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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: Spring Orgy Story: "Feeding the Fishes" (oral, rape, humor)
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Lord Malinov is hosting a Spring Break on his Pacific Island, at which
the ASS/ASSM/ASSD regulars have just arrived in lifeboats after
disaster struck our Erotica Writers Cruise.
DG <dionysian1@hotmail.com> posted the first story, "A Cruise to
Remember" on 21 March. This is my follow-up contribution to the Spring
Orgy. WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1998. Not to be used without permission.
-- Feeding the Fishes --
by Bronwen
@---}---}-----
I was fully conscious as soon as my eyelids parted. Impossible not to
respond to that brilliant sky, that blinding sunlight. It was the
visual equivalent of happiness.
I lay perfectly still for several minutes, struggling to get my
thoughts in some sort of order. "W- what happened?" I asked out loud.
But only the susurration of sea and palm - and my own wry chuckle -
answered me.
As the memories flooded back I felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
One of the few members of the party who didn't drink, I'd been up
bright and early for lectures. Well, one session in particular. And
not so much bright as wired.
Bloody DG. How had the smooth-talking bastard persuaded me to moderate
that thing with Vickie Tern? I'd been miserable ever since I agreed.
Vickie and I were back on good terms, of course, but I wasn't sure
Vickie's fans knew that. One of the first things I'd noticed on
boarding the ship was a cluster of stubbly women hovering indecisively
in front of the two bathroom doors. Of course many authors had brought
a few fans - but these guys were wearing knuckle dusters.
Apprehension had ruined the first night for me, though luckily
everyone was having too good a time to notice. The following morning -
sick with nerves - I'd been outside the seminar room door with hours
to spare. Lying on the beach I smile, recalling my dizzy gratitude
when I realized no one else was going to turn up.
I remembered calling a cheerful 'Good night' to Vickie just as she had
been about to win a bet by drinking margaritas from a fellow-TG
enthusiast's shoe. What with the potency of the cocktail and the sheer
volume of the shoe, it was hardly surprising the poor woman was in a
fragile state the following day.
But my sympathy for my esteemed co-moderator was mixed with exquisite
relief. Some of those most eager to attend "Reviewing Stories - Should
The Reviewer's Personal Preference Affect the Rating?" were fond of
extreme violence, in fiction at least. I was weak with happiness not
to have to risk finding out exactly how far these tastes might extend
towards my person.
Freed from the ordeal hanging over me, that lunch had been a huge
contrast to the previous night. In a mood of wild celebration, I'd
collected Uther and two plates from the buffet queue and taken the
world's best cunnilinguist back to my cabin for in-depth cultural
exchange. Monogamy and RL having been abandoned for the duration, we
had a memorable afternoon. As I'd long suspected, he converted me from
a no-frills girl to a muff-diving maven in the course of only a few
unforgettable hours....
As Uther returned to his cabin to dress for dinner he remarked huskily
that he'd never see the phrase 'stiff upper lip' in quite the same
light again. Utterly fulfilled, I smiled languidly, and promised to
see him later. But after he'd gone I realized I was too limp to stand,
let alone dress for dinner. I decide to order room service and have an
early night.
Ten minutes later my carefree post-orgasmic mood shriveled to a
blackened crisp when the steward told me reassuringly that the
abandoned lecture program had been rescheduled for the following
morning. Ditching my idea of a light supper, I mentally overturned my
order. "I'll have six jam doughnuts, two huge bars of chocolate and a
quart of milk," I said.
Wrapping myself in my softest, most reassuring snuggly I awaited the
arrival of my comfort food. Which came in a dinky little picnic box,
accompanied by a whiff of smoke and a white-faced steward. The rest
was chaos. Corridors hazy with smoke, clattering up the companion way
into the air, the stars overhead as the lifeboats were lowered.
