Copyright © 1997
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.
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.
It was the giggling again. That sound brought him back to awareness. They were back, staring through the windows. Only a few started to move when he sat up this time, stopping when the rest didn't budge. His pants were hanging up on the far side of the hut, and he had some urgent business to attend to. After a loud "Shoo" and a wave of his arms, he was alone. The shrieks and giggles retreated into the distance. Just after he'd managed to don his modesty, three women walked in. One was the woman who'd been treating him, whose bed he'd apparently been sharing. The second was somewhat older than his nurse, but looked quite similar. The third made him stare, open mouthed.
She was almost as dark as the others, but with tan, rather than a naturally dark skin. Her hair, highlighted by lots of sun and wind and ocean, was a pale blonde, and her eyes were a pale blue. She was a Nordic beauty by any standards, with a trim figure, moderate sized breasts with large, upturned, coral nipples, and gorgeous legs. She was dressed, like the others, in a simple grass skirt.
It took a moment before he realized he was staring.
"Hello! Am I glad to see you!" Tom was looking straight into the eyes of the blonde woman as he spoke. Her lack of comprehension snuck up on him, then hit him over the head.
"Do you speak English?" Nothing.
"Parlez vouz Francais?" No response.
"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" He was desperate, trying for anything she might recognize. Tom even tried the two different native dialects he'd picked up a little of. Absolutely nothing. The three women spoke excitedly to one another, looking and sometimes pointing at him and making no effort to try and communicate at all. Finally, they stopped for a moment.
"Tom", he said, pointing to himself. When they still stared, he repeated himself, speaking very slowly - "T-o-m."
"Tom", said the younger brunette. The older woman repeated the word, pointing at him, and then the blonde did the same. All three then repeated his name several times.
When there was a pause, he tried the same thing everyone in all the bad movies do. Pointing at himself, he said "Tom", and then he gestured towards the blonde, looking as questioningly as possible. All three looked at him, then laughed.
The blonde pointed at him and said "Tom", then pointed at herself and said "Marilyn". The name was slightly mangled by her accent, but it was unmistakable.
The older woman performed the same ritual, except for calling herself "Elizabet". The young brunette, the one who'd been nursing him, called herself "Raquel".
If it wasn't for his urgent business, he might have stood there for hours with his mouth open. As it was, he just managed to make it in time. He had an audience for his task. None of the arm waving and shooing he did made them go away, so he ended up just barely being able to go. He felt humiliated.
The feeling he'd had back when Carlos was waving that gun at him came back. "This can't be real," he said to himself. "Somewhere out there is a camera, and someone's having an absolutely hysterical time at my expense. These kind of things don't happen to Tom Largent. They don't even happen in the movies - at least not in any self-respecting movie. So just go with the flow, for now. Later, when you're feeling better, find a way out."
When he made it back to the hut, all three women met him outside and guided him to a soft mat under an awning. He sat there with them as they fed him a meal of fruits, vegetables, nuts, and some sort of flat bread, along with more of that sweet drink. He knew he'd been put out there on display, but figured gawking worked both ways. It gave him a chance to study the village and villagers.
He saw women and girls. The younger girls all looked around nine or ten years old, the older girls all looked around fifteen or sixteen, though it was hard for him to really tell, and the women were all either in their early twenties or in their middle thirties and older. There were no young children, no boys, and no men. He didn't remember seeing any either.
Marilyn, the blonde woman with him, began to talk excitedly after a while. Tom paid little attention to her and the other two, since he was mesmerized by the sights around him. All of the younger girls were running around quite naked. He saw one or two who might be just starting puberty, but the rest were definitely still children. Some of the older girls were also wandering around without skirts, showing off everything. Almost all the women wore skirts, but nothing else. Almost all, because he did see the odd one heading for the beach wearing nothing but a tan.
His earlier observations about mixed races turned out to be valid for the entire village, or at least the women of the village, which was all he'd seen. The majority had black hair and showed a distinct Polynesian heritage. The rest were a mixture of brunettes, blondes, and redheads, with the same proportions of different eye colours. Body styles also differed, ranging from slender to solid. None were actually fat or obese.
