On an unnamed island, where maps falter and tides keep their secrets, Elián comes seeking solitude, but instead finds a presence rising from the surf. A figure sculpted from salt and myth, silent yet unignorable, who offers not words at first, but shells, stones, and a gaze that unravels him. What begins as ritual at dawn becomes worship, surrender, and a crossing into something more than desire. The Salt God is a story of being chosen, ruined, and remade by the sea.
The island wasn’t on any map Elián had studied. No coordinates. No ferry routes. Just a whispered recommendation from a bartender in Lisbon with teeth too white to be real and eyes that didn’t blink enough.
“Go alone,” he’d said, pouring mezcal over a rind of lime. “Bring no one back.”
And so, Elián did.
The plane was rickety. The boat smaller still. But then the world fell away into seafoam, and everything sharpened. The heat was thick, but not suffocating. The sand fine as flour. Nights were humid and humming. Days, long and salt-laced, like a dream set on loop.
He rented a house made of white stone and driftwood, perched on a slope of dry grass and hibiscus. No Wi-Fi. No neighbours. Just the sound of waves breathing in and out like some ancient animal just beneath the surface.
He was trying to forget someone. Of course.
But forgetting someone only works if you also forget the shape of need. Elián hadn’t.
Each morning, just before sunrise, he walked the beach barefoot. A ritual. He liked the way the sky opened, purple, then rose, then gold, and the way the tide pulled at his ankles, reminding him he had skin. That he was here.
But on the fourth morning, he wasn’t alone.
At first, it was just a shadow out in the surf. Broad. Upright. Still.
Elián blinked against the sun, heart stuttering, and it was gone.
He told himself it was a rock. A trick of the tide. A gull.
He kept walking.
The next morning, it was there again.
This time closer.
A man, maybe? Wide-shouldered. Unmoving. The water lapped at his hips. Elián squinted, lips parting as he slowed, but the light shimmered too brightly across the surface. Then a wave came, white and cresting, and when it passed, the figure was no longer there.
But something remained. A conch shell, still wet, at the place where water met sand. Placed, not dropped.
Elián’s fingers closed around it. It was warm. Pulsing, almost.
He took it home and set it on the windowsill. Couldn’t stop glancing at it.
That night, he dreamed of a hand on his neck. Not cruel, just sure. Salt on his lips. And a voice like thunder underwater saying, “You called me.”
He woke hard, sweating, his thighs clenched, aching with something he hadn’t felt in years.
And when the fifth morning came, he walked the beach again.
Slower this time.
Daring whatever it was to come closer.
The sand was cool before the sun rose, ridged and rippled from the retreating tide. Elián walked it like a supplicant, quiet in his bones, head bowed as if the ocean might whisper back if he listened hard enough.
The conch had shifted during the night. He was certain of it.
He had placed it upright on the sill, facing inland. But when he’d woken, it was tilted slightly toward the sea, as if leaning... listening.
His pulse hadn’t settled since.
He told himself it was the wind. Maybe he’d moved it in his sleep.
Maybe.
He reached the water’s edge just as the sky split lavender. The air smelled of salt and something deeper, older. Like copper and citrus. Like the first time someone pressed their mouth to yours and didn’t ask.
Then he saw him.
Not in the distance this time.
Close.
Walking from the surf, naked, with the dawn haloed behind him.
Elián froze.
The man, if he was a man, was sculpted like myth. Every line of him wet and gleaming, every muscle like it had been poured into place by the tide. Water clung to his thighs, dripped from his chest, caught in the valleys of his abdomen. His cock hung heavy, unbothered. His expression was unreadable. Unblinking. As if he had seen many things and none of them surprised him.
Elián’s breath caught.
The man walked with a gravity Elián didn’t understand. Not just grace, gravity. The kind that bent the world around it. The kind that pulled.
And his eyes… they found Elián and held him.
Not in a cruel way. Not in judgment. But as if he knew what Elián had come to this island to forget. As if he’d watched the crying. The dreams. The silence. As if he knew every inch of ache inside him and was considering whether or not to answer it.
Elián didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Neither did the man.
The waves played around his calves. The sky turned gold.
Then, with one slow blink, he stepped back into the sea.
Each stride silent. Deepening.
Until he disappeared beneath the surface without a ripple.
Elián stood there long after the sun had risen.
Shaking.
Hard.
Hollow.
Wanting.
Elián didn’t touch himself that night.
