The dream of Ama

   The Dream of Ama  

Ama made ready for her dive. She loosened her hair and removed her kimono then stretched her naked body towards the rising sun, as if in worship. She took time to savour the brightening light and its warming effect on her skin. This was her ritual, done each time she first dived on a new day, a way of preparing herself for the cold, treacherous embrace of the sea.

But today, it was different. Today, she prolonged her precious moments under the sky, re-awakening that new and unsettling longing that she feared was coming ever closer to overwhelming her. She allowed it to rise but resisted its charms at the last, before it became uncontainable. She sighed … then leapt from the rock on which she was standing and plunged into the foam.

Ama swum downwards, smoothly and with dolphin-like grace, until she reached the oyster beds. She began to work her way through the luxuriant forest of seaweed growing along the sea-floor. Her long hair streamed behind her, as though mimicking the sinuous movements of the swaying fronds. She seemed to be, not an interloper in this shadowy, mysterious place, but a wholly native part of Otawatasumi’s domain.

She paused for a moment to pluck a few oysters from their place but when she tried to swim on, she found herself held. She didn’t panic; that would be death to one in her occupation but no matter how she turned and twisted, she was held fast.

Gently at first, she felt the tentacles coiling around her, and then becoming more insistent. She relaxed in the hope that the octopus would lose interest and move on to more evidently living prey, but she did not yet understand that she had been lured here for just this fate. One by one, the arms of her attacker enveloped her until she was pinned by all eight.

And then the slow, irresistible exploitation began. Her wrists and ankles were entwined with cord-like loops, freeing four other limbs to explore her vulnerable body. A tentacle tip made a slow advance up her torso, sketched the outline of one of her breasts then dedicated itself to the pinnacle at the centre. With finger-like precision, the responsive nipple was stroked and then squeezed to an unheard-of sensitivity. More and more of the artful arm stole around her breast till it was encircled. The finger-tip’s delicate torment was superseded by the more relentlessly demanding attentions of a sucker. Ama had never felt anything so intensely sensuous, pleasurable indeed, and a stream of bubbles escaped her lips.

Her other breast was treated to the same exquisite indulgence and Ama’s mind ceased its search for ways to free herself. The thin trickle of escaping air from her lips was covered by the cephalopod’s two remaining tentacles as they seemed to fight for the privilege to kiss her lips with their succulently soft suction cups.

Ama was bound in surrender; not only to the grasp of muscular arms but also to the power of her own fast mounting, physical yearning. The awareness of another, smaller octopus inching slowly up her legs was only ominous to the extent of it being menacingly thrilling. The grips on her ankles tightened and her legs floated further apart, whether she willed it or not. Possessive, rapacious fingers on sinuous arms climbed their way to the treasure that was their aim. Ama felt a softness settle on her abdomen and no further movement for a moment. She might have gasped a breath if able – whether from dread or avid expectancy it would have been impossible to tell. But she was certain that the creature wanted her to anticipate the bitter-sweet submission that would undoubtedly come.

And now her innermost secrets were being expertly investigated. An enquiring tentacle tip slid stealthily past the all too meagre defences and entered the concealed chamber. The touch seemed almost a tender seduction initially but soon became entirely salacious. Other invaders followed the first and the penetration became a wanton plundering.

Another place was raided, by probes now marauding where they would. Resistance was tighter but it too yielded and the dark passage was eagerly occupied by a writhing intruder. Within Ama, erotically-charged and need-saturated membranes, brushed and patted, pulsed like drum-skins. The rhythm quickened and reached a throbbing tattoo.

Ravenous suckers took turns to taste the sweetness of Ama’s flesh and when the nub of her womanhood was drawn into a swallowing, supple cavity, she had been entirely conquered. Her body trembled, not in release but in a continuing, climactic eruption.

Ama’s weakening autonomy drew on the last of its reserves and she thought herself back with the five other young women in the rude hut they shared as home. She was lying on the floor, surrounded by fragrant femininity, the willing victim of many fingers and five pairs of soft, sweet lips.

All is fluid. Life and love are water.