factor of ten. Nothing about the pain made any sense in relation to the simple act of trying to get out of what was after all only an elaborate costume, it was more like that associated with having a part of one's own body yanked or pulled in a violent manner.

Whatever the reason for the difficulty she was facing and the pain that her efforts had resulted in, Martha could already feel herself deflating as the positive mood she had woken up with was sapped by this new and unhelpful development.

Without really stopping to think the idea through, she made an attempt to stand on the end of the tail, thinking that there might have been something amongst the contents of her sewing kit or the drawers in which she kept the more cumbersome tools of the amateur seamstress that would make the task a little easier.

The effect of trying to use her mermaid's body for a purpose that was technically impossible on account of the differing anatomy of the mythical creature in question and a more common human being was quite spectacular and sudden in the failure that it created. Later Martha could only compare the way in which the fin had refused to be forced into the position of supporting her in an upright position as being somewhat like the feeling of stepping onto the side of the foot and having all that weight come down upon it, threatening bones not supposed to bend in that direction to bruise or even break. Of course the end result was a lot simpler in practice, and she went toppling to the floor like a child's teetering tower of building blocks.

Martha cried out as she hit the floor, more from the shock of falling and the anticipation of being hurt than any actual pain that she felt as she did so. But at the same time her attention was drawn to the way in which the small amount of jarring discomfort that she did feel was oddly unfamiliar, not quite what she would have expected to feel as her legs collapsed beneath her and then were forced to take the weight of the rest of her body. It was almost as if she were feeling the same pain distributed along the length of the tail and right to the point where the fin began, an idea that she quickly tried to convince herself was just another side-effect of the complex and confusing technical wonders built into it and nothing more.

"What the hell's going on up here?" Leon stood a few feet into the room, a tray that held a rudimentary attempt at breakfast balanced on one hand as he pushed open the door with the other. "I heard a crash and thought there was someone breaking in or something."

Martha looked up from the heap into which she had fallen, half embarrassed at being discovered in such a state and half relieved to have the promise of another person to lend their help.

"It's the damn tail," she stated the obvious for want of anything else to say.

"I can see that," Leon put the tray down on the nearest spot he could find before coming over to start the task of getting her off the floor. "We don't exactly make these things for people to go walking around in."

"From where I'm looking at it," Martha allowed herself to be scooped up from the floor and deposited back on the bed, "you don't make them to actually come off either."

"I should have mentioned that," Leon tried not to look guilty as he spoke. "There's a definite knack to getting them off, and if you don't know what it is then you'll really need the help of someone who does. If not then you just end up stuck on your scaley backside, flipping your fin and waiting for the next fairy tale prince to come along, or at least someone with a wheelbarrow and a sense of charity."

"Let's just cut the jokes and skip to the point where you help me get out of the tail," Martha gave him a serious gaze as she cocked her head on one side to emphasize the fact that she was not in the mood for more supposedly amusing comments.

"Okay," Leon held up his hands in mock surrender, "just let me have a look around the back. There's a flap that's tucked under the edge and should let me get to the tab that you pull to let the tail know it's time to stop clinging to the person inside and expand itself again."

"Just be careful," Martha looked over her shoulder as he began to fiddle with the back of the costume. "When I tried to get my fingers under there a few minutes ago it was like trying to pull my own fingernails out with a pair of rusty pliers."

"Wait a minute," Leon stopped what he was doing to focus on the comment she had just made. "What was that about it hurting when you tried to do something to the tail?"

"I pushed my fingers under the edge," Martha was suddenly worried by the way his tone had changed from joking to serious, "it hurt a lot, that's all I did. I just assumed that it was something to do with all the stuff the tail's supposed to do to make me behave as though I was actually a mermaid."

"Not good," Leon stood up, beginning to rub his forehead and then pace back and forth a moment later, "not good at all."

"What do you mean," Martha tried to penetrate the odd mood that had suddenly taken hold of him. "Talk to me for god's sake; what do you mean it's not good?"

Leon stopped pacing, but she could see that he was trying to think very carefully before he actually committed to opening his mouth to offer an answer.

"Fucking say something before I freak out!" she pressed him further, more for her own sense of growing panic than anything else.

"This shouldn't be happening," he stumbled over the words, as if they were being dragged out of him against his will. "There's nothing about the standard tails that should make them more than a bit of a pain to get off, nothing that two people can't handle."

"Standard tails?" Martha did not like where this was going.

"Yeah," Leon blinked and regained a little of his composure as he found himself discussing the more familiar matters which he encountered on a daily basis in the course of his work. "There are what we call standard tails and special models. The standards are just designed to tighten themselves around a person and keep them from walking about so that it's more of an experience than just wearing a lycra stocking over your legs. But the specials..."

"Go on," Martha's voice prodded him better than any finger could have.

"The specials are kind of hushed up," the battle between the need to be honest with her and the wish to keep the industrial secrets with which he had been entrusted was evident on Leon's face. "They're made to order and cost a small fortune, and they always get shipped to customers who keep themselves anonymous as well. Some of the gossip is that it's because they have special features built in that are way out there, things that would really make you wonder about the kind of person who'd pay for them. But the one that you hear all the time is that the specials are actually supposed to be able to create the real thing, or as close to it as possible."

"What exactly does 'the real thing' mean?" Martha felt like she was about to be given the news that they had found a tumour and in addition it was both malignant and inoperable.