He wanted to. He needed to. His cock ached beneath the sheets, twitching at every creak of wood, every gust of sea-wind through the shutters. But he refused.
It felt... wrong. Not out of shame. Out of reverence.
The man from the sea had looked at him, into him, and something inside Elián had shifted. Split, maybe. He didn’t know how to touch that place yet. He was afraid he might ruin it.
So he lay there, burning.
Waiting.
At dawn, he was already on the sand.
The tide was low. The horizon a soft bruise of gold and coral. Birds wheeled overhead, but he barely noticed.
Because this time, this time, the man was already there.
Kneeling in the surf.
Back straight. Head bowed. Palms resting on his thighs. Like worship. Like offering.
Elián’s throat dried.
He stepped forward slowly, each breath shallow. The sand sucked at his feet, reluctant to let him go.
The man raised his head.
Their eyes locked.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Elián kept walking.
Closer. Closer.
The wind lifted his shirt. His skin pebbled. His heart rattled behind his ribs like something trapped in a jar.
He stopped just a few feet away.
The man stood.
He was taller than Elián remembered. Or maybe the air was thinner here, more sacred. Salt trickled down the man’s chest. His cock hung thick and soft, inches from Elián’s gaze. But it wasn’t arousal that bloomed first.
It was awe.
“You’re real,” Elián whispered, not knowing why he needed to say it.
The man tilted his head, like he was tasting the shape of the sound.
Then, slowly, he reached down.
Not to touch Elián.
To retrieve something from the surf.
A small, dark stone.
He pressed it into Elián’s palm. His skin was warm. Rough like coral.
Then he turned, and began to walk into the waves again.
Elián gasped. “Wait...”
But the man paused, ankle-deep, and looked over his shoulder. Just once.
His mouth moved.
A single word, almost lost to the sea.
“Tomorrow.”
Then he was gone.
And Elián stood, soaked to the knees, with the stone burning in his hand.
Elián didn’t sleep. He tried. He lay on the cool linen sheets, listened to the waves, counted the ridges of the conch shell in the dark. But his mind was a tide of images, broad shoulders glistening, that slow blink, the impossible weight of silence between them.
He held the stone in his hand until dawn.
It was smooth and black, veined with white. Sea-polished. He imagined it might have sat at the bottom of the ocean for centuries before being pressed into his palm. He imagined the man, no, the god, choosing it. Carrying it from the deep.
Tomorrow, he had said.
And now it was today.
Elián didn’t walk. He ran.
The beach was still hushed, breathless, waiting. The sky barely tinged with rose. But already, he saw him.
Standing this time.
Naked again, as if clothing had never existed. The sea clung to his calves. His chest rose and fell like the slow breath of something eternal.
And in his hand, something new.
Another shell. Pale pink. Spiralled. Small.
He approached Elián without hesitation.
And Elián, somehow, did not move.
Could not.
The man stepped from water to sand, salt trailing down his body. His gaze never wavered. His presence was a pressure, a weight, a heat.
When he was close enough to touch, he didn’t.
Instead, he extended the shell.
Elián reached for it with trembling fingers.
Their hands brushed.
Just a graze, knuckle to knuckle, and Elián’s breath vanished. His spine went rigid. Every nerve bloomed awake.
The man watched him. Not smiling. Not demanding. Just watching. Like he was reading something secret on Elián’s skin.
Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees.
In front of him.
Knees in the sand. Eyes up.
Elián’s lips parted. His cock stirred, confused and aching.
The man placed the shell at his feet. Pressed both hands into the sand. Bowed his head.
As if waiting.
As if inviting.
Elián didn’t know what to do.
Didn’t know the rules.
So he did the only thing that felt right.
He knelt too.
Their knees aligned. Their breath mingled.
Elián reached out. One hand, slow, tentative.
Touched his chest.
Warm. Solid. Alive.
The man exhaled. A sound like approval.
Then, finally, he spoke.
Voice deep, sea-dark, velvet over rocks.
“Kneel again tomorrow.”
The next morning, Elián rose before the sky even thought of light.
No coffee. No shoes. No fear.
Just the shell cupped in one hand, the stone in the other.
Talisman and offering.
The sand was still damp from midnight tide, cool and soft between his toes. His breath fogged lightly in the morning hush.
He knew the moment he stepped onto the shore that he was already there.
This time not in the water.
But waiting on the sand.