Before, when he'd dealt with native villages and tribes, all of the women he'd seen naked or near naked had been dark-skinned natives, and he'd learned not to react to them. Now, faced with cuddly blondes, statuesque redheads, and daring brunettes, all showing off at least their upper bodies, his cool demeanour vanished. That's what had excited Marilyn, and brought him the attentions of the other two as well as a scattering of nearby people. She was pointing at his crotch, where a distinct bulge was forming.
There wasn't much for him to do, except grin and bear up under their scrutiny. Trying to avoid thinking about what he had been thinking, he began wondering what he'd landed in. If there had been any records of a village like that within five thousand miles of where he lived, he knew he'd have heard of it. "Besides," he thought to himself, "I've seen this movie before. The only thing missing is an angry volcano waiting to devour my helpless self."
Half-expecting to see a nasty looking plume of smoke and ash, he looked around, and failed to find even an innocent looking white puff. Feeling guilty about the relief he felt, he examined the village.
Jungle hemmed it in on three sides. Through a line of trees on the fourth, he could see sand and sea. The sun was nearly overhead, and even in the shade it felt hot. A light breeze from the ocean helped keep things from becoming like an oven, and a steady supply of that sweet drink staved off dehydration. He heard all the noises from a busy, thriving little community, heard the booming of the surf, and heard the laughs and shrieks from many girls coming from the village, the forest, and the beach. About the only sound missing was that of a male voice. That lack disturbed him. He wondered what was going to happen when they came back.
His day went quickly, especially since he had a nap. After a dinner of fruit, vegetables, nuts, fish, and flat bread, he slept. His nurse slept beside him, and for the first time, to his knowledge anyway, the other two slept in the hut as well. It surprised him that they shared a mat, but he fell asleep before he could pursue that line of thought.
It was late morning when he woke, and the entire village was up and about by then. He quickly acquired his retinue of young voyeurs when they noticed he was awake. Relieving himself was definitely a chore.
Breakfast was the same as dinner, except with different fruits, and no fish. Feeling much stronger, he walked down to the beach. It was beautiful - as nice as any he'd seen in real life or on postcards. The sand was almost white and hot enough to burn, the ocean a brilliant blue, the sky devoid of clouds, and the surf mild because of the surrounding reef. A short walk down to the shore and back tired him out, so he lay down in the shade for a nap.
The giggling woke him up again. His three protectors, or keepers, he thought, since he really didn't know what they were, led him back to the hut for dinner and another nap. His nurse crawled into bed with him after stripping him down. None of them seemed to care much about what he wanted at that point, so he went along with their urgings. He still felt weak, and believed himself to be at their mercy, so acquiescence seemed the way to survive.
A touch woke him up. It was a touch he hadn't expected. Rather, it was in a place he hadn't expected. He could still see, so it was daylight, and a quick look out the window indicated early evening. That touch turned into a caress, and he felt himself respond. Without really wanting to, he opened his eyes, and saw that Raquel, his nurse, was stretched out beside him, pressing her whole body into his. Her hand, though, was what had disturbed his sleep. She was stroking and fondling his cock. That was *not* the same kind of treatment he'd received from the other nurses he had known.
She treated him to a whole body rubbing - her whole body against his - for several minutes while he got hard. Opening his eyes again, he immediately went soft. The other two women were sitting just on the other side of the hut, watching intently, as were a full complement of faces at both windows. He pulled up the blankets immediately and turned away from Raquel.
A few seconds later he found out that he didn't have much choice in the matter. Two sets of hands pulled him onto his back and held down his arms, while his nurse threw back the covers. She began working on him again, this time by sitting on his legs and rubbing the head of his cock against her labia. She, he could tell, was hot and ready to go, if the wetness between her lower lips was to be believed.
