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Subject: {Bombadil}JDR"Amazonia 2a"( MF+ Mf+ FF fant )[3/4]
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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
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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
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These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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=====================
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 2a
The next morning started with what he assumed was becoming normal
for the women - Raquel was working on inserting his member into
herself. For the first time since the crash, he was able to think
with a clear mind. He stopped the young lady, avoiding a repeat of
the rape performed a few days prior by laying her down beside him
and engaging in some caressing foreplay.
Only with difficulty could he recall specific events from the past
few days. The sex, while nice, had seemed dreamlike, unreal, as
though it weren't really happening to him. The rest was a blur of
images.
It was with a newfound sense of self, some determination, and not
a little regret, that Tom decided he had to see if there were any
civilized folk on the island. "People will be missing me, people
will be worrying. I have to make the attempt." He justified in
his own mind his reasons for escaping from what he saw as gentle
captivity.
Tom decided that something they'd been feeding him had to be
drugged. It was the only possibly reason, he thought, for his
several days of mental fog. He looked around to see what was
happening, and to see if there was any possibility of escape.
Elizabet was preparing breakfast - the usual - and was ignoring the
activities at his end of the hut. Marilyn was laying there, just
watching, with half-lidded eyes, as though she were still mostly
asleep.
Getting up, he made the motions for having to visit the latrine.
Raquel tipped her head, Marilyn made no overt gestures or noises,
and the older woman simply ignored him. After climbing into his
jeans, he went to where he'd indicated, did his morning business,
then, with a final look around to see if he was being watched, he
simply walked off into the trees.
Heading south at what he considered a fairly rapid pace, he
followed the beach line. There, the foliage was more open, the
ground was firmer than beach sand, and there was some cover from
spying eyes. He also liked the fact that the jungle was no more
than a few steps away. "Distance", he thought, "then invisibility,
then think about everything else."
Tom had never in his life been in what could be called prime
physical shape. He had been gifted with a firm, decently muscled
body by the genetic lottery, so he'd never had to work at staying
good looking. It now showed. After surviving a near-fatal spill
in the ocean, after doing very little for more than a week, after
suddenly getting up and exerting himself with no breakfast and no
supper the previous night, he exhausted himself within the hour.
He had to stop and lean against a tree for a few minutes to catch
his breath before he could force himself to continue.
Ten more minutes stumbling walk found him a small, clear, sweet
stream. A long drink refreshed him somewhat, bringing back a little
of his flagging energy. It also reminded him that he was hungry.
There were no banana trees right there waiting for him, no date
trees, and no ripe berries or other fruit to be found. Only the
ubiquitous coconut could be seen, and he had neither the strength
nor the skill to harvest those. Walking upstream a few dozen yards,
he found a pool. In it were fish. He knew that because he saw
their shadowy forms darting away from him under the water.
All the want in the world didn't help. He couldn't catch them with
his bare hands, and they didn't oblige him by jumping out of the
water and landing at his feet. An hour later, with his stomach
complaining loudly, he slowly came to realize that running away
before breakfast might not have been such a good idea, even though
the food might have been laced with something.
Three hours later, two of them spent stumbling farther south along
the beach line, he came to realize that finding lunch could be even
more difficult than finding breakfast. He was at another of those
small streams, trying to catch a fish in what turned out to be a
rather large and deep pond. They weren't cooperating any better
than their brethren had in the first pond.
Tom gave up after doing a face plant in the water. The fish he'd
been after, small even by his standards, was somewhere behind him,
back in the deeper water, and he could almost hear it laughing its
finny little head off.
During his trek, he'd seen plenty of birds - way up in the trees.
He'd seen a few bird's nests - way up in the trees. He'd seen what
could have been edible fruit. It was - you guessed it - way up in
the trees. He'd ignored the few lizards that had crossed his
trail. Nothing else edible, other than seaweed, seemed to be in
evidence. Frustration, and an increasing sense of helplessness,
started eating away at his resolve.
It was the sound of giggling voices which broke him out of his
misery. Whoever was making that noise was getting closer, so he
hid in the bushes.
A dozen or so of the teenage girls walked into view. Most of them
were carrying bamboo sticks with something wrapped around their
lengths, but three of the youngsters were carrying strings of fish
hanging from the ends of poles. His mouth watered. After twenty
years of enjoying sushi, he figured he'd have no trouble handling
another variety of raw fish.
None of the girls looked in his direction, and none of them seemed
to take any notice of his footprints around the pond. He started
to relax a little.
