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From: "Jane Urquhart" <janey98@hotmail.com>
Subject: Janey's Trip (FM rom) - Castaway story
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Lord Malinov chartered the wrong ship for his Erotica Writers Cruise
and it sank. So the regular writers of ASS/ASSM/ASSD are washed up on
Malinov's own Pacific island. For the details, see DG's "A Cruise to
Remember," posted March 21. After an introduction, this story starts
when we'd been on the island for a day or two.

WARNING: This is a story for adults. If you are under 18, please stop
reading immediately.

This story may be archived but is not to be distributed without the
name of the author, changed in any way, or sold. Copyright 1998 by
Jane Urquhart.

JANEY'S TRIP (FM rom)

by Janey

	When I told my friend Beth about Lord Malinov's Castaway
Island orgy the first thing she did was find Malinov's Castle on the
Web so she could see what the last one was like. I had no intention of
going, of course, but it was something to talk about. Next she called
me up and asked me what the hell I thought it had to do with me. Then,
naturally, I had to tell her about this sort-of-a-journal I've been
posting to a.s.s.m., which was news to her, and print out for her
copies of my previous posts. I guessed my two stories made me eligible
to go, but actually orgies aren't my sort of thing. After all, what I
really am is a nice, sweet, five-foot-ten, slightly overweight mother
of two with a part-time job and no tits.

	Now, when Beth blows a gasket you can hear her all the way to
Quebec. The way she tells it, I'm always dragging her into doing these
wild, not to say terrible, things, like going to Florida for a
perfectly innocent little getaway and winding up committing lewd and
immoral acts. I see it quite differently--she's the bad influence, not
me. I just kind of go with the flow. After all, she's a high-powered
businesswoman. I'm just an humble part-time vocational counselor. How
could I talk her into doing anything? 

	But now she's accusing me, loudly, of telling the world about
all our private stuff and holding her up to ridicule and she's going
to sue. So I hung up.

	It took about twenty minutes before she was back on the phone,
telling me I just had to go. I'd get to meet all these high-powered
writers, maybe there'd be a TV crew, I could probably sell books to
the romance publishers, she knows where there's venture capital for a
whole erotica empire. I was shrinking with horror. I did think it
would be fun to meet some of the writers, but come on--do I sound like
some kind of porn entrepreneur? No way. Then she said she'd be glad to
go along with me to take care of the promotional details. I needed
her, she said. Without her, I'd probably just veg out on the beach and
miss all the good stuff.

	It was the first time since I met her that I had the drop on
her. So I told her she couldn't go, you had to be a writer, it was out
of the question. She said it was probably nothing but a collection of
pot-bellied old men working out their frustrations by writing stories
for the Internet. I said she was just jealous. She said she couldn't
be bothered with such a collection of perverts. I said good, I'd have
more fun without her. She hung up. Then I realized I'd backed myself
into a hole--I had to go. To an orgy. Me.

	The next day she called again and said she was sorry she was
so bitchy, I should go and have a good time, and did I know where to
buy some sexy clothes because what I usually wear certainly wouldn't
do. Beth is nasty, brutish, and short, not to mention an absolute
knockout and rich, but basically she's a good egg. I promised her I'd
write all about it when I got back and give her a copy. So I guess
this is for Beth, but I thought I might as well let the rest of you
know how it was for me.  

					----------

	The way I saw it, nobody was going to pay any attention to me
at all unless I whittled a sharp stick into a javelin and killed a
wild pig at 35 meters, if there were any wild pigs. I heard some guy
behind me say something like, "I bet she writes vanilla," when I was
standing by Mal's fire. Let's face it, I'm just not orgy material. So,
the hell with it. I wandered off on a rocky path that seemed to go
straight up. 