Standing tall, arms loose at his sides, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Elián stopped several paces away.
Waited.
The man turned. Slowly. Deliberately.
And looked at him like he’d been looking for centuries.
Elián took a step closer.
And another.
And then...
“Closer,” the man said, voice thick with salt and sun and something that made Elián's knees feel weak.
Elián obeyed.
One breath.
Two.
Close now.
He could see the droplets on the man’s skin, the curve of his lips, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
The man reached out.
And with a single finger, he touched the edge of Elián’s collar.
A pause.
An inhale.
Then, wordlessly, he began to undo the buttons of Elián’s shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each flick slow. Reverent.
Elián’s breath caught.
The air around them was heavy with something more than heat. A pressure. A waiting.
The shirt slipped from his shoulders.
The man’s hand didn’t leave his skin.
Instead, he smoothed it down Elián’s chest, palm open, fingers spread.
A sound escaped Elián’s lips. Half gasp. Half prayer.
Then the man stepped even closer.
So close Elián could smell him.
Salt.
Sun.
Something almost electric.
He leaned in.
Mouth at Elián’s ear.
Whispered, low:
“If you want this... kneel.”
Elián dropped to his knees without thinking.
The sand was warm beneath him, still holding the sun from the day before. Grains clung to his shins, his palms, as he pressed them down, grounding himself against the gravity of the man in front of him.
The Salt God, because that’s what he had to be, exhaled, the sound like tide against stone.
Approval.
Elián looked up.
The man’s eyes had darkened. Not with cruelty. Not with lust.
With possession.
He reached out again.
This time, both hands. One cradled the back of Elián’s head, fingers threading into his hair. The other came to rest just beneath his chin, thumb grazing the edge of his jaw. Guiding. Measuring.
Elián didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
The thumb slid over his bottom lip. Pressed. Parted.
Elián opened his mouth.
No words. Just breath.
The man leaned down. Close. Their foreheads touched. Their mouths not quite.
“You taste of waiting,” the Salt God whispered.
Then he pressed his thumb into Elián’s mouth.
Slowly. Deeply.
Elián sucked instinctively. His tongue curled. His lips sealed. His eyes fluttered.
The man’s breath caught, a shift in his body, a tension coiling in his thighs.
Still, he said nothing.
The thumb pulled back. Wet now. Shining.
He dragged it across Elián’s cheek. Down his throat. Traced a line to his collarbone, then lower, between his pecs, slow and reverent.
Then he knelt too.
Their knees touched. Chests almost. Eyes locked.
One hand on Elián’s waist. The other moving to the button of his pants.
But he stopped.
Waited.
Watched.
The button slipped open.
The zipper followed.
The man’s hands moved like water.
The fabric peeled away like seaweed in current.
Elián’s cock sprang free, flushed, already slick at the tip. The air kissed it, cool, salt-thick, and he twitched under its touch. But it wasn’t the air that made him shudder.
It was the gaze.
The Salt God looked at him as though he'd found something rare. Not delicate, essential. Like breath. Like blood.
His hand closed around the base, not to stroke, but to still him. To claim.
Elián gasped, hips twitching forward.
The man said nothing.
Just leaned down.
Mouth open.
And breathed over him.
Elián’s body went rigid, every nerve alive.
Then, slow, deliberate, the tip of the man’s tongue tasted the very edge of his crown.
Elián moaned.
Soft.
Embarrassed.
Wrecked.
The Salt God smiled against him. A curl of lips like a promise.
And then he devoured him.
No preamble. No teasing.
Just the sudden, impossible heat of him.
Wet, velvet, deep.
Elián cried out, not in volume, but in depth. A sound pulled from the base of his spine. His hands scrabbled for purchase, found the man’s shoulders, gripped.
The Salt God sucked slow.
A rhythm like the tide.
In. Out. Breathe. Moan.
His throat opened without strain, taking him deeper, deeper, until Elián felt the ache of his tip brushing something impossible.
He tried to warn him, tried to say wait, too much, but the man’s hand moved to his throat.
Pressed.
And Elián felt himself there.
Inside him.
Buried.
Owned.
He nearly came.
The man pulled back at the last second, lips wet, chin shining.
Not done.
He shifted Elián’s legs wider.
Pushed him back onto the sand.
And without a word, he lifted his thighs.
Elián’s breath left him in a rush.
The Salt God looked down at him, flushed, open, trembling.
And then lowered his mouth again.