There wasn't much Tom could do against their strong arms, as weak as he still felt, so he closed his eyes and tried to relax. He also tried not to get hard, but failed. His rapists, as he considered them at that moment, didn't stop. The wonderful sensation of having his cockhead sliding up and down inside the labia of a good looking woman was simply too much for his animal side to ignore. Despite having his arms held down, despite feeling the stares of all those eyes, he started to respond. His hips began moving up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, almost by themselves.
At a signal from the older woman, Raquel knelt up over top of Tom's cock, positioning it at the entrance to her vagina. His thrusting stopped as he opened his eyes to watch. He almost felt like a spectator as the young woman slowly slid down onto him. She was tight, very tight, and he could feel every tiny movement she made - up and down, forward and backward, and side to side. She took her time, working her way down slowly, letting off tiny gasps and whimpers each time she was stretched a little more.
That's when Tom felt it. The pressure wasn't much, and it disappeared quickly, but a faint popping sensation on the head of his cock, accompanied by her slight squeal, told him that the woman had been a virgin.
"Holy Jesus H. Fuckin' Keerist. A Goddamn Cherry!" Tom couldn't help saying that out loud, surprised as he was. That thought put a new stiffness in his manhood, and he began staring into the eyes of the former virgin now bottoming out in his lap. She was watching him, and he could see every tiny twinge, every ripple, every naked emotion as she continued on with something she'd never done before.
Raquel was as tight, as hot, and as wet as anyone he'd ever done it with before. That didn't mean much, since he'd only ever bedded three women in his life, including the one currently straddling him. He didn't care anymore. He started a slow grind, and she quickly learned to match the pace. He could feel when she was sore, because she rolled with him, and when she was ready for more, because she rolled in counterpoint. He watched her eyes as she neared what he thought of as her first real orgasm. She was slow and methodical, angling herself to get maximum stimulation of her clit and rolling around to feel him all through her insides.
When she went over the edge, she took a few deep breaths, stiffened, and sat completely still for a moment. Then she began to seriously bounce up and down. Tom's rod was as stiff as it had ever been and he was tuned completely in to what she was doing to him. Forgotten were the women holding his arms. Forgotten was the audience at the windows. All that existed were the two eyes looking at him, and his cock. The feelings, the sensations, the knowledge that the woman was a virgin, overcame all his reluctance and inhibitions.
Raquel climaxed again, this time with a great deal of noise and movement. She continued to slide up and down, even while her vagina was contracting on Tom's cock. The increased pressure and stimulation caused him to lose control. He had been holding off as long as possible, waiting for her to join him, enjoying the sweet agony of denial, so his release was wonderful. He spurted deep inside, as deep as he could reach. Then a second time, and a third, followed by some slow oozing.
There was nothing left in him by the time she stopped moving. He felt quite drained, sexually, physically, and emotionally. With a very satisfied sigh, he let his head fall back and he relaxed.
The reaction of his partner was quite different. She stood up, slid one finger between her legs, and pulled it back out coated with her juices, his semen, and a pink tincture of lost maidenhood. She looked at her finger, tasted it, and got quite excited. Everyone else, inside and outside the hut, was silent. The older woman stood and slid her finger into Raquel's slot, tasted what came out on her finger, and got excited. That got everyone going. Marilyn slid her finger in and retrieved her own taste.
All three went outside, totally ignoring Tom, so he pulled the covers over himself and tried to figure out what was going on. He had no success at that whatsoever. Outside, the excited babbling never slowed down, and he could hear the occasional smack of a pair of lips, so he figured that the tasting session, or whatever they were doing, was still going on. He thought their actions the oddest he'd ever heard of.
The next morning he awoke to the same sort of touching and fondling. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Raquel again, and got another shock. It was Elizabet, the older woman, trying to coax him back to life. A quick glance let him know that both Raquel and Marilyn were watching avidly, but there was no audience at the windows. It looked to him like they were ready to use coercive methods again, if necessary, so he decided to enjoy himself, despite the fact that he still considered it a form of rape.