	It was hard travelling at first, but within five minutes the
path had widened a little and smoothed out. It just kept going up.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes, I came out onto a wide grassy
plateau, with a few palm trees scattered around. The place was
absolutely beautiful. The meadow sloped downward gently toward the
ocean on one side, so I wandered off in that direction and ultimately
wound up on the edge of a kind of  cliff. Down a fairly steep
forty-foot slant I could see our beach--the path must have curved a
little. The view was breathtaking. Sand, then green water, then
blue-green, then a beautiful royal blue. Where I was standing, right
at the edge, the grass was only an inch or two high, so I just sat
down and stared. I was hot, even though I was only wearing a white
T-shirt and shorts. I was sweaty and it was mortally hot and humid,
but the breeze was almost cool. Finally I lay back and just relaxed.
It was great to be away from the crowd. I went to sleep.

	"You're going to get a hell of a sunburn."

	It was my mother, nagging away as usual. But she almost never
said "hell." Come to think of it, she didn't have a nice bass voice,
either. I opened my eyes. Big, tall guy. Dark. I was squinting, and I
couldn't make out anything else because he had a blinding sunny halo
all around him.

	"You look like my guardian angel," I said.

	"I am," he said. "I've come to rescue you from the demon
sunshine."

	"If I'm not hallucinating this whole thing," I said, "you're
an angel from Texas."

	"Good ear. Can I sit down, or do I have to just stand here?"

	"Sit," I said. He sounded nice.

	"Actually," he said, "I'd rather we both go over there about
twenty feet and sit under that tree. I'm still worried about your
sunburn."

	I took his outstretched hand and struggled to my feet. I was
still half asleep, but I did notice that he pulled my weight without
turning a hair.

	"OK."

	We sat under the tree, and the shade did feel good. I liked
being rescued. I don't think anybody ever rescued me from anything
before; usually I'm the one that does the rescuing. 

	"I'm Sandman," he said, putting out a hand. "And you're Janey.
I recognized you from that wholly inadequate description in your
January story."

	I shook. It was odd to be so formal out on this Godforsaken
island.

	"I thanked you for the review," I said. "I thank you again."

	"You're welcome," he said. "I like being thanked in person
better than by e-mail."

	"I saw you on the ship, but I didn't know who you were. You
seemed to stay out of the light, somehow."

	"So did you." He smiled.

	"What are you doing up here, far from the madding crowd?"

	"I  saw you start up the hill, and after a while I thought I'd
like to see where you went. I followed you. So the real question is,
what are YOU doing here?"

	"Sleeping, I guess," I said.

	"That's not what I meant."

	"Well, if you really want to know, I left because I felt sorry
for myself. All those cute babes like Kim and Taria, not to mention
those cheerleader children, running around half dressed with the men
chasing them made me feel like Grandma. I think Bronwen's bored with
me, we talked so much on the ship. And the men--half of them are the
same age as the nymphets, or maybe younger, and most of the rest were
all tied up or otherwise not useful. One really obnoxious midget with
a grey braid down his back kept trying to pinch my butt. He had to
reach up to do it. Obviously I'm not cut out for this orgy stuff.
Should have stayed in Boston. At least I could get some raisins to eat
there. And maybe an omelette."

	"Well," he said, "I'm glad you came. And I have some crackers
and a sausage to share."

	"Water, too?"	"Yep, water, too." I hadn't really
noticed his backpack until he pulled it over and fished out a pint
bottle. "Here."

	I took a big drink. Too much for my share, really, but, heck,
there was plenty more just down the hill if he got really thirsty.

	"Thank you," I said. "I'm not really hungry, but the water was
good." I leaned back, propping myself on my elbows.

	I told him that I felt I knew him a little because I'd loved
his stories, but that he was a little younger and a little taller than
I'd pictured him. He's a swimmer, like me, so we traded swim meet
tales. He remembered all about my domestic arrangements from my
stories. (He actually remembered what I'd written. Wow!) So he told me
about his life. He wasn't married, but was about to be. He'd majored
in computer science at the U. of  Texas, and had a job with a big
company. Then he got personal.

	"You know, I called your description of yourself wholly
inadequate. You want to know why?"

	"You obviously want to tell me, so I'll listen."

	"Your legs. I was looking at your legs while you were
stretched out asleep over there and they really did a number on me.
You have fantastic legs."

	"Really," I said in a flat voice. I poked one of them out in
the air and looked at it. "Good, huh?"

	"Yes. Very good. Astonishing, as a matter of fact. Most
women's legs are too skinny. Yours aren't. Very nice, rounded thighs.
I can see the muscle, but it's not enough to ruin the line. Calves the
same. Swimmer's legs. Very nice."

	"Well, thank you, I guess."

	"May I touch?"

	"Uhhh, sure."

	He touched my leg, all right. He moved so that he was facing
this supposedly fascinating object, put one hand under my heel and the
other under the spot just above my knee, and gently lifted the leg.
Then he leaned over and--took a good long lick. I felt like jumping
out of my skin, but I held still. This was getting interesting.

	"A little salty," he said, looking off into the distance. Then
he turned his head to      me. "But still very good."

	Now what could I say to that? Nothing. I am not great on the
uptake, especially in a situation like this. Definitely, this was a
situation. I just lay there, still resting on my elbows, watching.

	He wriggled closer until my leg was over his thighs. Then he
started stroking it, very, very gently. Ankle, calf, knee. Back to
ankle. Oh, delicious feeling. Then inner thigh, a couple of fairly
earth-shattering strokes. I let myself fall back into the grass.

	He stopped and spoke. "There was another inaccuracy."

	"Uh huh?"

	"Your face. You said it wouldn't launch any ships. Actually, I
think it might. Maybe not a whole Greek armada, but at least a dozen
or so."

	"Why don't you keep on rubbing my leg while you talk to me?"
My body began saying this was way past interesting--maybe exciting.

	"I was talking about your face. May I touch it, too?"

	"Please do."

	He reached up with one hand and stroked my cheek. Gently. This
guy was good! The other hand just sort of lay there, on my thigh. All
this attention was making me warm, breeze or no breeze. Then he leaned
over and kissed me, at some length. His lips were as gentle as his
hands. His mouth was a little open, so I kept waiting for his tongue
to come crawling out. It didn't. So I went after it. This kiss lasted
maybe four hours. Or thirty seconds? I don't know. He backed off, and
thigh stroking commenced again. I was seriously liking this. In fact I
was beginning to get that empty feeling "down there" that I told you
about before. It seems to come when I realize I'm about to get a
filled feeling.

	"You're also taller than you said, aren't you? A couple of
inches?"

	"Look, five-ten sounds a lot better than
five-eleven-and-seven-eighths, doesn't it?"

	"Not to me. I'm taller than you are."

	"For a man in Texas you're only a little taller than ordinary.
I'm female, I live in Boston, and I've had shit about my height since
I was twelve. Kids are really nasty, and adults aren't a hell of a lot
better."

	"I think you're the right height, and the hell with everybody
else."

	What could I say? Here's this dreamboat still, oh, so gently,
stroking the inside of my upper thigh, looking at me with those
beautiful blue eyes, and paying gentle compliments. I considered
saying, "Wanna fuck?" and discarded the idea--not my image. Tried
something else.

	"Are you trying to seduce me?"

	"Not any more," he said. "That's already done. The rest will
be the best part."

	The arrogant prick. Even if he was, indeed, right.

	"Do I get any choice in what happens next?" I asked.

	"Of course," he said, "but why don't you leave it up to me for
a while? I don't mind the responsibility."

	"One other question. What will your fiancee think of this?"

	"This is not real," he said. "Castaway Island is out of time.
She won't mind."

	Smooth, very. I wondered if his friend had any idea what she
was getting. I relaxed. The stroking continued. Unbelievable. I was
lying there getting wet and this guy had hardly touched me--just a few
strokes, back and forth--and a kiss. I could stand this all day. It
was like being just a little bit drunk, and taking tiny sips every so
often so you'd stay that way and not go up or down.  My eyes closed. A
kiss, this time right where his hand was, on my inner thigh. I
shivered.

	He took my left hand in both of his and began caressing it.
Then, slowly, up my bare arm, almost to the shirtsleeve, on the
inside. So gentle it almost tickled. But not quite. His mouth on mine.
Light pressure, an opening, a tongue darting in, then withdrawing.
Mouth gone. Tiny kisses on my neck, then around, following the shirt
collar. Stroking my arm. I was melting away. Nobody can give you an
orgasm just by stroking your arm and giving you little kisses, right?
I wouldn't bet on it. I could feel the electricity build. But if it
took all day, I'd wait. Gladly.

	I opened my eyes, lifted my head a little so I could see what
I was doing, and lightly placed my hand on his khaki shorts where they
covered his penis, which was quite obviously watching the proceedings
with interest.

	"No, don't," he said. "I want this to take a while, and if you
do that, it won't."

	My, God! This is Saint Francis. I jerked my hand away as if
I'd been burned. As somebody once said, this was the most fun anybody
could possibly have with her clothes on. Just then, of course, he
began to lift the bottom of the T-shirt.

	"Sit up a minute," he said. I did, and lifted my arms so the
shirt would come off over my head. He reached around me, not quite
touching, and unsnapped my bra. I just wear it for show, really, so
people will see the bra line on the back and think there's something
in front.

	He looked at what he'd uncovered and said, "I've found another
discrepancy. You have tits. Not great big ones, but enough. Ample.

	"Now lie down again."

	"Yes, sir." I did. Now the stroking was on my stomach.

	"You have tiny blonde hairs on your stomach," he said. "Fuzz."

	"True," I said.

	"I like it."

	Anything you like you can have, I thought. The stroking
continued. I wondered what he was thinking. Then the thinking stopped.

	He lay his head on my chest, gently. He was so gentle. I
couldn't believe it. Believe it, I told myself. One hand came up under
my right breast, stroking, gently. Up a little more. A touch, just a
touch, on my nipple. I shuddered. Inside the turmoil was getting
worse. I mean better. More and more electricity. Oh! So nice! He moved
his head a little, and flicked my other nipple with his tongue. Bliss!
His whole mouth on my breast, lightly sucking, tongue touching only
now and then, oh, happy nipple! The other hand, still moving around
sort of aimlessly, stroking. My hand on his back, just touching him.

	It all stopped. I opened my eyes. He was taking off his shirt,
then his shorts and his underwear. Naked. He wasn't really Adonis,
kind of a crooked nose, a small but bright scar on one side of his
chest. He was close enough.

	"Slide out of your shorts," he said. I did. "Now relax."

	Easier said than done. Here we were, naked as jaybirds, under
a palm tree on a tropical island. But not real. Out of time. I lay
back and waited to see what would happen next. He started where he
left off, just gently stroking. I didn't know whether I wanted to wait
all day after all. I has getting very excited. Tiny little orgasmic
feelings, you know, little bolts of lightning, were shooting through
my vagina and up into my stomach. Could this keep on so long I'd throw
up? No. Never. But my God!

	Then both hands, sliding up my sides, gently holding my
breasts. Thumbs stroking, stroking. Left nipple, a touch, another. I
couldn't help it; I grabbed his arm and bit his hand. Not too hard.
Then I let go. I opened my eyes again.

	"Hey, Sandman?"

	"Yeah?"

	"Can't you please just stop the preliminaries and come inside?
I don't think I can stand this anymore."

	No answer, just a body stretching out, a body looming over me,
my legs opening wide, my hand guiding, my eyes looking directly into
his, a few inches away, his gentle smile, his warm penis slipping into
my oh-so-slippery vagina. A kiss, long and intimate. A hug. No more
movement, just lying there, feeling. All filled up.

	Slowly he withdrew, almost all the way--not quite. Then back
in slowly. I heard a bird call. Nothing moved. I breathed. A hand on
my brow, pushing my hair back.

	"I like your messy hair."

	I hugged him down on me. He was heavy, pinning me to the
ground. No midget this one. I smiled.

	"What are you laughing at?" he said.

	"I was thinking that you're not a midget, then I remembered
it's not politically correct to call the others, you know, the short
ones, midgets. My best friend is really short, and I wouldn't hurt her
feelings for the world. But I think midget all the time--sometimes
runt--because I started thinking that way in junior high when they
asked me how the weather was up there. Fucking midgets, I thought."

	"Bad girl. I might have to squash you for thinking evil
thoughts."

	"You already are. Squash me some more."

	"My pleasure." But instead he lifted himself on his elbows and
gradually withdrew again. Then back in, slowly. Again. And again, and
again, slowly. I was going, no, coming, gone, a-a-a-ah!

	"Sandman. Stop fucking around! More. Now!"

	"Yes, ma'am," he said. In. Out. In, out. In, out. Faster.
Harder. Me, coming again. Not so loudly. More like a groan. In, out.
In, out. "Ugh. U--ugh." Collapse. Silence. I held him, tight. My life
preserver.

	He lifted his head and looked at me. Big grin, not gentle at
all.

	"Thank you for rescuing me," he said.

	I looked up, puzzled. "From what? It was the other way around,
you rescued me!"

	"Never mind, maybe we rescued each other."

	He rolled off and lay beside me.

	"Think we'll get chiggers?" I said. 

	He looked alarmed. "God, I hope not." Then he relaxed. "Naw,
this is paradise, remember? No chiggers here. Now if this were Texas .
. . ."

	"We have ticks in Massachusetts, and mosquitoes," I said
helpfully.

	"But no tarantulas, no rattlesnakes, no cotton-mouths. And no
chiggers. Hey, let's eat, then go back to the mob. I feel better."

	We put on our clothes, ate his sausage and crackers, drank the
last of the water, and walked across the field, hand in hand. We had
to let go during the last few minutes to make it down the steep path.
But he was holding my hand again when we walked into the camp or
whatever it was.

					--------


	Until the people came to get us Sandman and I hung out nearly
all the time together. I caught him watching once when one of the
cuties walked by swinging her butt, but I took him off behind some
bushes and got that right out of his mind. Can't be too careful. 

	Sometimes we separated for a while. I got a lot more social,
for some reason. Playing around down on the beach I talked to Kim a
while about this and that and then I taught her how to put the shot
with a coconut. Given her reputation as a loose cannon, maybe that was
not the best thing to do, since you're not supposed to put the shot
actually AT anybody, but what the hell, it was fun. 

	I even talked to the little guy with the braid. He's OK if
you ignore some of his quaint notions. He said pinching butts is just
a sideline with him. Actually, he likes big women who dress up like
little girls. He said he'd love to get me some little girl clothes
that would fit me and then we could have a hell of a time. I declined.

	It was even more fun, however, just to hang around, holding
Sandman's hand. We did that a lot and people kidded us. Supposed to be
an orgy, they said, and what the hell was wrong with us? Sandman would
just smile and say everything was fine. I really love that guy.

	Then the big boat came for us. We knew it would, sooner or
later. Sandman and I clung together on the beach watching it come in,
slowly.

	"I'm not going to wait for them," I said.

	"What do you mean?

	"I'm leaving now. This is not real, we're out of time,
remember?"

	"I love you," he said.

	"And I love you."

	We hugged each other hard, nothing gentle about it. We kissed
once more. Then I turned and walked down the beach away from the
others, went behind a palm tree, and snapped my fingers. 

	My mother is a little bit of a witch. She's Irish, but she
doesn't make much of it except now and then. I don't know why she
thought I'd ever need it, but she once told me, "If you're ever in a
place that's not real, that's out of time, and you want to come back
home, just get off by yourself and snap your fingers." So I did . . .
.

				-----------------

	And now I'm sitting at the computer in frozen old Boston,
writing this up for Beth, and for my husband Bob--he'll understand,
just the way Sandman's fiancee will--and for anybody else who cares to
take a look. 
				-------END------









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