They set about their task, which seemed to be catching dinner. Most
of the girls unfurled their poles, which turned out to be short
nets strung in between two bamboo rods. They entered the pond from
one side, walked across in a line, made as much noise as possible
while holding the nets underwater as a sort of moving fence, and
stopped in the shallows of the far end, forming a semi-circle.
The remaining three teens then used their nets, shortened for ease
of handling, to scoop a number of fish out of the water. When they
had, by Tom's estimate, a couple dozen of the silvery skinned
creatures, the girls broke ranks and let the rest escape back into
deeper water.
They strung their catch onto a couple of new lines, packed
everything up, and left. All Tom could do was stare, and marvel at
their efficiency. The entire operation had taken less that ten
minutes. Shaking off his lethargy once the voices faded away, he
rushed over to see if they had left any fish on the bank. They
hadn't. His stomach growled loudly, as if disappointed.
Sleeping through the heat of the day, he woke again in the late
afternoon. Something was chewing on his arm. He slapped at it,
then realized something was chewing on his other arm as well. His
slaps didn't do much good. Then the pains started on his shoulders
and his back. Finally he took a good look. Ants were swarming all
over his bare skin. A quick dash, a quick splash, and some quickly
suppressed bellows of pain later, the ants were gone. Their legacy,
a number of painful bites, stung sharply from the salt water.
Tom quietly cursed some more, then quickly ran and hid himself in
the jungle. He'd heard voices.
A group of six older women walked by. One of them stopped and
pointed at his footprints, saying something. The others looked like
they were unimpressed and resumed walking. Tom figured it had to
be a hunting party, since all six carried spears, and he had a
nasty suspicion that it was him they were hunting.
Ten minutes after they passed, he started walking again. His feet
hurt. Having no shoes to wear, they were being punished far beyond
what they were used to. He figured that if he didn't get some
protection for them soon, they'd start blistering. No ideas for
help came to his mind.
Nightfall found him near another stream. Thirst was not a problem,
but hunger was a gnawing pain. Crabs were easy to catch, but with
no fire to cook them with, he couldn't bring himself to try eating
any. One small fish fell prey to his skills. That, and a
half-dozen clams broken open with a rock and eaten raw, finished
off his meal. Twenty minutes later he lost it all. Water did
little to remove the acrid taste.
Fallen leaves, gathered into a relatively soft, sandy spot, was
his bed. He figured it was better than nothing. Sleep came
quickly, despite his discomforts.
**********
He thought he was dreaming, hearing the girls giggling in his
sleep. When their voices grew louder, and he noticed that it was
daytime, Tom suddenly realized he was awake, he wasn't very well
hidden, and that some girls were coming down the beach.
Staying completely still, he tried to become invisible. The spot
he'd chosen to sleep on, while good from a comfort point of view,
was right near the edge of the beach. He could tell by the sounds
that it was too late to try and hide.
Nine or ten teenagers came trotting into view along the beach line,
accompanied by half a dozen of the pre-teens, talking and laughing
among themselves. Staying as still as his hammering heart would
allow, he watched them pass. All but the last two. A shout from
a tiny brunette brought the whole group to an immediate halt. They
stared at him. He stared back. They started whispering to each
other. Among the quiet words and occasional nervous giggles, he
heard his name, and that of Raquel and Elizabet. Another name, Sam,
was also mentioned frequently.
He did nothing, absolutely nothing, for a little while. Three of
them went running back in the direction they came from. The rest
stood or sat in the shade of the trees, watching, but otherwise
not interfering with him in any way.
Tom thought he should run, should hide, should do something. He
felt far too miserable. Then something wonderful happened. One
of the girls, under the watchful eyes of himself and the others,
passed him a satchel.
The odours told him what it contained. Dried fish, flat bread,
and dried fruit. It was hard for him not to bolt his food, he was
so hungry. The food tasted wonderful. That, and water, was
breakfast.
An hour later he started walking back towards the village. He was
moving rather slowly as his feet were blistered, swollen and
tender. The decision to return hadn't been difficult for him to
make. It was return, or starve. He'd seen no sign of
civilization - no boats, no planes, no smoke, no noise, and, most
telling of all, no litter of any kind. If modern people were there,
they weren't there in numbers, or in any really obvious fashion. He
knew it was also possible modern people were infrequent visitors to
the island, with no permanent settlement. He just couldn't figure
out where the blondes and redheads had come from.
A few hours later he was met by his usual retinue. Elizabet and
Marilyn looked mad. They scowled and gave him dirty looks. Raquel,
however, stood in front of him, also scowling, and gave him a piece
of her mind. He didn't understand the words, but the meaning was
clear. She was upset. Tom kept his eyes downcast and tried to look
properly abject and chastened. It wasn't hard, the way he was
feeling. They escorted him back to the village, back to the hut,
fed him, and put him to bed. He slept the sleep of the dead.