Willing himself to ignore everything else, he concentrated on what she was doing to him. In spite of her years, she was still a good looking woman - possibly in her middle thirties, solid but without excess flab, nice legs, a pretty face, and still respectable breasts. They were sagging a little, and he guessed that was because she'd never even seen a support garment, but they still had a pleasing shape. His caresses came as a surprise to them both, and seemed to be welcome.
Despite his half-suspicions, Elizabet was not a virgin. She was, however, still very tight and very wet. Unlike Raquel, the older woman took her time throughout, using him for every last bit of sensation and pleasure. He felt her climax at least three times before he could no longer hold out. At the critical second he closed his eyes and simply exploded. His face twisted into a mask resembling agony, but the sounds coming from both their mouths were those of the highest pleasure. She screamed when she felt him pulsing and climaxed again, milking him for everything he had. The three women then repeated their tasting ceremony. He fell back to sleep.
After breakfast, he decided to go exploring. None of the women in the village had shown the slightest desire to communicate, despite his earnest attempts. Other than his three keepers, all they did was stare, or make incomprehensible comments, or, for the younger ones, giggle. He felt like a pet of some sort. So, he wanted to see if there was any real civilization on the island.
They stopped him about a quarter mile down the beach. His three keepers caught him and tried to drag him back. Since he was still not fully up to par, he let them. They put him back on display under the awning.
After lunch, Marilyn pulled him into the hut. They were followed by the other two. She wanted the same as Raquel and Elizabet, according to her actions. Since she was by far the best looking of them, by his standards, he was quite accommodating, especially since she let him touch and feel every part of her body. When she realized that he wanted to taste her essence, she lay back and spread her arms and legs wide in an open invitation.
He found her slightly tangy, slightly musky, and very, very wet. She was also quite eager. When he inserted a finger, he got another small shock. She was also a virgin. He licked her through two small orgasms before sliding up her body and preparing to deflower his second maiden in two days. His cock was more than ready and was dripping with excitement.
One more surprise for him was her unwillingness to do it in the missionary position. She practically threw him off, then rose up to straddle his crotch. The sight of that gorgeous blonde beauty willingly impaling her virgin self on him almost made him lose it too early. He fought down the impulse, not wanting to waste himself on her lower lips and stomach. With only a little difficulty, he managed to hold off until she was bouncing up and down with a good rhythm. When he finally peaked, he felt like he was being turned inside out. His lower groin ached with the sudden release. She, like the other women, climaxed when she felt him pulsing inside her vagina. By his estimate, her scream of completion could be heard from the forest side of the village right down to the beach. The tasting ceremony followed, and the three women left the hut.
This time, after dressing himself, he followed, curious to see what happened outside. To his surprise, though he didn't think he should be surprised by anything at that point, everyone participated in the tasting ceremony, including the children. He wondered how she felt, standing there with her legs apart while over a hundred people stuck their fingers into her pussy, one at a time. He thought he saw her climax at least once during the process. A number of the women, and a few of the children, slid their wet fingers into their own vaginas while walking away. That act also baffled him.
Shortly after dinner, which consisted of some different types of fish, fruit, vegetables, nuts, flat bread, and that sweet drink, a new woman approached him and tried to pull him to his feet. When his keepers stood and motioned for him to do likewise, he did. In the hut, the other woman, who identified herself as Jane, dropped her skirt, then pulled his head down to her crotch as she fell back onto his mat. There was no doubt in his mind as to what she was after, so he slithered out of his jeans while keeping her occupied with his mouth.
The woman was about the same age as Elizabet, with a slightly better figure. He thought she tasted somewhat musky but otherwise fine. He wasn't going to turn down something that good. When she rolled him over and mounted him, Marilyn came over and started rubbing his stomach, chest, legs, balls, and anything else she could reach. She let him touch and fondle her anywhere he wanted, but strangely, to his thinking, she totally refused any sort of a kiss.