How I'd fallen out of the lifeboat was not entirely clear. It had
happened in the middle of the night. I remembered being in the
lifeboat, wrapped in my duvet, and I vaguely remembered
Bear and Lady Bear whispering, though I couldn't hear what they were
saying. There were giggles too. Then I'd drifted into sleep.
Buggers must' ve bounced me out in my sleep and I was too tired to
notice. Well, Bear's a huge bloke. Not as hairy as a bear, but in that
fur coat he does a pretty good impression. And Lady Bear's what my old
man would call 'a fine big girl.' I suppose the motto has to be that
when not-insignificant people start fucking in open boats other people
tend to fall out. At least, that's what seems to have happened to
me...
They probably think I'm still curled up under my duvet in the stern. I
grin to myself as I picture their dismay when they find the pile of
bedclothes uninhabited. "Serve 'em right, selfish fuckers! They'll
think I've been eaten by sharks," I giggle.
But come to think of it, I am being eaten by something. Stiffly, I
ease myself to a sitting position. What is tickling my pinkies?
Oh, how *sweet*! My body's on the sand but from the calves down my
legs still lie in the shallows, and dozens of tiny rainbow fishes are
nibbling at my toes. Exquisite sensation.
Lying back again and wriggling my toes to encourage the fish, my
thoughts take a more philosophic turn. It's a beautiful day, and a
totally ravishing beach - as a few seconds upright showed me. The kids
are safe in England in the care of their father, I'm inordinate
well-insured, and none of this is real anyway. I might as well enjoy
myself.
Giving myself over to a fantasy of a troupe of naked Buzby Berkeley
bathing belles pressing kisses first on my feet and then, gradually,
up and up.... I slip my fingertips between my thighs.
It's the first time I've noticed I'm naked. Sky-clad, as the wicca
say. Somewhere along the way my robe must' ve drifted off in the
ocean. "Oh well, it'll all come out in the wash," I say aloud, and
giggle rather foolishly. Shan't see that robe again, which is a shame
seeing as I bought it for the trip. Such a seductive garment.
Or perhaps it's been washed up near me on the beach? It's nice being
bare now, but it'll get cold later. I could do with that robe. Sitting
again I gaze around me, shading my eyes. Not a sign of a stitch of
clothing on the white sand. On the other hand I obviously had the
right priorities even during a near death experience. Only a foot or
so behind me is my little picnic hamper.
I stretch over and open it. Everything's still there, and in
remarkably good nick. The chocolate's melted completely, but the
doughnuts are still quite fresh. Should be, I suppose. After all, it
was only last night.....
My husband always says my dirty mind is one of my main virtues.
Thinking of yesterday afternoon and its lessons, I start to fondle my
still slightly swollen sex. Thinking of yesterday, and of how Taria
looked in the pool and how Kim looked even with a hangover, my mind
turns again to the eager tongues of mermaids.....
Slipping down the beach I immerse myself in the sea, sprinkling little
fragments of doughnut over the relevant areas to tempt the fishes
north. Or up my thighs, anyway. I'm not at all sure where north is,
just the moment.
I remember feeding bread to the fish from a taverna in the Greek
Islands on my honeymoon. Not that we used quite this technique. Bloody
good technique, though. I shan't come this way, but it's
blissfully decadent. Lie there in the sun while fish nibble my pussy
lips. I tilt my hips to give them access to my anus. Might even get a
bikini wax refresher if they're really good nibblers.... Remembering
my honeymoon. Tiny little nuzzles on my flesh... Wet and getting
wetter.
Closing my eyes against the glare I feel the sensitivity starting on
my nose. Bugger. Sunburn.
I'm an English rose. I peel in Cornwall. I even burn in London. Out
here I'll fry. And I've got nothing to protect me except the palm
trees. Which means abandoning my shoal of little fishes. Just when I
was getting *really* fond of them. There must be another way....
Chocolate. It's an oil - or at least it's got oil in it. Cocoa butter.
