Nemi was not a mermaid, though to be fair, I wasn’t sure what she was. She might have been Indian or Hawaiian, philosopher or ditz, grifter or independently wealthy or some combination I never guessed. But I knew for sure that she wasn’t a mermaid.
No mermaid would be able to grip so tightly with their legs. A mermaid’s sex should be smooth and hairless, not the bristly black briar patch Nemi had. No, a mermaid should smell of the ocean or maybe the beach while Nemi smelled of sex and apricot body wash.
Nemi never said she was a mermaid, but then Nemi never said much about herself. She asked of others. Everything was a mystery to her and she wanted to know it all. Some of it was straight forward, like where did viruses come from? Other questions were whimsical like why does gravity love us so much? A few questions were disturbing, like when she asked me what was the monetary value of a human life.
It would be easy to believe Nemi was a mermaid asking questions about the surface world. If she was a mermaid, it might explain why she would giggle incessantly as she straddled my hips and rode my cock. She had the hair of a mermaid, long and black with streaks of brown and gold. A mermaid might never say goodbye and instead just leave in the night.
But Nemi never said she was a mermaid. The only time she used the word was when it was my time to come. No matter the position and no matter the passion, Nemi would insist that I ejaculate onto her chest. She would laugh as the white pearls splattered against her large brown breasts.
“Mermaid style” she called it.