He heard some strange noises, so he looked around. The usual audience was at the window, but his other two keepers weren't watching. They were heavily involved in a pairing of their own, with twin mouth-to-lower-lip locks. The sight of them intertwined in such a lewd display, along with feeling up the blonde and the sensations generated by the older woman bouncing up and down on his cock, set him off. He groaned and slammed his hips up into the brunette, sending forth several streams of semen followed by a few feeble trickles. Tom lay back, spent and totally out of energy.
The usual tasting ceremony took place, but without the participation of the two women still held in each other's grasp. Marilyn and Jane went outside to the waiting crowd. Tom pulled up his blankets, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
It was Marilyn who woke him the next morning. She was straddling his hips, leaning over, and watching his face as she tickled his penis with her bush. The blankets were lying in a tangled mess to one side, and Raquel, his usual bedmate, was lying right beside them watching the proceedings. The older woman, Elizabet, was lying on her bed mat on the other side of the hut, also watching. He was quickly learning to ignore all the eyes, as he was beginning to like being shipwrecked (planewrecked?).
With her careful and gentle teasing, he was ready quickly. It didn't take him long, either, to learn that she definitely liked her thighs and waist caressed while things were getting heated up.
If anything, Tom enjoyed himself more than he had the first time with the blonde beauty. She had learned from her first experience, and was moving with more authority and determination, which provided him with a great deal of welcome friction. Marilyn was also learning to control her vaginal muscles, generating more tightness whenever she wanted the stimulation. Their activity seemed geared towards her pleasure rather than his. "Appropriate", thought Tom, as that last thought flitted through his lust-clouded brain.
All too soon, at least for Tom, their pleasure ended in a groaning, gushing, few seconds of heaven. Marilyn and the other two once again held the tasting ceremony. He was thoroughly baffled at what, if any, significance the act had, especially since both of the other women rubbed their fingers through their own crotches while still wet from his and Marilyn's spendings. Forgoing thinking after developing a headache, he got up, donned his pants, and went about his morning business.
After lunch, another woman, one he hadn't seen before, pulled him up and into the hut. She was a dusky-skinned beauty, looking more African than Polynesian, with a dark complexion and somewhat kinky hair surrounding an oval face. She also had the fullest bush of any he'd yet seen. That didn't stop him from using his fingers, hands, lips, and tongue to get things rolling. He found that she was ready and willing immediately, but since he got almost as much enjoyment from the foreplay and oral action as the woman on the receiving end, he went ahead anyway. His wife (EX wife - sorry) - had rarely allowed him the 'privilege' of going down on her. It was only after meeting and dating Leiana, his sometimes girlfriend, that he learned how truly wonderful both giving and receiving oral attention could be. He noted that this woman was also a virgin.
Linda, for that's what she called herself, surprised Tom by lying along side of him and cuddling afterwards, rather than immediately jumping up and starting the tasting ritual. He figured they lay there caressing and holding one another for about ten minutes, with her talking nonstop the whole time, before she went to meet the impatient villagers outside the door.
Tom was becoming rather alarmed by the number of women who seemed to be using him for their own pleasure. When he tried to think about what was happening, his mind wandered, remaining unfocussed. That scared him even more, since he considered himself a fairly intelligent person. Vague thoughts of lingering illness or injury, or possibly something sinister, filtered through. He decided to forgo dinner and get some sleep. There were difficulties in getting the idea through to his hosts, but they did seem to understand something, and he hoped it wasn't that he wanted someone else to join him in the hut.
In the end, they left him alone with his thoughts. Despite his ability to perform over the prior days, his body was still somewhat weakened, and he ended up sleeping for what he estimated as sixteen hours.
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.
Two days later, they arrived at another village. He had serviced three more women and one more teenager en route, but he was no longer enjoying himself doing so. The physical sensations were there, and he did perform to their expectations, but mentally, it was now a chore, not a pleasure. They either didn't notice the difference or didn't care.
The new village was nearly identical to the one they had come from. A welcoming committee of half-naked women and teenagers and totally naked girls greeted them. Again, no men were around. An hour later, all the excitement over and done with, he was led to another shaded mat in the centre of the village and was again expected to sit there on display. Why they bothered moving him, he couldn't even begin to imagine.
