Temple of the Fish Men

Isola di Incantesimo.

1976.

A stiff breeze, together with the rising tide, pulled the life raft onto the beach, where it slumped, lazily, into the sand. The man inside was asleep, or perhaps, unconscious, but the sudden cessation of the water's movement woke him with a jolt, and he stumbled to his feet.

"Where am I?" he asked out loud, but of course, there was no one there to answer him. Still, the feeling of solid ground under his feet was a great comfort, and he had to admit that whatever type of island this was, his luck had improved. The man walked along the beach, hoping to find some form of habitation, someone who could help him.

The beach was warm and the sky was clear, but he had had enough sun over the past few days already, and took no joy in the fair weather, and he thought of moving inland, under the shade of a tropical-looking forest, but decided against it. He had no interest in stumbling through untended roots and probably getting poisoned. So he continued to walk up the beach.

The man had the strangest feeling as though being watched, a feeling that, even after days of loneliness, still filled him with a peculiar unease. He looked around, to see if anyone was there, but saw nothing. Or... perhaps...

What he had taken for a rock sticking out of the water suddenly seemed to blink at him. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of a kind of face, with black, deep-set eyes over a pair of flared nostrils and a fanged mouth. Then, suddenly, the face - or whatever it was - darted back below the water's surface.

"Mind's playing tricks on me," muttered the man, but he wasn't sure he believed it. What kind of island was this?

He continued to walk. Finally, he caught a definite sound, and it seemed to be getting louder. Hoofbeats. He turned in the direction of the sound, and could have fallen to his knees in gratitude at the sight of a woman on horseback, riding along the beach. The island was inhabited after all!

The woman on horseback slowed as she approached him. "Hello!" she called out to him.

"Hello, there," he croaked, through a parched throat. "Do you live on this island?"

She nodded. "You look like you've been through the ringer!" she laughed.

He nodded. "My ship sank. I came here on a life raft." He pointed up the beach, where his raft rested in the sand.

"Oh, you poor devil!" said the woman. "Let me bring you back to our house! You can have a shave and a decent meal."

As he walked alongside her horse, the man couldn't help but snatch a few looks at this woman. She was beautiful, tall and slender, with curled auburn hair that stretched down past her shoulders. She was wearing a light sundress, white with orange polka dots, and large sunglasses that covered much of her face, but what he could see was soft, delicate, and the fabric of the dress did little to conceal her high, well-formed breasts or her long, smooth legs. Something about the way she rode and spoke she suggested she had been born into money and never had to work a day in her life. If he had to guess her age, he would say probably her late 20s, only a few years younger than himself, though he was sure the sun had aged him prematurely.

"My name is Annibale," the shipwrecked man said. "Annibale Brunetti."

The woman smiled. "I am Giacomina Brand. I live here on Isola di Incantesimo with my husband."

"Is that the name of this place?"

She nodded. "There is our house," she said, pointing.

A rather sizable estate had come into view that put Annibale in mind of an old colonial plantation house, though there was no one working in the fields, or indeed, any kind of visible crop at present. Indeed, although it had clearly once been a place of great luxury, it seemed oddly run-down, unmaintained.

Giacomina dismounted her horse and hung the saddle on a post, before letting the horse wander off, of its own accord, to the stables. She lead Annibale inside, where he found a man of about 45 sitting in a wicker chair, smoking a pipe and examining what appeared to be a map of the island. The man looked up as they entered, and for a moment, Annibale thought he saw an expression of revulsion on the man's face, but it quickly subsided into a pleasant smile.

"Have we a guest, my dear?" he asked Giacomina. He had an English accent, clipped and aristocratic.

"This is Annibale Brunetti," she said. "He is a castaway."

"How picturesque!" said the man. He stood up and grasped Annibale by the hand in a tight, painful handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, Annibale, old boy! My name is Aston Brand. I see you've already met my lovely wife." He said the word 'lovely' almost sarcastically, and Annibale could see an annoyance on Giacomina's face, though he could not identify for what.

"Well," continued the Englishman, "I suppose you'll want to get cleaned up, what? Giacomina, will you show him to the facilities? We must have a set of spare clothes for the chap."

Giacomina smiled, but there was a desperate edge to it that Annibale caught as she lead him away.

"Is this a vacation home?" he asked her.

"Not anymore," she said. "We've been here for seven years now. My husband is working on something."

Annibale wanted to ask what, but he remembered his manners. She would tell him if she wanted to, and it was none of his business anyway.

After a long bath and shave, he emerged from the bathroom to find a set of clean, if somewhat patched and worn, work clothes laid out for him, and with them on, he felt a new man as he stepped back into Mr. Brand's lounge.

"Why, Signor Brunetti, you look positively handsome!" smiled Giacomina.

"Well, I've good news for you, old boy," said her husband. "The next supply ship should be coming in in the next few days. Good old bloke, Cpt. Ruffin. A Frenchman. I'm sure he won't mind giving you a lift back to the mainland."

"That would be wonderful," said Annibale.

