The Sea Witch: A Little Mermaid Retelling (Beloved Villains, #1)

by Rebecca F. Kenney

probe the area, frowning. In mermaid form, the two openings for elimination and breeding are very obvious once you lift the scale-flap. In this form they seem to be smaller, and in different places. “Where do humans eliminate waste?” “You have a very small hole at the front for pissing, one at the back for shitting, and a slit in the middle for sex. Stop touching yourself.” “I’m curious.” “Then touch it later, when I’m not around. Gods.” He looks away.

risk a few more touches, and I’m surprised when a little zing of delight runs up through my belly. It happened when I poked a small nub of flesh right at the top of the pussy. “What is this for?” I touch it again. “It feels nice.” The Sea Witch glances my way again, and I notice a deep flush across his face. “For someone who knows the word ‘fuck,’ you know precious little about human anatomy.” “So teach me.” He rises on his tentacles with a strangled groan. “Gods, what have I gotten myself into?”

I glance between my legs again. Since I shifted my position to inspect my foot, that area is spread wider. “Oh, I think I see the opening for sex now.” “Princess,” says the Sea Witch, in a desperate growl, “you should put on some clothes.”

“Come here and help me take it off, then. I can’t do it myself.” Fuck. “I’m—busy,” I choke out. “Can you remove it with magic?” “No.” “You must have shifted by now. What are you doing back there?” Growling, I pull on the pants, tucking my aching cock into them. It pokes outward against the fabric, an obvious betrayal.

Will there be more soup? “No. Stop thinking about your stomach.

I haven’t kissed anyone, she replies. I’m not sure I know how to do it well. My stomach flips over. “Well, I suppose that’s another thing I’ll have to teach you.”

Our bodies are pressed together, my rain-melted scrap of fabric against his wet shirt and pants. Pants that are once again stiffly, annoyingly prominent. “Whatever weapon you’re hiding under your pants, you should take it out,” I tell him. “It’s poking me.” His face freezes in an expression akin to horror. “I really don’t think you want me to take it out.”

“My reaction is not your fault or your responsibility,” he growls. “And no one else is going to touch you tonight, do you understand?”

“You,” he grits out, “are entirely too clever for your own good.” “Thank you.” “Not a compliment.” “Isn’t it, though?”