"What the bloody hell do you think it means?" a large bubble of tension finally burst inside Leon, his voice rising as he spoke. "They're supposed to turn whoever wears them into actual mermaids, Martha. I know it sounds mad, but I've seen the kind of money that changes hands over these things and I know that if that were a standard tail, then you'd have had no trouble getting out of it at all. What other explanation could there be other than me snatching a special instead of a standard?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Martha lurched over the edge of the bed, her stomach heaving and a gasping sound filling the room as the physical impact of what she had just been told took a hold of her.

Leon moved to help, thinking to hold her hair back or at least put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but then pulled back at the last moment, unsure of whether his touch would be welcomed or shunned. Instead he chose to keep his distance, fumbling in a pocket for his mobile and at the same time wondering who on earth he could actually call in such a situation.

"Oh shit," Martha shook her head and looked up, "I was sick in my hair."

It was the most bizarre image he could have imagined.

What was for all intents and purposes an actual mermaid, sitting on a bed and complaining that she had managed to throw up on her own hair? There was surely no more strange a juxtaposition of things than a creature which was only supposed to exist in fantastical stories coming out with a line that was so concerned with mundane and unpleasant bodily malfunctions.

Under other circumstances, he might actually have laughed.

The van was white and although it looked almost new there was no sign on the side or lettering of any kind that could have identified it as being owned by a tradesman that would have been common to see driving around a suburban area at that hour of the morning. But it was just that sense of familiarity with such a sight that allowed it to pass by anyone who happened to be out and about or looking through a window as it drove by. A bold logo or a name might have stuck in the memory and been recalled at a later date, unlike an anonymous white van, of which there were already literally thousands on the roads at any given time.

If the man in the driver's seat had been more of a consummate actor, he might have pulled out a road map after he pulled over in front of the house for which he was looking or maybe even interrogated a satnav to be sure he was in the right place. Instead he simply turned off the engine and climbed out of the van, making his way past the sliding door on the side and rapping lightly upon it as he went.

He was wearing blue workman's trousers and a matching jacket, as well as a baseball cap that made it hard to really see the details of his face, and like the van, such an outfit could have been ascribed to any number of professions that might need to arrive early in order to begin work before a householder was off on the morning commute.

The man rang the bell whilst removing something from the inside of his jacket, his extended hand looking slightly incongruous on account of the latex glove that covered it as he did so.

Though it took a good few minutes for the sound of the lock being opened from the inside to indicate that his summons had been answered by someone inside, there was no sign of impatience or urgency about the man, who simply waited patiently upon the doorstep until the door finally opened.

"Whatever it is," the young man who opened the door looked as though he had gathered himself together for the sake of facing the world, as though he would fall apart at any moment if pressed too far, "I don't have time for it now, so please..."

He would have said something like 'get lost' but for the fact that the man sprayed a canister of mace directly and methodically into his unsuspecting face a second later.

He tried to cry out, the natural reaction to the burning pain in his eyes and the surprise at being suddenly and without warning attacked on the threshold of his own home, but for the wad of tissue paper that was crammed into his mouth by the same hand that had rang the doorbell.

The young man fell backwards into the house through the open front door and the man who had assaulted him followed directly afterwards, so smoothly and without pause that there would have been no way to either see or hear what he had done, even if a witness had been present to the act. With the same speed and professional detachment he taped the man's mouth shut and set about binding his wrists and ankles with plastic thongs that dug viciously into the skin, so that soon he could neither move nor make a significant sound of alarm or protest.

In the time that it had taken the first man to subdue the one who answered the door, two more dressed in almost identical clothes to his own had emerged from the door in the side of the van. Between them they carried a cardboard box, large enough to accommodate a sizable domestic appliance such as a refrigerator or even a sunbed. But the effect was spoiled by the way in which they seemed to easily able to manage such a large and supposedly heavy item, perhaps another small point on which their ability to act might have stood up to some honest scrutiny and improvement.

Without even an awkward glance at the struggling man at the feet of their colleague, the men stopped to catch his eye, not saying a single word as they did so.

He held up a hand to indicate that they should wait, and then closed the front door behind them so that nothing could be seen from the street.

That done, he went to the bottom of the stairs and gestured for them to follow.

At the top there was an obvious clue as to the room from which the young man had come in his way to answer the door. Whereas the doors to the other rooms were half open as would normally be the case when a person left them without a conscious thought for the matter, there was only one which had actually been shut. From inside there was the smallest hint of a noise, like someone making altogether too much effort not to produce so much as a whisper and betraying themselves as a consequence.

The first man nodded briefly to his colleagues, then pushed the door open suddenly and without warning.

He was rewarded with the sound of the door making contact with something solid and an alarmed cry of pain that suggested it had been someone crouched nearby, perhaps attempting to listen to what was going on downstairs without revealing their presence. Seemingly keen to make the most of the surprise this development might offer, he hurried into the room, closely followed by the men carrying the box.

Inside they were presented with a scene that should have been enough to make anyone stop in their tracks, so odd were the elements that came together before them, but all the same, not one of them seemed in the least inclined towards such a reaction.

There on the floor in the middle of the room, still stunned from the impact of the door, was an anatomically perfect mermaid. She was petite in stature and oriental in origin, impishly pretty as could be clearly seen despite the now somewhat dazed expression upon her face. She was naked save for her tail, breasts exposed and hair far too short to have a hope of covering them as she cowered on the floor. Her tail was a myriad of blue shades, both strange and undeniably hypnotic as it moved beneath her in ways that would have been impossible for human legs.

Even in her stunned state, it was clear that she had been crying.

Not that any of that seemed to matter to the men who had just entered the room.

Upon seeing the mermaid and noting that she was both stunned and without the protection of another person in the house, they set about their tasks as though she were no more unusual than any woman who might have been found in the same room.