That's when it happened.
"Halloo! Do you speak English?"
Tom's head snapped around so fast, he almost got whiplash. Approaching was a white woman with a deep brown tan and blonde hair, about six foot two, stout, with very little figure, smallish breasts, and wearing the traditional grass skirt. He thought she was quite ugly, but didn't care in the least. There was a huge smile on his face as he stood up.
"Mhhh! <cough cough>" His voice was a little rusty from lack of use. "My God! Am I glad to see you!"
"Hiya mate. I heard there was a new bloke on the island. Couldn't wait to meet you!"
"Yes. Well, I crashed here a few weeks ago, and since then, you wouldn't believe what's happened to me! What is this weird place? And these women? More importantly, do you have a radio? Is there any way off this island? And ..."
"Hold on there, mate. I ken you got a sackful of questions and I'll fill you in with what I can. Just slow down a bit. Grab a piece of mat and have a breather."
Tom sat down before his knees buckled. Relief washed through him like a wave, leaving him giddy and lightheaded.
"I suppose introductions are in order. I recken you must be Tom. You're a Yank, right?"
He nodded.
"Right. Well, the Sheilas been talkin' about nothin' but you ever since you washed up in that blowup a few weeks back. My name's Sam."
Sam stuck out a hand, and Tom shook it rather unsteadily.
"You're an Australian?"
"Right first try. Queensland. Been stuck on this God-forsaken patch of hell for twelve years now. Yep. There ain't ...
Everything seemed to go silent and still as Tom's spirits came crashing down. It was with a sense of desperation that he interrupted Sam.
"Sam. Please. Tell me that you have a radio. Or a telephone. A plane, a boat, something! Please!"
There was a sense of finality to the way Sam shook his head in the negative. A long groan came from Tom as he fell back onto the mat. "You mean there's no way off this fucking island?"
Once again, Sam said no.
"You're sure?"
"Mate, if there was a way off, I'd a been back home enjoyin' a Foster's long since. The ladies tell me you came in by plane. What's your story?"
Tom shook his head, unsure about what to do or say. "Yeah. I ran out of gas running in front of the hurricane and didn't quite make it to the beach. I survived. Nothing else did, not even the radio."
"Now that is a cryin' shame, though I kinda figured it got broke, the way you was carryin' on. I guess you're just as stuck as me then. Sorry if I got your hopes up, mate, but there's not much I can do, I'm afraid."
"Sorry. It's just that you're the first civilized person I've seen since I crashed. I just assumed you'd have some way off this rock. I thought ..."
"'S'all right, mate. I been through it all m'self. This place gets to a body after a while. Kinda makes one strange, if you aren't careful." Sam looked around the village for a few seconds. "Almost got to me too, sorta like ... "
There was a pause, as Sam appeared to lose himself in thought.
"Well, you're here now," he finally continued. "So ask away."
Tom put voice to the question that was uppermost in his mind.
"Where are all the men?"
Sam laughed. Long, hard, and almost maniacally.
"S'truth! You sure came out with the worst one first. Tom, there ain't no men here, 'cept you and me, and I don't count no more."
Tom stared, disbelief very apparent in his eyes.
Sam gazed down at his own body for a few seconds before looking Tom in the eye.
"Mate, when I got stuck in this place, twelve bloody long years ago, I was as much a man as you are now. This place changes a body. It ain't natural. My mate, Jack, when he saw what was happenin', well, it got to him. One mornin', he just climbed up one of them coconut trees an' tried to fly home."
"But - but - what, how? I mean, look at you! You're a woman! What gives?"
With a shrug, Sam answered. "Don't really know. Maybe there's something in the water, or in the food. Maybe there's some weird bug here. Whatever it is, that's why there ain't no blokes."
"How long..." Tom cleared his throat, gulped, then tried again. "How long did it take?"
"Well, these," he hefted his breasts, "showed up after two years. The ladies cut off the rest soon after."
"They WHAT?!"
