Message-ID: <12188eli$9806151506@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/12188.txt> From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {Bombadil}JDR"Amazonia 1a"( MF+ Mf+ FF fant )[1/4] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <6m2dtj$18h$1@sparky.wolfe.net> JOHN DARK REPOST The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk. The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week. These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way to encourage them to continue entertaining you. The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as well. ===================== Story #5 by Tom Bombadil (c) Apr 1997 Disclaimer: All the standard rules apply. If you are offended by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this text from your computer. This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions described by me coming straight out of my imagination. As a work of fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or actions described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in my life, or known to me in the lives of any of my friends or relatives. You've been warned. I give permission for anyone to archive or share this story. ******************************************************************** ===================== Amazonia by Tom Bombadil via stbush@iglou.com Section 1a ********** Late afternoon, one day in October Tom cursed the storm, cursed the plane, cursed the lunatic who'd gotten him stuck in this situation, and cursed his ex-wife for getting him into this line of work in the first place. Sudden jolts and twists from the winds outside nearly made him lose his lunch, but he held it inside. He had better things to do than get sick. Like survive. Running along the edge of the main cloud deck, trying to avoid the worst of the turbulence, he looked for somewhere to land, somewhere to ditch. Anywhere. He was running out of time, out of fuel, and out of luck. ********** Early that morning Sixteen hours ago, some short while before dawn, he'd just started securing his small twin prop against the coming storm, one of many to ravage the small group of islands he serviced. It was, by then, an almost automatic procedure, requiring little thought. A radio in the background was giving out details on the typhoon's size, wind velocity, track, and surge height. That's when a madman showed up with a big, heavy tote bag. Like in a script from a 'B' movie, the man pulled out a rather large pistol and waved it around under Tom's nose for a few seconds. "You can fly, no?" Bad English, a terrible accent, and a furtive, glance-over-the-shoulder type attitude would have had Tom rolling around with laughter - that is, if one very large-looking handgun hadn't been occupying most of his attention. "Ah, <gulp> well, that is, uh ..." A simple yes or no didn't seem appropriate to him, at the time. No probably would have made him disposable. Yes would have made him ... something. He didn't know. In the state his mind was in, that made perfect sense. "Get in plane. You fly me someplace NOW! Si?" That last word was punctuated by the man touching the barrel of his pistol to the bridge of Tom's nose. From that perspective, the pistol looked more like a small cannon. The terrified man nodded his head - very slowly, and very carefully. "Good. We go now. Fast! GO!" Tall, suave, and debonair he might be, but despite his movie star looks, Tom was no brave hero. He was an ex commercial pilot who happened to have been roped into opening his own tiny air service, on a group of tiny tropical islands, by his then wife. Now ex-wife. The man with the pistol, looking just as corny as he sounded, with his dirty fatigues, Hispanic features, and oversized moustache, followed directly behind the pilot as he prepared his plane for takeoff. A few minutes later Tom slipped into the pilot's seat, his kidnapper taking the passenger seat behind and across from him. That gun was still there. "We go now. Get plane moving. We take off, fly north." Tom started the plane and went through his pre-flight ritual, possibly working a little faster and less thoroughly than usual because of the urging of his passenger. "No call anyone!" The hijacker's screech was in response to Tom picking up the radio's mike. "I have to call for permission to take off and for a time slot on the runway. We can't just toodle over there and whoosh! up into the sky! It's just too dangerous!" Apparently the man with the gun disagreed. "You go now, we take off now, or I keel you and I fly plane!" That won him the argument. Tom started praying. There was a lot of cursing and yelling coming over the radio as he taxied onto the runway and took off upwind. A lot. Tom also noticed the flashing lights of the local constabulary vehicle beside the oversized hut that served as passenger area, customs, taxi stand, and control tower. "Fly north" was the only instruction immediately forthcoming from the man in charge. They flew across the island and towards the the oncoming hurricane. ********** Late afternoon again Tom spotted a tiny swatch of non-ocean at about the same time the needle of his plane's fuel gauge touched 'E'. Shock, relief, and a sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through his tired body at the sight. He knew it would be a battle to get there, fighting across the face of the storm, but it was his only hope. Another prayer, far from the first that day and definitely not the last, escaped unnoticed. He had one eye on his target and the other on the fuel gauge, watching the needle for his reserve tank. His main tank was long since empty. Trying to stay as high as possible, just in case, he aimed for a spot many miles upwind of the island. His wind gauge showed the outside air moving at about 160 knots. The only bit of modern gear he had, the satellite positioning thing he'd won off a sailor in a craps game, told him he was travelling at forty knots. He didn't even try to do the math. The answer was obvious. Abandoning his attempt to stay high, he started a long, slow, fuel- saving descent. Another mumble, half prayer and half curse, lost itself in all the rest of the noise in the cabin. There was a chance to survive - he believed - if the plane stayed in one piece, if the wind didn't get worse, if the fuel held out, and if he didn't crack. Focusing his attention back on that tiny bump of green, he flew on. ********** Back to the morning "Carlos." That was what the man called himself. Carlos. Tom almost burst out laughing. The situation seemed so unreal to him. He'd seen every bad action movie ever made, and he'd rate the plot and character development on this one a solid 'B-'. Not even worth watching twice, since the story line was so linear and the characters so one-dimensional. Carlos pulled a map from the bag which, Tom noticed, was otherwise filled with cash. He began to feel trapped inside some mad director's nightmare. Spreading the map out in front of Tom, Carlos pointed at a small island, circled in red. It was well away from any normal air or water traffic, and was supposed to be uninhabited. "We go there. I have many friends there." "Totally predictable," Tom thought to himself. He set his course, checked his instruments, and prayed they beat the storm. ********** Late afternoon, once more Tom looked carefully, fighting the rays of the setting sun. "Yes", he thought to himself, "it's getting closer!" That tiny bit of land did appear to be getting bigger. A small piece of his mind noticed that the island had three big mountains, two large lakes or lagoons, and was surrounded by a lot of reef, if the circle of white foam he saw was any indication. With more skill than he thought he had, or possibly more luck than he thought he deserved, he kept the plane flying. The typhoon was getting worse, the turbulence was getting worse, the light was getting worse, and his stomach was getting worse. A beach came into view, wide and silvery white. That beach was the only flattish bit he'd seen that didn't have trees growing on it, so that's where he aimed the plane. It was then that both engines, one right after the other, coughed and died. He swore some more. ********** Earlier that afternoon The island Carlos wanted eventually showed up. The moustachioed man smiled, finally happy about something. He still looked nervous to Tom, and that gun still looked very large when he waved it around. "You fly over island, I jump out. I take parachute! Ha ha ha!" Tom had some 'chutes in the back. They'd been left there by a skydiving club that sometimes hired him, and he'd been waiting for one of the women to pick them up. That was another reason he'd been with the plane. According to what he'd heard, the 'chutes had been packed by rookies, just for practice. None of the members took the chance of using those specific ones, with good reason. Not that he was going to say anything to Carlos. A short while later they were flying directly over the island at about 6000 feet. That's when Carlos decided to jump. His last words were not pleasant ones. "You no land here. You do, I keel you. If I no keel you, my friends, they keel you. They no like snoopy pilots! Ha ha ha!" With that parting comment, he jumped. Tom circled the plane around once, just to check. He saw that the 'chute had actually opened. That's when he finally cracked a big smile and started chuckling to himself. "The bastard deserves exactly what he's gonna get. The fuckin' idiot." It didn't take much math for him to figure out where Carlos would land. They were directly above the island, a mile up. The island was only a mile across. The actual outside air speed he calculated at about 85 knots at his altitude - reasonable, he thought, with the storm bearing down on them. He estimated the guy would splash down about half a mile out to sea, down wind and down current. It made him feel a little better, in a sick sort of way. Tom thought through his options. Returning to home base was out of the question - not enough fuel. Landing on the island under him, where he thought his life expectancy would probably be measured in hours, was ruled out. Ditching in the ocean was out of the question. He had a sea survival suit, but it was army surplus, and he trusted it about as far as he could throw his plane. Besides which, nobody knew where he'd gone, so nobody knew where to look, and with the storm, it would be at least twenty four hours before anyone else could even get airborne. He thought his best bet would be to try and race the typhoon to another island somewhere. Studying the chart, he saw there was one, perhaps three hour's flight away to the northwest. It was by far the closest, and it was marked with an airstrip. He thought it well within range of his remaining fuel. Turning the plane, he flew off in that direction. The island he was headed for was about an hour's flying time too far away. The storm came in too fast, and Tom ended up running in front of it, just trying to keep the bucket of bolts he was riding in from being torn apart. He didn't have much hope left because, according to the charts, he was in open water with no land for at least three thousand miles in the only direction the storm was letting him travel in. That's why the sight of the tiny island had come as such a welcome shock. ********** Early evening There was nothing much he could do. Fighting the stick, he muscled the plane into a shallow dive, pulling up and coasting into a stall just above the waves. A quick flash of whitecaps went by before he splashed down, creating another tiny surge of hope. He'd cleared the reef. After that, everything was a blur of water and waves and sky as he struggled to stay afloat and alive. ********** The next day, and so on The sound of giggling, along with something prodding him in the ribs, woke him up. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on him, and he felt terrible. After a few seconds of hazy thought he remembered why he should feel terrible. Tom decided to be happy he was feeling at all. It took a good pinch <self-administered> before he admitted to himself that he was both alive and not dreaming. There was another prodding on his ribs. That slight movement sent out small tendrils of pain and sickness which proceeded to explode in his head and gut. A few minutes later, after losing his last dozen or so meals (by his estimate, anyway), he looked around. The prodders were children. He shook his head to try and clear his vision, and that, he realized almost immediately, was a mistake. It was another moment or two before the pain behind his eyes died down enough for him to look around again. They were still there. Maybe two dozen or so young girls, all vaguely the same size, and looking like they were all about the same age. He thought perhaps nine or ten years old. None much older, none much younger, and all quite naked. A couple of the girls broke away from the group and began running down the beach, leaving the rest pointing and giggling and gabbing away in some sort of native gibberish he didn't recognize. At first glance he thought they were all Polynesians of some sort, since they were all dark skinned, but then he took a closer look. The girls were all darkly tanned, though some were definitely naturally darker than others. The majority had black hair and dark brown eyes. He saw, though, that some had brown hair, a couple were blonde, and one was a redhead. Looking closer, he noticed the same variety of eye colours, with a few pairs of hazel eyes and a few pairs of blue eyes mixed in with the brown, and all of them were focused on him. One girl even had hair blonder and eyes bluer than his own. "Thank god", he thought to himself. "White folk. Civilization." He knew of a number of islands where the natives were very unfriendly to visitors. With some obviously Caucasian children running around, despite their dress code, he believed that civilized people had to be near. Life was slowly returning to his body, so he decided to crawl up off the beach and into the shade of some nearby trees. He made it, but his strength gave out just as he leaned back against the trunk of a palm. The last thing he saw before he passed out again was another group of young girls running up the beach in his direction. ********** The next time he woke up it was dark. He was on some sort of mat or low bed with several palm-frond blankets keeping him warm. His clothes had disappeared, and he wasn't alone. After a few seconds just taking note of what he could in the dark, he knew that his bed partner was a woman. Even he couldn't mistake the warmth and softness of the breasts on his arm. A chill, the tightness of his skin, and the vague pain in his chest, told him he had a fever. His slight stirrings woke his companion. She whispered at him in that unfamiliar tongue, and when he didn't respond, she got up. Tom lay there wondering what had happened to him until she returned with a container of some sort. She made him drink down all of the sweet, refreshing contents, and then forced him back down. After a few minutes, since he was unable to do much but blink his eyes, he fell back to sleep. ********** More girlish giggling and laughing woke him. It was daytime, but the sun wasn't shining in his eyes. The insides of a hut was what he saw immediately. A single room hut made from bamboo and palm leaves. One door. Two windows. Both windows were filled with the heads of young girls peering in at him. When he sat up, they all shrieked and ran. He wondered if they were the same girls he'd seen on the beach. They looked to be about the same age, from what little he'd been able to see of them through the windows. A few minutes later, the door opened and a young woman walked in. She looked like a native, with the classic strong face, dark hair and eyes, and solid body. Tom could see little fat on her frame, and admired her decidedly nice figure, legs, and breasts. Her only clothing was a grass skirt, and as she moved, he could see she wore nothing underneath. Her face, he realized rather belatedly, was also quite nice. The woman brought him another container of that sweet tasting drink he remembered having before. "Or was it twice?" he thought aloud. Despite his long sleep, he still felt sluggish and rather cottony. The world seemed just a bit too sharp, a bit too bright, to be real. He wondered if he really was caught up in an old movie plot. After finishing the drink, he was pushed flat by the woman. He sat back up. She pushed him down again. He sat back up again. She spoke sharply and quickly at him, and pushed him down once more, but left her hand hovering just above his chest. She stared hard at him, almost daring him to try and get up again. "Just like nurses everywhere," he chuckled to himself, as he drifted off to sleep. ********** It was very early morning when he woke up again. He knew the time only because a few faint red rays of sunlight could be seen outside the windows, and it wasn't hot enough to be evening. His fever had broken, he knew, and he believed himself to be on the road to recovery. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and he had to relieve himself. That last item was probably the most urgent just then. When he sat up, the woman lying beside him, the same one he'd seen before, also woke up. Tom tried to make his needs known while looking around for his clothes. The only thing of his that he saw were his were his pants, and they were hanging on a peg on the far side of the hut. The woman got up, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity, fastened a grass skirt around her middle, and beckoned him to the door. Despite his gesturing and his exclamations of embarrassment, she simply stood there and waited. Feeling weak, run down, and rather silly, he went over and pulled on his jeans. They were a little tattered, a little worn, and still had salt crusted on them, but they were his, and they provided some much needed psychological comfort. He certainly didn't need them to keep warm. Before he ended up embarrassing himself, she showed him the communal latrine. Afterwards, he looked around to see what he could of his surroundings. They were standing at the edge of a grass hut village, containing maybe fifteen or twenty small shacks about the same size as the one he'd woken up in, along with two or three larger structures. The only other person he saw in that faint morning light was another woman, one considerably older than his nurse. Aside from some birds, himself, and the two ladies, the place appeared deserted. The first woman walked him back to the hut he'd woken in and made him strip and get back into bed - or rather, back onto the mat and under the palm blankets. She busied herself for a few minutes, ignoring him, before bringing over some sliced fruits and more of the sweet liquid he'd been getting. After he finished, despite the fact that he didn't think he was tired, he fell back to sleep. ********** ===================== Amazonia by Tom Bombadil Section 1a -30- -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | <http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>