**********
Three days and seven women later, he was again allowed some freedom.
They let him wander around unescorted, but someone was always
watching. He thought that better than being practically tied to
one or the other of them.
The next morning, he woke up with one of the older girls in his
bed, one that appeared to be around sixteen. She was one of the
many that looked more native than not. She wanted the same as all
the others, and with his three keepers hovering over him to make
sure he did what they wanted, he complied. It wasn't something he
found particularly onerous. On the contrary, he enjoyed himself
thoroughly, since the young lady was shapely, nice looking, and very
much enjoyed herself as well. It just seemed very strange to him
that they would want such a young woman to do what she did.
Something else he wondered about was where all the men were at. Did
they all sail off someplace? Or were they all in another village
somewhere else on the island. Without any information, his
imagination ran wild. Nothing he came up with, though, explained
all the details, such as blonde-haired blue-eyed Marilyn.
Another of the details that bothered him was that most of the women
lived in groups. Not family groups, but sexual groups. Even the
older girls lived in pairs, threesomes, foursomes, and more. Of his
keepers, he suspected that Elizabet and Raquel belonged to a
foursome, and Marilyn belonged to a fivesome. Why they all shared
a hut with him was yet another unsolved mystery.
**********
A week later, after he had enjoyed the attentions of another dozen
women and girls, something different happened. They packed him up
for a trip. There wasn't much to that - his three keepers simply
got him up, let him put his pants on, got handed some satchels of
food, and he, the three women, and a half-dozen others headed up
the beach. That was all before breakfast. They went in the
opposite direction to the one he had travelled in.
He still didn't understand much of what they said, but a few words
had become familiar. The names of the various foods and liquids,
bodily functions, and sexual parts and acts - the things surrounding
him all day - he'd memorized. One word they used that he didn't
know, but recognized, was the name Sam. He remembered it from when
the young girls found him. It wasn't the name of any of the women
in the village that he had met or seen, that he was sure of, yet
they used that name and his quite frequently in the same pieces of
conversation.
It was while they were walking along the tide line, after lunch,
that he spotted some wreckage. They left him alone while he checked
out his find, but watched carefully. Tom finally broke down,
dropping to his knees, when he turned over one particularly large
piece of metal. Despite knowing intellectually that his plane could
never have survived the crash, having proof of its destruction in
his hands was a different matter. He sobbed, staring at the
markings on that piece of wing, finally realizing that he was,
indeed, trapped on that island.
For the rest of the afternoon, he combed the beach and the surf for
anything that might be useful. The body of the aircraft was sitting
under fifteen feet of water about two hundred yards from shore.
"A couple hundred yards," he cursed silently to himself. "A fuckin'
few seconds of air time. You fuckin' bastards up there couldn't
give me that little bit extra, could you. Well fuck you all. Tom
Largent is gonna fuckin' survive and get off this fuckin' postage
stamp without your fuckin' help!"
Not much survived, he found out as he swam through the wreckage and
searched the beach. The black box, one of the tiny threads of hope
he still held, seemed totally dead. That wasn't unexpected, since
it was several years overdue for replacement. Not surprisingly, the
radio was smashed - broken, he thought, by some flying debris.
Three weeks under water rendered almost everything else useless too,
including his emergency supplies. Only two things either worked or
were still of use. One was the knife in his emergency kit. Despite
some corrosion, it was still sharp. The second was that satellite
navigation thing. Tom groaned and shook his head at the injustice
of it all. Now he could tell anyone his exact latitude, longitude,
altitude, speed, and just about anything else they would care to
know. There was only one small problem - he had no way of
communicating with anybody.
"They can make one of these fuckin' things survive forever. Why
can't they do the same thing with a fuckin' radio."
When he finally gave up swimming through what used to be his plane,
more because of exhaustion than because he really wanted to, he
stripped off his jeans and washed them, and himself, clean of salt
in a nearby stream. The women set up camp at that point, feeding
him the usual for dinner.
There was a different Tom bedding down that night. Gone was the
easy-going attitude. Gone was the sense of unreality. It was with
new eyes that he looked around the fire at an alien people. He
tried to forget about how familiar they looked, and how they treated
him, and instead thought of them as an undiscovered native tribe.
Tom believed that his survival depended on learning about them and
somehow coming to understand their culture.
Nobody tried to share his bed that night or the next morning.
**********
=====================
Amazonia
by Tom Bombadil
Section 2a
-30-
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