Cw_mind_control on Knotty Biscotti

Siren's Summer

Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

JOURNAL OF THOMAS NICKERSON—Keeper, Merrow Point Lighthouse
Appointed: 14 March

19 March
“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.”
—William Faulkner

I note, with no small degree of pride, that I have lost sight of the shore. Six days at Merrow Point and I find myself wondering why it took me this long—why any of us endure the noise and crowding of the world when this exists. The rock. The light. The absolute, clarifying simplicity of a single necessary task performed in sublime isolation.

The previous keeper left things in good order, for which I’m grateful, though their reading material leaves something to be desired. Three spy thrillers, a tide table and an issue of Lloyd’s List from 2012. I’ve shelved my own books alongside and already the room feels properly inhabited.

The light itself is extraordinary. Automated, yes—my role is maintenance and record-keeping rather than anything so romantic as manning the lamp—but at night, watching the beam sweep the Atlantic, I feel the not inconsiderable satisfaction of a man who has finally put himself in the right place.

4 April
Supplies came Tuesday. Tinned soup, fresh batteries—the torch has been consuming them at an unreasonable rate—two paperbacks I’d requested and a letter I will address at a later time.

The rock has extraordinary acoustic properties. The cave system below the station conducts the tide in curious ways; there is a low sort of hum that I’ve begun to notice at irregular intervals. It resonates quite distinctly in the walls of the lamp room. Remarkable, really. I’d not anticipated the geology being quite so present.

I dreamt last night of a woman on the stairs. She was dripping seawater onto the iron steps. The sound ᝰᜑ

h̑eͦrͬ ḟ̠ȃ̗c̚e̷̯

I woke before the top of the stairs, which I note primarily because the dream had a vividness I associate with poor sleep. The harmonic from the cave system must be affecting me more than I’d expected—sound at particular frequencies is well documented to disturb sleep architecture.

I’ve ordered earplugs with the next supply run.

The two new paperbacks are excellent. The soup less so.

The lamp sweeps. In the light: a woman on the equipment housing, watching him with luminous amber eyes.

In the dark: the sound of the Atlantic, sixty feet below.

Thomas stands motionless in the doorway, and his mind, which has never once in thirty-eight years stopped producing commentary, is silent. The rotating beam comes around again. She is still there. Raven-coloured hair plastered against her collarbone. Oddly pointed ears. Full breasts, nipples drawn tight in the cold air. Her scaled hips catching the light and throwing it back transformed—grey-green to silver to a colour that he names ‘red’.

Her tail hangs over the edge of the housing, moving lazily.

She makes a sound.

It isn’t language, but it is shaped like a question. Thomas’s body answers—a loosening across his shoulders, warmth flooding his abdomen—and he watches himself cross the lamp room floor.

This is a dream, he thinks.

This is real, he thinks.

Her hand, when she places it flat against his sternum, is like ice. The fingers are too long. The palm is faintly textured, and Thomas can feel his own heartbeat through it.

This is the most intimate thing that has ever happened to me, he thinks.

She spreads her fingers wider. The lamp sweeps.

In the dark: she sings.

It starts below hearing, in the rock, in the iron walls, in the fillings of his back teeth. As the frequency lifts, Thomas begins to truly see. The rehearsed arguments stop first. The catalogued regrets. The letter he didn’t answer and his novel, sitting almost finished for two years, and the soft, background shame he carries about both. These things become, very suddenly, extraordinarily uninteresting.

What remains is Thomas, without all that. He is surprised by how much of him is left.

His hands find her without instruction. She is cool and faintly scaled even on her torso, and where his warmth meets her skin the ‘red’ becomes a glow. It’s not red, of course, it’s her song. She makes a low, satisfied sound against his throat, and her tail coils around his hips with a strength that should terrify. It does not.

Her too-long fingers find his waistband. They strip him with an efficiency that briefly resurrects Thomas’s self-consciousness—he is a thirty-eight year old academic in a raincoat on a rock in the Atlantic—and then she wraps her cool fingers around his cock and any nervousness evaporates.

The lamp sweeps.

She strokes him slowly and those strange eyes focus on his face. He is fully hard—bordering on painful—and the slick chill of her grip and the heat of his own blood is a sensation he cannot name. Her thumb traces around the edges of his tip and Thomas makes a brand new sound.

She smiles.

Thomas looks at that mouth—those teeth, hair-thin, row on row, nothing at all human about them—and wants to kiss her more than he has wanted anything.

She draws him toward her by his cock, and guides him against the join of her tail where her scales shift and part, where she is warm and wet, not from seawater. When he glides into her warmth the song spikes—a single high ’note’ thrumming through the base of his skull—and Thomas’s hands grip the equipment housing like a drowning man holding a life-preserver.

Her tail coils tighter. It is immensely strong. It sets the pace, one that is hers entirely, and Thomas understands with exceeding clarity: he is not a participant, he is an instrument being played. The understanding doesn’t bring humiliation; he is bathed in a profound relief.