I could apply it to the most exposed bits for protection. There don't
seem to be any flies around here. "No flies on me either!" I crow, and
comfort myself there's nothing wrong with laughing at your own jokes
if no one else is available.
Smearing your body with two 400gm bars of milk chocolate is a
delightful experience. It smells nice, it looks nice, it feels
glorious. Bugger the fish, I'd eat myself if I could. Which leads me
off into further sybaritic revery, drenched in chocolate, drowned in
sunlight, light-headed from scents of vanilla and frangipani. The
vanilla's in the chocolate but the other stuff must be local....
Scents... Flowers, chocolate, sea air, armpits...
Armpits!!! Armpits mean people!
Bolting upright I see a group of four strange men approaching. An
unfair observation in itself. Covered in chocolate and orally
titillated by fish, who am I to comment on strangeness?
But my island idyll is clearly taking on a darker tone. Literally in
fact, because the men are Polynesian in appearance, at least to my
uneducated eye. They are stark naked, hairless and enormously erect.
Their genitals are clearly delighted to see me. I only wish I could
say the same about their expressions. Predatory is the word.....
"I'm scared!" I cry stupidly as I jump to my feet, preparing to run.
"You called, Bronwen?" a lissome girl with a bright, eager face steps
out from between two palm trees. She's eyeing up the approaching
rapists greedily.
"Imma! Am I ever glad to see you! Look!" I gabble.
"Yessss," Imma Scared's voice is a considering, sultry drawl. "Just
what I need for the *ideal* vacation. Though I'd have preferred six."
"Hang on a minute, you guys," I squeak. "You rape Imma here. I've got
to take a rain check."
Without stopping to hear their response to my offer, I scuttle into
the wall of palms at the back of the beach. Behind me I hear gasps and
the odd low ecstatic growl. The growls are from Imma.
I have a vague feeling it doesn't count as rape when Imma enjoys it so
much, but this hardly seems the best time to retrace my steps and
discuss it with her. Because if I managed to convince *her* the
rapists might take the same line and I could find myself right back
where I started.
I'm a little surprised not to need a machete to cut my way. This is a
desert island after all. But as I recover from my shock I realize that
what's under my feet is a pretty, neatly graveled path. This is no
savage paradise. And no doubt my other ASS colleagues are close at
hand....
@---}---}-----
And so it proves. Within a few moments I find myself at a rather
dilapidated beach bar, now converted (so the sign says) to "Frank's
creche and adventure playground." Frank himself disentangles himself
from some sewing and rushes over.
"Bronwen, thank God you're all right. The others will be thrilled!"
"What's with the creche?" I ask, one eyebrow aslant.
"Well it was when DG put that bit in the story:
>"Women and children first!" screamed some women and children."
It worried me all night in the lifeboat. Women, yes, but what were
children doing on an erotica cruise? My suspicions were aroused. I
knew it couldn't be any of the pedo authors, but one of the fans must
've smuggled an assortment of minors on board. You know my feelings on
the subject. And Anne 747's. She, Taria and I are taking turns keeping
the little angels out of mischief. Taria's off fetching some barb
wire, actually. We thought we'd build a proper fence, at least until
we work out who invited them. If you hang on for ten minutes she'll be
back."
"Sorry," I grin. "Can't wait. Got to wash all this stuff off. But
isn't all this child-minding a bit of a strain?"
"God, no!" Frank smiles. "But," he adds, in a more serious tone, "It's
totally fucked my writing. I never have any problem distinguishing
fantasy from reality. But here - a tropical island - and in cyber
space - well, I think I'd better stick to RL caretaking until I'm back
home! It's just too exhausting..."
Heaping praise on his public spirit and promising to take my turn in
the kiddy-protection roster at least every other day, I set off (still
shedding flakes of chocolate) for a much-needed shower.
@---}---}-----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know (bronwen@anon.nymserver.com)
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
I've got a site at http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen, courtesy of Joe
Parsons. Thanks, Joe!
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