"Not that we don't enjoy having you here," said Giacomina, giving his arm a squeeze. He caught something in her eyes. He wasn't sure what.

"Is it only the two of you on this island?" he asked. "Aside from myself, of course."

"I'm afraid so," said Mr. Brand. "We had some servants here with us, before, but something scared them off."

"Do you mind if I ask what?"

"Who knows?" replied Mr. Brand. "Some primitive superstition." But there was something oddly evasive in his tone.

"And there is no one else here on the island? I thought I saw... something on the beach," Annibale said.

For a moment, both of the Brands froze. Giacomina was the first to speak.

"What did you see?"

"I'm not sure. Just... for a moment I thought I saw a kind of face in the water."

"A seal, perhaps," said Giacomina, oddly insistent. "We get seals here occasionally."

Perhaps Annibale had been expecting a drawn-out, uncomfortable dinner with these strange, secretive people, but even that ritual of familiarity was too much for them. Giacomina had prepared a meal, but Aston ate alone, behind a locked door, in what he called his study, and Giacomina ate in her room, leaving a plate for Annibale to eat in the lounge.

As Aston left the lounge, he had gathered up the maps and paperwork he had been examining before, and Annibale happened to catch a brief glimpse of the map. It appeared to have been done by hand, probably Aston's own, on good cartographer's paper. Annibale had seen sea charts drawn up on the same stuff. In addition to the old house they currently occupied, a number of other landmarks were noted, most of them in the surrounding water. Annibale caught glimpses of points marked "main ruin site" and "spawning lair", and a photograph, hurriedly slid into a manila envelope, of what was unmistakably a clawed, webbed hand.

Annibale ate in silence, wondering what all the secrecy could mean. What were these aquatic creatures, and why would his hosts be so secretive about them?

He was happy enough to leave it be, though he couldn't help but wonder. Having finished his meal, Annibale gratefully returned to the room that had been set aside for him. The room far exceeded his lodgings on the ship, to say nothing of the miserable rowboat. His bed was soft enough, comfortable, and a large window overlooked the shore, where the waves crashed endlessly onto the sand.

He had undressed and was turning out the light when the door opened. It was Giacomina, in a white silk nightdress.

"What can I do for you, signora?" he asked cautiously.

Mrs. Brand simply smiled at him, and unfastened one of the shoulder straps of her nightdress, exposing a breast to him.

Annibale cocked an eyebrow. "Won't your husband mind?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "My husband neither loves me nor wants me. He hasn't even touched me in years. Please, Signor Brunetti. I need the touch of a man."

She climbed onto the bed up to her feet, her hands resting on his thighs, only the cotton of his underwear hiding his rapidly-swelling cock from her view.

Annibale couldn't resist this mysterious, lonely beauty. She was the first woman he had seen in months, and the loveliest he had seen in years. He nodded, and slowly reached a hand down, hooking a thumb in his underwear and pulling it down, exposing his manhood to her.

Giacomina grinned up at him, eyes twitching between his own gaze and his dick. It was long and wide and hard, and she was evidently pleased by what she saw. She moved her mouth over him, sliding her full lips up and down his length.

Annibale gasped out loud in pleasure. His hand snaked down, taking her by the back of the head and running his fingers through her long hair, and bucking his hips against her hungry mouth.

"You do that very well, signora," he whispered to her. She came up for air, grinning at him mischievously.

"So nice to be appreciated," she said, before sliding him back into her mouth.

He tried to catch her eyes as she worked, but couldn't. She was steadfastly refusing to make eye contact. After a few minutes, she withdrew his penis from her mouth once again. She began to climb up his body now, pushing herself against him. He felt her hard nipples through the silk of the nightdress, dragging up his stomach and chest, until she was sitting straddling his face, pushing her well-groomed bush into his face and hitching up the hem of her nightdress around her waist.

"It's been a long time," he told her. "Forgive me if I'm a little rusty."

"It's been a long time for me too," she began, but her breath caught in her throat as the sailor's tongue flicked against her clitoris and his fingers curled around the cheeks of her well-toned ass.

Giacomina rocked her hips against his face, resting her elbows against the headboard of the bed, luxuriating in the feel of his tongue steadily lapping against her clit. Annibale was out of practice, but found the basic rhythms of it all coming back to him pretty well. When his tongue tired, he hooked his middle finger down her crotch and into her dripping wet cunt, and she gasped in pleasure.

Her hands slid down the headboard, fingers running down through his hair, pushing him against her. He got the feeling she was, perhaps, overselling her enjoyment of it, but he wasn't about to complain.

He could feel her fingers starting to jerk as her orgasm approached. Her thighs, wrapped around his head, were twitching, and her cries were getting louder. Annibale couldn't help but smile as he flicked his tongue up and down against her sensitive nub, brushing against his probing finger, and finally she gave a guttural moan as her body shook over him.

She slid down now, so that his face was roughly level with her stomach, covered by the silk of the nightdress.

"Do you want to fuck me, Signor Brunetti?" she whispered.

"Yes, I do, signora," was all he could say.

"There are condoms in the drawer there," she said. She rolled off of him, onto her back next to him on the bed, and began to wriggle out of the nightie while he opened the drawer. There was a small stockpile of condoms in there. He didn't ask why the guest bedroom was kept so well-supplied. It was none of his business. He also noticed a tube of lubricant, perhaps foreshadowing events to come.

Annibale pulled on a condom, rolling it down his length, and moving between his hostess's spread legs, long and tanned. Her hands gripped his waist and hips, aligning him with her cunt, before he plunged, roughly into her. She gasped in pleasure at his entrance, digging her fingers into his skin, but giving no sign that she did not enjoy his aggression.

Encouraged, Annibale continued to fuck her savagely. He could hear the bed squeaking, shifting with his motions, but Giacomina didn't seem concerned that her husband would hear, so Annibale didn't worry.

"Fuck me," she moaned, "fuck me, you filthy sailor!"

"Yes, signora," he said. "You like it rough, don't you? You need rough fucks from working men like me? You're bored by the affections of posh bastards like your husband, aren't you?" Giacomina didn't answer, at least, not with words. Low moans, grunts, cries of pleasure, but it seemed to Annibale that something was being held back, like she was waiting for him to do something and he didn't know what. Her eagerness was melting into reticence. He moved his head to her breasts, beginning to suck and lick at her nipples, while his hands moved down around the soft globes of her ass.

Giacomina cried out in pleasure again, but it seemed forced, like she was still trying to feel more pleasure than she did. He pulled his body up, then, making room for his hand to move down to her cunt, finger flicking at her clit as he drove himself into her. This seemed to help a little, and her eyes lit up at the sensation. After a few minutes of that, she came, limbs shaking and spasming around him.

"Was that good, signora?" he asked, as he withdrew his cock from her.

She smiled at him under her heavy eyelashes. "Adequate," she said, teasingly. Her hand sank to feel his still-hard cock. "I suppose you will want to fuck me in the ass next?"

"If that's alright," he laughed.

She smiled, turning over. "Put on a new condom," she said. He obeyed, then fetching the lubricant from the drawer without need for instructions. He smeared the thick liquid into her asshole, pushing it carefully up inside her, and she grunted at the sensation.

"Is that too rough?" he asked.

"I like it rough," she purred. "I hope you've noticed by now."

"Very well, signora," he said, pulling her up into position, on her hands and knees, his thick fingers wrapped around her thighs, lubricant smearing her skin at his touch. He lined himself up with her and pushed in, slowly enough not to hurt her, but still firmly. Giacomina cried out at the sensation of him, feeling the sailor's throbbing manhood brutally entering her. She felt his hand slap down on her asscheek as he sodomized her, hard, strong, confident. It was good, and she knew she would probably climax again, but... part of her was still unsatisfied.

She did climax again, her slippery asshole spasming wildly around Annibale's excited cock, before he hit his own orgasm. He was about to put his arms around her, when she stumbled, abruptly, to her feet.

"You're leaving, signora?"

"I can't stay here," said Giacomina, frankly. "It's one thing to make a little noise during the night. Quite another to be found in bed together the next morning." She pulled on her nightdress once again, hiding that lithe body behind its silk. "I will see you in the morning, Signor Brunetti," she said.

"Will you see me tomorrow night?" asked Annibale, with what he thought was bravado.

"We'll see," she said. She opened the door, and was gone into the hall, leaving the sailor alone and confused.

Giacomina did not go to her own room. She turned the other way down the hall, striding instead toward her husband's study. Inside, Aston's charts were haphazardly strewn over a solid oak desk. She rifled through them, idly, as if trying simply to keep her hands busy, to keep some nervous energy within herself. She glanced at a map of the island, Aston's design sketches on the diving bell, his photographs of the old volcano, the beach, the footprints... and the ruins.

The ruins didn't photograph well through the water, but they were unmistakable to the naked eye. Where his photographs were indistinct, he had sketched out on paper their strange architecture, elongated curving columns, the batrachian gargoyles that decorated their capitals. She thrilled at the sight of the things, shivering in her nightdress despite the heat of the evening. The ruins had taken a strange hold on both her and her husband, she knew. Both had been affected in different ways, neither of them wholly rational, but both beyond their ability to resist.

Finally she made up her mind. She dropped Aston's notes and left the study. In the front hall of her husband's villa, Giacomina pulled off her nightgown, for the second time that night, and hung it by a shoulder strap from the hatrack. She opened the door, and naked, made her way out into the Mediterranean night.

The air was warm, only a slight breeze blowing in from the sea as walked down to the moonlit beach.

The waves were gentle as they lapped at her naked body. She had always enjoyed the feeling of salt water on her skin, even before coming to this island.

Not far from her, something broke the surface of the water. A scaled head with dark, unblinking eyes rose steadily. Needle teeth, flared gills, muscular shoulders, dorsal sail. Long, finned arms. Webbed, clawed hands.

Giacomina smiled, nervously.

The waves continued.