She rolls her hips. He gasps. She does it again, slower, watching his face, and the song rises and rises and he is moving with her now, into her—pussy?—the heat inside of her, the cold of her scales against his thighs, her nails raking his back.

She lowers her head to his shoulder and he feels the needle teeth graze his skin—not breaking it, just reminding him—and the sensation rockets through him.

Twice she brings him to the edge and withdraws the song. It is a receding tide. He sags against her both times, shaking, sweat-damp and half-frozen and barely coherent, and both times she makes a sound—amusement—while her tail holds him fast, her hand working him slowly back down to something merely unbearable.

Please, Thomas says, or thinks, or the word only exists between them.

The third time she doesn’t withdraw.

The song gives him permission. The song commands.

Thomas’s hips slam forward once, twice, helplessly, and then he is coming with a force that whites out the lamp, the cold, the Atlantic, the letter, the book, the last two years—all of it gone, all of it irrelevant, his voice ragged and his hands gripping the equipment housing and her name—Thessaly—arriving in his mind like a rogue wave, enormous and dark.

Stillness.

The lamp sweeps over a man sitting on the iron floor, back against the equipment housing, hands open in his lap.

Thessaly is at the gallery window. She looks back once.

She slips off the rail.

JOURNAL OF THOMAS NICKERSON—Keeper, Merrow Point Lighthouse

Undated

the windw is open

CCGS Private LeHave VC
Department of Fisheries and Oceans

Incident Classification: Keeper Wellbeing—Unscheduled

Merrow Point Lighthouse—Station Report
Attending Officer: M. Chouinard
Date of Inspection: 17 April

Station found in satisfactory operational condition. Light functioning within normal parameters. Station log current to 14 April. Keeper quarters tidy. No signs of forced entry or structural damage.

Keeper T. Nickerson was not present at time of inspection.

Personal effects remain on site. No indication of voluntary departure. Supply vessel C236596QC Les Douces Profondeurs confirmed presence of Nickerson, no passengers taken on, 11 April.

The following items were noted and/or retained for administrative purposes:

Personal journal, recovered from lamp room floor, most recent entry undated
One ceramic mug, contents cold, unspoiled
Lamp room gallery window found open
Search of rock and shoreline conducted, Nickerson not located

No further findings.

File referred to RCMP detachment, Lunenburg, NS

Knotty

The Mayday

Fri, 22 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The moon pool’s airlocks cycled, the hydraulics groaned, and Doctor Penner emerged. He stepped gingerly onto the observation deck, though the care was probably unwarranted. All the doors on the RV Dunbar’s Passion were ungodly loud. He could not have surprised their unexpected—impossible—guest no matter how quietly he walked.

Yesterday evening Calder had reported a “weird sound”—his words—coming from far below the research vessel. The object of their research, a naturally occurring oceanic “dead zone” called Teazer Deep, shouldn’t have any complex life. Certainly nothing that would call or sing.

Just before midnight Calder reported it again. He said it seemed closer. Stronger. Chief Mate Marchand had sent for Dr. Penner. As the oceanographer listened to the recording, he noted Marchand’s discomfort and the vacant look in Calder’s eyes. He’d suggested asking Dr. Okonkwo, the team’s marine biologist, but also suggested they wait until morning.

When the “song” came again just after sunrise, nobody on the Passion needed equipment to hear it. It was a low-frequency hum that Dr. Penner could feel in his ribs and in the bulkheads when he touched them. It lasted only a few minutes, but for those few minutes it was maddening.

The song had come once more, just before sunset, so intense Dr. Penner’s molars ached when it finished. He had found Calder sitting alone in the mess, ear pressed against the floor. “She’s almost here,” he’d said softly, but Dr. Penner didn’t think Calder knew he was there.

The moon pool was an engineering marvel, a transition zone between the humid air of the lab and the freezing, crushing ocean below. The water was kept warm and filtered, designed to observe marine life and to deploy and retrieve equipment. Teazer Deep offered precious little of the former. But this evening, Dr. Penner’s eyes found her before his mind did. A figure sat on the rim of the pool, tail dangling over the abyss, and for a long moment Frederick Penner, PhD., could not assemble what he was seeing into anything he recognised.

His first impression was a woman, but he immediately rejected that label. She had luminous, mischievous green eyes, burnished copper hair that hung to her collar bones, pointed ears and an unsettlingly wide, fang-filled grin.

Her upper body was more-or-less human, with a chiselled abdomen, broad hips, narrow shoulders and small, pert breasts capped with bubblegum pink nipples. She wore a small, sea-coloured pendant at her throat that seemed to constantly shift hues. Her lower body, by contrast, was wholly of the sea. Her hips and below were a single, emerald-turquoise tail that faded into a pale, translucent tail fluke. Most remarkably, her scales shimmered with their own bioluminescence.