"It didn't work no more anyway. If I'd fought too much, they would'a killed me instead."
"You mean, they just - just ... " Tom struggled for words. "And you let them!?"
He shrugged. "Hey, I'm still here, and I guess I got a reason to hang around a bit longer."
"What?"
"I got a stake in this place now, just like you will soon enough."
"No fuckin' way! What the hell could I possibly think important in this bloody place?"
"You mean you ain't figured it out yet? Yanks. I tell ya, if you had to depend on your brains, you'd all be goners for sure. Look, you been treated the same as I was, right?"
Tom just stared, appearing more than a little puzzled.
"The women. The sex! They been keepin' you real busy, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah, so?"
Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Think! I got here twelve years ago. It quit workin' eleven years ago. All the kids are around ten or eleven. I figure half of 'em are mine and half are Jack's, so that's about two hundred kids each. How many you done so far?"
"That's what they're doing? You mean, they want me for ... but ... all they want is a goddamn fuckin' sperm machine!?"
"Hey, you're a damned sight luckier than the last couple of blokes who got stranded here. The ladies decided they weren't good enough to service 'em or something, so they were eliminated."
"They were killed? But that's barbaric! Why didn't you stop them?"
He shrugged. "Nothin' I could do about it. They tolerate me 'cause I don't cause no problems an' I pull my own weight. If I threw in with some strange blokes, they'd do me too."
"Shit, what kind of hell is this? Waitaminit, all the kids I've seen are girls. What happened to the boys?"
"Far as I can tell, there ain't none born here. At least, I never saw none. Every one I saw born was a girl, and I saw plenty of 'em."
"Jesus H. Fuckin' Keerist. No guys. None. Just women. All right, how many? How bloody many women do they expect me to service?"
Sam shrugged again. "Four, five hundred. I think that's how many are about. Five villages, anyway. The bosses all get first crack at you. Well, that's what Rhoda said when she told me you were on your way."
"Rhoda?"
"The headwoman in these parts. You'll meet her soon enough."
"Four or five hundred?" Tom spoke quietly, almost whispering. "What the hell did I do to deserve this anyway?"
"Pardon?"
"Huh? Sorry, I guess I was talking to myself."
"No problem, mate. You got a lot to think on. Oh-oh. Here they come."
Tom looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his keepers and whomever approaching. Instead, a small gaggle of giggling girls came running up. Sam smiled broadly.
"Sorry mate, but I promised these young sheilas I'd help em' with some shellfish harvestin'. I'll be back after you have your tucker."
With one kid on his shoulders and two more tugging on his arms, he walked off towards the beach, smiling and joining into the animated chatter he was surrounded with. Tom watched them go.
Lunch showed up about an hour later, giving him plenty of time to absorb and reflect on what Sam had told him. The food was a little different than he was used to, since it included seaweed and some sort of shellfish instead of dried fish. The change was welcome. Two women, both decent looking dark haired native ladies he didn't recognize, brought it to him and stayed to help him eat. Both fussed over him throughout the meal.
It wasn't too long after he finished that Sam returned, coming back with the same batch of children he left with. They all ran off carrying baskets full of something, while Sam himself stopped in at one of the large buildings and picked up his lunch before sitting down with Tom again.
"Whew! Them kids can really tire a body out. So where were we?"
"Are those all your kids?" asked Tom.
Sam shrugged. "Two are for sure. The rest, who knows. I treat 'em all like mine. Jack was my mate, and they're all his or mine, so now they're all mine. Their mothers know whose is whose, but I don't ask."
"Was Jack a blonde too?"
"Nah. He was a redhead. His Mum was a blonde, though."
They were interrupted again, this time by a grey-haired native looking woman. Tom thought she had to be at least sixty years old. She and Sam talked back and forth for several minutes.
"Tom, this here is Mama-san, their leader. Her title don't translate too good, so that's what I call her. I've never heard anyone say her real name. She wants to know if everyone's been treating you right so far."
"What? You mean other than being treated as nothing but a portable sperm bank? