Siren Song Symphony

(With thanks to Sabb for the inspiration for this story; for a companion story, see "Bite of the Schlange")

*

None of the young men who climbed the hill above the harbor at Starigard were music aficionados; they were all just curious about who had taken up residence in the castle. Of the bit more than thirty men coming up from folding nets in their fishing boats tied up in the harbor or from across the fields of Hvar Island, a beautiful, wild, and very remote isle off the Dalmatian coast in the Adriatic Sea, none either took notice of or, at least, remarked at who had received invitations. The cream of the island's young manhood. Comely and strong and well-formed young men all. And from all walks of the island's somewhat primitive life, from the fishermen to the shepherds to the merchantmen's pampered sons.

For weeks Starigard and its surrounds had been abuzz with rumors about who had moved into the castle above the harbor. All they had heard was that it was Count Schlange, but the island had never before been visited by anyone of nobility, and no one could imagine what their picturesque, yet simple world would have to offer anyone of noble birth. They were of hardworking, albeit unusually handsome stock, living by the muscles of their bodies and the sweat of their brows.

The rumors did have a somewhat sinister aspect to them, though, no doubt brought about by the count's men, who had been seen in brief glimpses working about the castle grounds and pulling provisions up from the imposing black-painted vessel floating in the center of the harbor, which had heralded the arrival of the castle's new master. Massive, broad-chested, hefty-thighed, hooded, swarthy men, swathed from head to toe in black and casting glowering, penetrating looks that did not invite questions or friendly prattle and caused one to look quickly away.

No sign of hospitality from the brooding castle for weeks and then the surprising invitations, the puzzling invitations. Fifty of the region's most handsome, most well-formed young men had received invitations to attend a concert evening at the castle on the next moonless night. A concert evening. Invitations not to any Starigard resident of remote culture and refinement, of which there were almost none, and not to any of the island's comely lasses, at least some of whom might appreciate the music. But to fifty of the region's young fishermen, shepherds, farmers, and shop apprentices only.

None of these young men had heard of the rising fame of the composer Richard Wagner, let alone his minor, never performed composition, the

Siren Song Symphony

, inspired, it was said, by the legend of the Lorelei, the sirens that charmed sailors to their deaths on rocks at a particularly treacherous bend of the Rhine River. But some thirty of those who had received invitations were curious enough—and brave enough, considering the somewhat foreboding vibes drifting down the hillside from the castle—to suffer a bit of culture to see this reclusive foreign count for themselves and to check out what he had done to make the castle habitable after three decades of disuse.

As the thirty-some handsome men moved up the hillside or across the fields and under the castle portcullis and into the stone-paved castle courtyard, it appeared that the count had done nothing at all to stave off the ravages of time pulling at the castle. Everything was in mid rot and decay, loose stones fallen from the battlements lying about in disarray and weeds struggling up from the cracks in the paving stones. Two of the count's hulking minions, heads partially shrouded in the hoods of their black, full-length capes, stood beside seven-foot torches at either side of the wooden doors leading into the castle's main banquet hall.

The faint hint of music wafted out from the hall through the open doors, merely a wisp of sound at the beginning, but haunting and beckoning, causing the boisterous chatter of the arriving men to dull to a hushed murmur and drawing them to the steps up from the courtyard into the banquet hall. None had heard music like this before. It was beautiful, enchanting, stroking. The rugged young men of the island were mesmerized by its call to them.

Silently, the thirty young men and more, subdued and awed now, filed into the banquet hall and found seats in front of a small orchestra set between them and a curtained stage. The contrast of the lushly appointed hall, with its rich mahogany walls, massive tapestries, and blood-red carpeting and velvet upholstery on sensuously curved, white-painted and gold-gilded chairs, against the raw, rough-stoned clutter of the courtyard was unnerving and callowing for the young men of the island who knew nothing of culture but only of a rough, muscle-straining life of hard work.

They were awed by everything, as the music invaded and swirled around in their brains. The thousand candles in the gilded chandeliers high overhead both sharpened and softened the magnificence and mystery around them. Two of the count's hulky minions were stationed at the corners of the stage, almost completely hidden within their hooded cloaks. And the eyes of the young men that scanned across the upper reaches of the chamber could barely discern another black-cloaked figure in the shadows of an overhead gallery. The count himself, perhaps? No one other than the young men themselves and those two hulking figures at the side of the stage had put in an appearance yet.

No one other than the small orchestra itself, of course, which was producing that divine, enticing, possessing music. If any of the young men knew anything of culture and of chamber music, they would have been instantly perplexed by the orchestra. But, of course, all of this was well beyond any of their understanding. The orchestra was certainly producing the loveliest of music, but it was not music that the orchestra members themselves could hear. All of them were wearing muffs over their ears that was blocking the notes they were playing. Master musicians all, they were playing in perfect harmony wholly by following the beating of the similarly deafened conductor's baton as he moved across the bars of the opening movement of the

Siren Song Symphony

.

Everyone gathered and completely possessed by the sound of the music, the orchestra started into the second movement. The young men had been completely absorbed in the conclusion of the first moment. It had had a strange effect on them all that they had never felt before. They felt warm—no, almost hot. No, not hot really, more like in heat.

To a man, they were feeling the music deep inside them. And it was making their virile sap rise. The music was invading them with sensations and images of lust and passion, and not a lust and passion like they had ever experienced before. They now, increasingly, were letting their glances, their eyes slitted with interest and speculation, wander about the audience of thirty-some young men in the peak of conditioning and comeliness. Without a bashfulness and reserve that they otherwise would have brought to bear to hold themselves in check, even if they had formed an attraction for manflesh at all, they were now making eye contact with each other, choosing and being chosen, offering and being seduced. Still only in glances. But some of them were already loosening their clothing, unbuttoning what had been put together as their best effort at being presentable, and loosening shirt and breeches, slowly bringing relief to the heat and hardening pressures of their virile young bodies.

As the second movement of the

Siren Song Symphony

opened, a new, enchanting tone was added to the orchestra. The sound of a heavenly human voice. A male voice, but a clear, rich tenor, singing in words that grabbed at the hearts and guts of the young men in the audience even though the language was unknown to them; notes registered deep in the baritone range now, but unmistakably by a tenor who promised high, soaring notes that would transport the audience to another plane, to another world.

On the audience side of the curtain, the concert-goers, all magnificent young men in their prime, listened to and were captured by the singing from the other side, singing the likes of which they never before had heard, not knowing why they were being mesmerized by the siren song or why it was making their sap rise, their lust sharpen, and their fellow audience members so attractive and compelling.

Before the young men's eyes, the orchestra floor started to slowly sink into a pit between the audience and the stage. The lights in the hall dimmed almost mysteriously, or, rather, they were dimmed in contrast to the brighter lights from the stage as the count's men slowly drew open the curtains and revealed the tenor.

The tenor, slung back on a massive, velvety-plush ottoman, back arched, arms dragging the carpeted stage floor, head tipped back onto the floor, and mouth wide open, singing his siren song, lifting his voice higher and higher. His voice rising up the scale, as a veritable satyr of a man, swarthy, broad-chested, hairy chest and legs, cloven feet, whipping tail, and short, pointed horns, hunched between the tenor's legs. The satyr's long, beefy arms were wrapped around the thighs of the lithe, blond, perfectly formed tenor, keeping the tenor's thighs spread, as the satyr plowed the channel of the siren songster with sweeping upswings of a long, thick sword of a cock. With each thrust of his cock, the tenor's voice rose in scale and volume, his captivating siren song swirling around the stage and down into the audience.

The hall was awash now in nude and partially clothed young men, set free by the strength of what they heard and saw to fall lustily on each other. The audience was ripping away cloth and feasting lustily on the bodies of each other, writhing and sucking and fucking, as the siren song lifted them higher and higher.

The tenor reached the end of a passage and rested his voice as the orchestra picked up the siren song melody and increased the beat, increased the heat and lust and full rut permeating the hall. The satyr took the tenor's hips in his hands, sliding his hips back and forward, exploring, squeezing. The tenor gripped the satyr's hands and started another passage of song, in a lower register now. A rhythmic, pulsing melody, rising higher as the satyr's fingers moved to the tenor's rim. The tenor was swaying to the music he and the orchestra were weaving as the satyr dug long, thick, hairy-knuckled fingers inside the tenor's channel and his mouth closed over the tenor's delicate little cock. The tenor sang masterfully as the satyr sucked him dry, but he sang best when the satyr once again was crouched between his thighs, pounding his weapon rhythmically in and out of the tenor's tight channel, rocking in and out, in time with the tenor's siren song.

The four figures that had stood guard, the two at the door and the two at the corners of the stage, had thrown off their cloaks and were revealed to be bulky satyrs all, almost identical to the one plowing the tenor on stage. They moved around the rim of the hall, picking and choosing as they watched the teeming, steamy mass of young male flesh rising and falling in a loose pile of urgent need and passion in the center of the hall.

The four pulled away, however, as Count Schlange slowly descended a shadow-swathed staircase from the gallery, cloak swirling about him and circled the writhing pile at the center of the hall. His discerning eyes honed in on the most beautiful, perfectly formed man of the island, a fisherman named Andro. The count pointed, and the four satyrs descended on the chosen one, separated him from the teeming mass, and carried him, struggling now in recognition of some sort of danger, back up the stairs to the gallery. The count glided up the stairs behind them.

Andro moaned and nearly swooned as the Schlange dropped his cloak as he reached the top of the stairs. The young man was facing an alien monster, both frightening and awesome. He had a magnificent man's physique of god-like proportions. But his skin had a green, scaly tinge to it. His face was flat and handsome and ugly all at the same time—nostrils, but practically no nose. And as he reared back from the initial reaction of his prey, the alien's almost-lipless mouth opened and a red, forked tongue darted out.

