Copyright © 2012 by Chew Toy
WARNING: The usual disclaimers and warnings apply. The characters in this story have sex; if that offends you or for some reason you are Not Allowed to read about such things, stop now. The events in this story might not be moral or even possible; the point is to give you a hot fantasy, not a blueprint for life.
Thanks to Lilith Theron for inspiration, and to Tabico for showing how it's done.
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Sylvia was eighteen when she left to hear the harpies.
Officially they didn't exist- or, depending on which official story you listened to, they *had* existed but were gone now, eradicated by the brave steely-eyed officers of the civil defense force, armed with floodlights and shotguns and very, very good earplugs- but everyone knew where they were. It was why the city didn't have a homeless problem anymore. Which, of course, was why in reality the city officials left the last remaining ones, the tough and clever and well-hidden ones, alone.
If you were so down on your luck that huddling on a heating grate seemed like a good option, there was always a more attractive one. An evening of bliss, listening to the most beautiful music the mind could imagine conceiving... and then no troubles at all, ever again.
It was a kinder, gentler way, the more honest of the city fathers might say off the record, if you got them very drunk.
They didn't mention, of course, that while it was an option that you could choose when all else was falling apart, it was also an option that could choose you. There *were* still homeless people, a few, banded together in an enclave they called the Anti-Harpy Protection Squad. But they stayed very well hidden, so the police left them alone. And they still got picked off one by one.
Sylvia had read everything that anyone had ever said, on or off the record, about the harpies.
Her parents had thought it was a way to cope with a chldhood boogeyman. Learn all you can about it, as a way of controlling your fear. Knowlege is power, and things we know are always less scary than the unknown.
She didn't tell them it wasn't fear.
For as long as Sylvia could remember, the thought of being *controlled* by something outside herself had held an irresistible fascination, which early in puberty she had finally realized was sexual. Thinking about being controlled got her off.
When she first heard about the harpies, that desire found an object.
She couldn't remember how many times she had jilled off to the image of herself, hearing the harpies' song and being irresistibly drawn to them, too fascinated to turn back even when she saw them. By most accounts they were hideous, ugly of face and sharp of claw, with dirty shit-smeared vultures' bodies and the heads and large, sagging breasts of gap-toothed and cruel old women. Though in her fantasies there was generally something compellingly beautiful about them, and they were cleaner. She would think she should be terrified, but be unable to reach the thought, watching outside herself as she walked zombie-like into their clutches, offering herself up to them. In her fantasies, they let her suck on their nipples before tearing her apart with their huge sharp claws.
When she wasn't just making pictures in her head she was watching popular media portrayals of them- they were more popular than sharks as a cinematic way to die now, with even some soap-operas having a character wander into the bad part of town and hear the song, only to be rescued by some fortunate event.
Everybody wants to hear the harpies' song, but no-one wants to die.
There was one recording of a bit of their song that she had been able to find. They were generally restricted, classified, contraband. It wasn't nearly as compelling in a recording as in real life, she had read... but Sylvia knew that if she ever listened to it on something she could carry with her, something with headphones, she would just put it on a loop and go to them, still listening, until she could hear the real thing. She had had to eliminate all portable music players from the house (her parents didn't listen to music much anyway), after the one scare she had with that.
Thinking about buying a portable music player next time, or just going to them without even needing it, made her cum every time, when she masturbated. It was her favorite thing to listen to.
As she grew older, her fantasies grew bolder. She thought about getting a real recording of their songs, and playing it somewhere public, over the PA system, snaring everyone. At school... at a ball game...
She'd mixed the one recording she had with a pop song, and given the mix to some of her friends. They listened to it obsessively, and remarked on how they couldn't figure out what she'd done to it. Her fantasy of telling them, while they were listening, and taking them all to see the harpies, kept her running to lock her bedroom door for weeks.
But finally her obsession came to a head. She needed to seek them out, and *do* something. She needed to *serve* them. Somehow.
Probably, they would just tear her apart for their next meal. She actually came thinking about *that*, when she considered it. About how it would be their choice and not hers.
But she hoped there would be some way she could serve them even more. So she wrote a note, and taped it to her shirt, and went to see the harpies.
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Once she got to the worst part of town, she relaxed. Not even muggers came down here. Not anymore.
It *was* possible to resist the song, when it was faint. So a few people had still used this area- some had even lived here- for a while. But over time, it got inside you. Sylvia knew that she would never be able to resist, even if she'd wanted to- she had listened to that recording so many times, had trained her body even beyond the song's effects that listening to it meant coming. She wasn't sure if all her friends had jilled off to the mixed version she'd made (she knew at least one had), but she didn't think they would ever be able to resist either.
Sylvia started listening intently, hoping to hear the song soon. But she was so keyed up, every drip of water or gust of wind sounded like those voices, to her, maddeningly hard to place until she realized it wasn't any place at all, just the normal noises of the city. Nothing she needed to follow.
Until she did. Sylvia didn't notice at first that her footsteps had acquired a rhythm and a direction; she just went in the direction that felt right. Until she rounded a corner and it came a little louder, and she realized that it *was* right: it was the voice of the recording, the voice of her dreams and fantasies. It was everything she had ever wanted, all her life, and it was promising her paradise.
She kicked up her heels and ran.
-
They were in the tunnels under the city now, but the harpy's aerie was still atop a low wall, and the creature let her climb. Which she did, happily, joyfully. Her shoes were wet from wading across the foot-deep water in front of the wall, and her breath was ragged from running, but she knew this was the only thing that had ever mattered to her, and she didn't care whether it was the perfect pure voice of the angel atop the wall that told her that or her own years of lustful fantasies. This was here, and now, and right.
The first thing she noticed, when she reached the top of the wall, was how clean the nest was. It was a broad room-like indentation which might once have been intended as a control room or machine room over the tunnel below, now empty of furniture but filled with clean, sweet-smelling dried grasses covering the floor.
