Fiction: À Rielle (Winner Of The 2025 Anxious Nihilist Prize For Fiction)

By Felix Anker

 

My wife loved being spanked with dead fish – carp, cod, eel, you name it. Everything changed the day I brought home the big salmon. I picked it up as a surprise for our anniversary from our guy in the supermarket parking lot.

“Canadian,” he said.

“How much?” 

“Five hundred.”

I knew fish, and more importantly, I knew how to put one to good use. So I bought it, no questions asked. When I got home, my wife already in the shower, I wrapped the massive manhandler in newspaper and carefully laid it on the bed. 

This was our secret ritual. 

She stepped out of the bathroom, oiled up like a sardine.

For me, that sight was enough to get hard. Even after all these years.

My wife, though, she always needed more. 

 

It all started by accident, about two years ago, out on the boat.

A mullet jumped aboard, flopped around the floor – then between her legs – trying to get back in the water. 

She came instantly. 

 

So there she was, standing by the bed, slick as a silver-spotted gray snapper. And there was I, standing beside the salmon, hard as a diamond. She lay back on the bed and let me slip the blindfold on.

As I unwrapped the salmon, she began moaning, knowing the fish was getting ready.

I peeled the newspaper away, just as carefully as I’d wrapped it, and moved the fish closer to her.

She wrapped her legs around it, hugging it like a Japanese love pillow, grinding slowly. Its scales were grating quietly – a band of lonely crickets in a humid summer night – as I grew harder and harder. All at once, she stopped moaning and rolled over onto her stomach.

I was ready. 

I picked up the salmon and slid it across her oiled-up ass, trying not to cum too soon. Then I lifted it up as high as I could (heavy as hell, as you can imagine) and brought it crashing down on her. The sound, like roaring thunder over the mighty ocean, echoed through our chamber, mixing with her moans of pleasure. Again, I raised the fish. Again, I smacked her. Harder and harder each time until she came.

And then I did. I couldn’t hold back the moment she finished. 

In bed we lay, exhausted, panting, overrun by a tsunami of fish oil, sweat, and cum, when the salmon flashed its freshly bleached teeth, and said, “I do apologize for interrupting your post-coital tardiness, but if you don’t mind: I haven’t finished yet.”

Startled at first, I thought it was only fair to give the poor guy something in return for his service. 

“So… how do we…”

“If you must know,” the piscine philosopher replied, “I’ve always been a foot guy.”

My wife didn’t mind. On the contrary. I laid the salmon down at the foot of the bed and let it suck on her toes. 

They moaned in harmony like a Tuvan throat singing duo, as the salmon slithered up her feet. It pulled her ever deeper into its body – a second skin of slime and lust – until only her head was sticking out of its gaping mouth.

Then it came.

Then she came.

Then I did. 

A few moments later, as it died, it became part of her.

We never tried to remove it.

“It’s never been uncomfortable,” she once told me.

I kept her in the bathtub for a while, but soon she longed to be free. The pool I built in the garden wasn’t enough either. 

“Let go of what you love,” someone once said. So I drove her to Skeena river in Canada. 

There, I set her free.

Every spring, she returns to lay her eggs.

This is our secret ritual. 

As I watch the male salmon gather to fertilize the eggs, I get harder and harder until I erupt like Krakatoa in 1883. And now I finally know what really gets me off: being cucked by fish.

Felix Anker, born and raised and based in Germany, is a linguist working on the languages of the Caucasus. While most of his publications are scientific, he also writes about things that are not entirely true. Humour, Science-Fiction, and other weird stuff in German and English magazines (State of Matter, Don't Submit!, Maudlin House, Johnny, Veilchen, UND).

Twitter: @bananentupper Instagram: @schundundsyntax