A trembling Andro looked down to the monster's center and would have collapsed on trembling knees if two satyrs weren't holding him fast. As he watched, a thick rope of whatever was between the monster's legs started unwinding and reaching out to him across the length of the galley. At the head of the extending snake of an appendage was a bulbous mushroom cap, unmistakably a cock, but out of the piss slit of this mushroom cap flicked a red, forked tongue.

Andro opened his mouth to scream, but before he could do so, he was entrapped by the siren song. The tenor voice from the stage, lifting to new, high notes promising a thundering climax under the attention of the satyr fucking him, was now joined in mesmerizing harmony by a smooth baritone humming flowing from the Schlange himself.

The long phallic rope had reached the young fisherman now and was winding around his belly, a lengthy section at the end free and flicking its tongue on the fisherman's torso. After Andro's belly was fully encoiled, the young man was lifted by the strength of the monster's appendage from the grip of the two satyrs and he was pulled, suspended in the air, toward the waiting Schlange. The four satyrs melted toward the staircase.

In short order, that they had made choices in the teeming pile below was signaled by the lifting of four moaning, groaning young male voices of men being fully and deeply taken above the hubbub of the fucking pile, rising in perfect harmony with the tenor's siren song from the stage.

The Schlange had lulled his choice to full submission as he brought the young man into his breast. The monster opened his mouth, revealing another flicking, red forked tongue, which flicked Andro's nipples, as the head of his belly-encased cock glided down the small of Andro's back and snaked into Andro's channel. Andro's torso arched back toward the floor as the Schlange's mouth tongue flicked down his belly and up Andro's long, hard shaft. Andro's eyes rolled back into his head and he moaned and groaned as the Schlange's flicking cock tongue moved up, up, up into the young man's intestines. Simultaneously, the tip of the Schlange's mouth tongue latched onto Andro's dick head and entered Andro's piss slit and flicked its way deep down Andro's urethra and into the interior of his ball sac. A gasping Andro was burbling up hot cum as the Schlange, murmuring his baritone siren song, was sucking up the young man's virility with his mouth tongue and releasing his venom deep at the intestines of the young fisherman with his cock tongue.

The Schlange extracted his mouth tongue and flicked it lovingly across the perfectly sculpted curves and crevices of the young fisherman's hard-as-marble torso, reveling in his choice. Andro whimpered quietly in his embrace. The Schlange was singing softly to him, the love duet of the

Siren Song Symphony's

third movement, matching his voice to the now-weaker high notes coming from the tenor on the stage below, still relentlessly being fucked by an insatiable satyr. All was quiet on the main floor of the hall now, most of the exhausted concert-goers having been lulled into unconsciousness by the music, all except for the groans and whimperings of the four young beleaguered men the other satyrs had chosen to ride hard and deep and for hours yet to come.

Andro started to stir and fuss as the Schlange was coming into season again. The young man gasped and went rigid as the monster's mouth tongue flicked into his piss slit again and snaked its way down into the virile man's rejuvenating seed center. The Schlange was lapping inside Andro's sac, teasing the flow of the once-strong, now-weakening fisherman. Andro made one last, unsuccessful attempt to raise his arms, to form fists, but he collapsed with a little cry, and a groan, and shallow panting for breath as the Schlange's cock tongue began moving again, deeper, deeper in his intestines, reaching for his stomach, to plant the seed of the Schlange's next sowing even closer to the center of the young man's being. The Schlange had selected well; this one was prime; he could go on all night.

In the light of the next day, life was back to normal on the Isle of Hvar. All that the young men of Starigard remembered of their evening was that the music was tolerable and the evening was satisfying—although, for the life of them, they couldn't remember why or give very satisfying answers to those who asked them questions about the castle and Count Schlange. If some of them were sore in a way they'd never been sore before, especially the four who had taken the fancy of the four satyrs, they couldn't explain why and certainly didn't want to talk about such pains to anyone else.

All was back to normal except for the tragedy of Hvar having lost the best of its young men, the fisherman Andro, apparently in an accident at sea. No one had seen him go out in his boat the previous night, but the fishermen who had launched their boats at the rise of the dawn had found Andro's empty fishing skiff adrift at the entrance of the harbor.

When the count's black ship glided out of the harbor the next day after his brief residence on the Adriatic island, five hulking, hooded figures could be seen on deck. But no one heard the quiet, baritone siren song being hummed belowdecks or viewed the sight of the magnificent and fearful green, scaly superhuman form as it hunched over the beautiful, docile, thoroughly exhausted and fading figure of the sighing, moaning, groaning missing pick of Hvar manhood, being fully possessed yet again by swirling, venom-flowing, flicking appendages, double-fucking deep inside pulsating intestines and urethra channel.

The Schlange sighed. Another successful shopping trip. A little thrill of release swept over him when he came again deep inside his beautiful young, most-desirable-of-the-region prey and started building up his insatiable lust once more, as Andro burbled softly at the repeated gut-deep takings. The Schlange was pleased and decided to pace himself so that this one would last at least until the ship reached Venice.