But not to his cock.
Lower.
Lower.
Tongue flicking, tasting, teasing until...
Oh god.
The first kiss of tongue against rim.
Elián cried out, his back arching from the sand, hands digging into the earth.
The Salt God groaned low, as if Elián's taste fed him.
And then he began to feast.
The Salt God rimmed him like a vow.
Not hurried. Not casual. But with a worshipful patience that made Elián tremble from crown to sole. His tongue moved in slow circles, lapping, pressing, teasing until Elián’s thighs shook, until his hole was slick and softened, open to the air, to the sea, to him.
And still, he did not stop.
Hands gripped Elián’s hips, strong enough to bruise. His tongue speared deeper, and Elián moaned, helpless, sand clinging to his back, to his arms, to the curve of his ass where he lay open, gasping.
“Please...” Elián breathed, unsure if he was begging for more or mercy.
The Salt God lifted his head.
His mouth was wet, chin glistening. His eyes had darkened, the way storm clouds gather just before lightning splits the sky.
He said one word.
“Turn.”
Elián obeyed.
He rolled onto his stomach, breath shallow, cock hard against the sand. The exposure made him ache. Open thighs. Open back. His entrance still wet, still twitching.
Behind him, a sound, the shift of knees in sand, the low thrum of a groan.
Then warm hands on his hips.
And the blunt, wide head of a cock pressing low.
Elián gasped, fingers digging into the sand.
The Salt God leaned over him, chest against his back, one hand braced beside his shoulder, the other steadying himself at the base.
“Breathe,” he whispered, voice inside Elián’s ear.
And then he pushed in.
Slow. Steady. Endless.
Elián’s mouth fell open.
The stretch was exquisite.
Thick. Deep. Unyielding.
He felt claimed. Filled in a way no one had ever managed before, not like this, not so slow, not so complete.
The Salt God paused once fully seated. Let Elián feel every inch.
Then he began to move.
Long strokes. Deep rolls. A rhythm like the tide, inexorable, ancient, meant.
Elián moaned into the sand.
Every thrust drove sound from him. Made him feel the shape of surrender.
The man atop him was silent save for breath and the low growl in his chest, as if he were trying not to come too soon. As if this, this ruin, was something he savoured.
Each push sent salt-slick skin slapping against Elián’s ass. The sound of it echoed over the waves.
And still, the rhythm built.
And built.
And Elián, ruined and wrecked, whispered, “Yes... yes, don’t stop...”
The Salt God did not stop.
He drove into Elián with the patience of tide, the strength of undertow, not cruel, not frantic, but inevitable. Each stroke split him wider, deeper, until Elián couldn’t remember a time before this.
Before him.
The man’s weight pressed into him, chest against back, hand wrapped around Elián’s wrist, pinning it gently into the sand. Not a trap. A tether. As if to say: You’re here. With me. Stay.
Elián let himself go limp beneath it. Breathless. Mouth open. He could feel the man’s cock throb inside him with every thrust. Felt the stretch of it, the fullness, the power of something ancient threading through his body like heat.
And then, suddenly, it stopped.
Withdrawn in a single smooth motion.
Elián whimpered at the loss.
But then he was turned, fast and fluid, onto his back.
The Salt God climbed between his legs and hooked them high, open, bare to the sky.
For a beat, he hovered above him.
Eyes devouring. Lips parted. The head of his cock flushed and gleaming.
He looked possessed.
Or holy.
Then he sank in again.
Deeper this time.
Perfect.
Elián’s head rolled back, hands clawing at the sand. He keened, not loud, but real. The kind of sound no one teaches you how to make.
The Salt God fucked him like a storm made flesh.
Thrust after thrust, each more consuming than the last.
The slap of skin. The grind of hips. The salt in their sweat.
Elián was gone.
Eyes rolling. Spine arching.
The man reached down between them, wrapped his fingers around Elián’s cock. Started to stroke, slow, in sync, obscene.
Elián bucked, overwhelmed.
“God...” he choked. “You’re... fuck, you’re...”
The Salt God leaned down.
Mouth at his neck. Teeth grazing.
And he whispered, “Mine.”
Elián couldn’t answer.
His body was already answering for him.
Every thrust, every stroke of the Salt God’s cock inside him pulled a sound from deep within, not just pleasure, but surrender. Worship. A ruin that felt like rescue.
The god lifted his legs higher, bending him open, folding him almost in half. The angle changed, sharp, devastating, and Elián cried out as his vision flashed white.
There.
There.
The Salt God hit something inside him that made the world collapse.
He didn’t relent.
That spot, over and over, stroked with terrifying precision. His hips surged, rhythm faster now, breath ragged, the salt on his skin turning sweet where sweat met ocean.
And still, Elián didn’t come.
Not yet.
Because the Salt God was holding him there. Holding him on the edge, using his grip, his gaze, the timing of his thrusts to deny him what he craved most.
The tension was unbearable.
His cock throbbed in the god’s grip, leaking across his stomach, untouched now, forgotten in favour of the pressure building in his gut, the fire coiling low and deep.
The Salt God leaned down.
Kissed him.
It was the first time.
Soft.
Mouth to mouth.
No tongue. No force.
Just a seal.
And then, as he pulled back, he spoke, voice breaking.
“Come.”
And Elián did.
Hard.
Full-body, blinding.
He cried out, legs trembling, hole clenching around the cock inside him as he spilled across his belly, the force of it shaking him apart.
The Salt God groaned.
Louder now.
He fucked through it, once, twice, three more brutal thrusts, then buried himself deep and stayed. His body went rigid, cock pulsing inside Elián, filling him with something hot and endless.
They stayed like that.
Joined.
Breathless.
Shaking.
The sea lapped around them.
And Elián thought, I’ll never be clean again.
He didn’t want to be.
Elián didn’t know how long they stayed like that.
The sky had lightened to full morning. Birds circled overhead. Somewhere, far down the beach, the tide teased at shells and stones, pulling them back into the deep.
But here, in this pocket of salt and sand and ruin, everything was still.
The Salt God hadn’t moved.
His cock had softened inside Elián, but he remained buried, forehead resting gently against Elián’s. One hand cupped the side of his face. The other traced lazy lines along his ribs, like reading him by touch.
Elián didn’t speak.
His voice was gone. Lost in moans, in breath, in awe.
He only felt.
Every inch of his body rang with sensation, the stretch, the slickness, the fullness. He could feel the god’s seed inside him, warm and real and undeniable.
He was marked.
Not just in his body. But somewhere deeper.
Somewhere that pulsed now, faint and alive.
The Salt God finally moved, gently, pulling back, his cock slipping free with a wet sound that made Elián shiver.
The god sat back on his heels.
And for the first time, he looked... not unreadable.
But human.
Spent.
Beautiful.
His hands moved to Elián’s legs, lifting them carefully, placing them down in the sand with reverence. Not touching to arouse. Touching to tend.
Elián blinked up at him, mouth parted.
“I...” he tried.
The god reached out.
Pressed two fingers against Elián’s lips.
“No need.”
Then, those same fingers brushed through Elián’s hair.
Smoothed it back.
And smiled.
It was small.
Soft.
But it changed everything.
Because in that smile was an answer to every ache Elián had carried to this island.
You are not broken.
You are chosen.
He helped Elián to his feet with care.
Not rushed. Not rough.
As if what they had just done had not ended, but only begun.
Elián’s legs wobbled, salt and slickness slipping down the inside of his thigh. He blushed, but the Salt God looked at him like it was holy. Like his ruin was a prayer answered.
The god stepped behind him.
Wrapped one arm around his chest. Pressed the other hand against his stomach. Held him there, bare, marked, trembling, as they faced the sea.
The morning light glittered across the waves. The horizon shimmered.
And far, far out, something shifted.
Not a boat.
Not a shadow.
But a door.
A crack in the water itself.
A shimmering fold of light.
Elián’s breath caught.
“What is that...?”
The Salt God spoke low.
“A crossing.”
Elián turned.
The god’s face was unreadable again. But his eyes burned.
“If you want it,” he said. “You can come with me.”
Elián blinked.
The words echoed louder than they were spoken.
Come with me.
Not a command.
An invitation.
He looked down the shore, to his house, the empty rooms, the notebooks left blank, the life he came here to forget.
Then back to the sea.
And the man who had claimed him with mouth, and tongue, and cock.
The god who had found him in his ache, and said, kneel.
The god who now said, choose.
Elián inhaled.
Tasted salt.
And nodded.
An etherical scene, was it just a dream or so real it seemed to be. Wording painting emotions and fire. Scorched sand. Becoming one with it.
A fantasy, but it touches something deep inside. I'm old, alone, tired. I wish...