“G-greetings?” Dr. Penner offered, berating himself internally before the words were fully out of his mouth. She tilted her head to the side and a lock of her hair rolled across her cheek, dripping seawater down her chest. She seemed to understand he was trying to communicate, at least. “Can you understand me?” She smiled—so many teeth!—and nodded. “This is incredible!” Dr. Penner waved to his colleagues on the other side of the viewport, but the airlock was already cycling again. Dr. Okonkwo, already wearing her wetsuit, joined Dr. Penner.

“Joy, what are you—”

“She needs our help, Rick.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Dr. Penner shot back, but somehow he knew Dr. Okonkwo was right.

“Rick.”

“Okay, but you’re not going down there alone, wait for me.”

The creature’s scales rippled with a red glow that faded to a soft pink before vanishing.

Dr. Okonkwo was first into the water, and as Dr. Penner followed her he felt a tingle. The water level was intentionally low—just a bit above Dr. Penner’s knees—but something about this was dangerous.

“Can you speak?” Dr. Okonkwo was starting, but she got no further.

The ‘mermaid’ slid off the rim of the pool and vanished. Or seemed to. She moved faster than Dr. Penner could see. She knocked Dr. Okonkwo over with a flick of her tail, then erupted from the water in front of Dr. Penner. She pressed her lithe body against him, wrapping both arms around his shoulders while her powerful tail coiled around his waist. He tensed, but before he could try to free himself, she crushed her lips to his, forcing his mouth open with her tongue. He tried to squirm away from her but her skin was eerily smooth and slippery. She thrust her tongue deeper into his mouth, exploring him as her tail squeezed him tighter.

“DOCTOR!” Dr. Okonkwo was back on her feet and wading through the water toward the two of them, but before she could reach them, the mermaid broke the kiss and tilted her head back. Her slender neck began to glow with the same red light that had played over her scales moments ago.

She sang.

It was emotion. It was a vibration in the base of his skull. She released him, but he could barely register it. Her song was blooming through his mind. A warmth flooded his body. He staggered, fell back against the edge of the pool, and his laughter exploded. Dr. Okonkwo was saying something. There was so much movement on the observation deck. The fluorescent lights above him became unbearably beautiful. His hands no longer felt entirely attached to him; they sort of drifted at the ends of his arms. He stared at them for centuries, but they were still a complete mystery.

Coral was still singing. That was her name, Rick understood now. Her song was too beautiful for the world, but she was offering it to Rick—to the entire crew—if they would only help her.

Rick wanted nothing more.

She lay floating on the surface, her achingly beautiful form on full display. Her hair was a coppery halo, her breasts stood up proud and perfect, her slightly muscled abdomen invited his touch. Her scaled hips, all the way down to her tail, were glowing once more. How could he have thought the glow was red? It was the colour of Coral’s song, it didn’t need a name.

He waded toward her, stood over her and when she smiled at him this time he knew he’d been blessed. Her delicate fingers caressed his erection through his wetsuit—when had he got an erection?—then freed him. Her fingernails shredded the neoprene fabric like it was tissue, but somehow she didn’t mark him at all.

He began stroking.

He was so hard it hurt. He needed to finish. He knew he would die if he didn’t.

Joy was beside him now. She’d stripped entirely and was fingering herself with one hand while she twisted her own nipples with the other.

They were helping Coral.

Calder appeared on Coral’s other side, naked from the waist down, jerking off as well. Marchand positioned himself above Coral’s head. He was still in his uniform but his pants were open and he was gripping his cock like it was a life-preserver. Mara Wainwright, the ship’s doctor, was at Coral’s hip, fucking herself with a water bottle.

Then Rick saw it. They were all moving to the rhythm of Coral’s song. It was—

The group surrounding the mermaid climaxed as one. Rick couldn’t even tell who was responsible for which, but ribbons of cum landed on Coral’s chest, her face, in her hair, on her belly, all over her tail. She opened her mouth wide, catching and swallowing greedily. Some of the women were squirting, and Coral seemed just as eager to be bathed in those fluids as well. The mermaid’s hands caressed herself all over, smearing ejaculate over every inch of her skin.

Then they moved back—Rick understood he was supposed to—and more of the crew surrounded the mermaid. It was their turn. More cum, more arrivals, more cum. Wave after wave arrived to pay tribute to Coral—some returned a second time—offering her all that they had. The moon pool was a frothy soup, and Rick realised it was beginning to glow. A pearlescent white glow rose up from the water. It warmed him, that glow. It whispered things Rick couldn’t quite hear. He tried asking the glow questions but Coral was cresting, and the rippling white and pastel shimmer collapsed around her, and—

“Dr. Penner?” Dr. Okonkwo was standing over him, a coat draped over her otherwise naked body.

“What,” he began, groggily. “What’s going on?”

Joy looked stricken. “It’s morning, Dr. Penner. We all just woke up here. Like this.” She pulled the lab coat tighter. “Nobody can remember anything after Calder heard that sound.”

Rick looked at himself, naked from the waist down save for a few shredded ribbons of his wetsuit.

“Doctor? Do you remember anything?”

Knotty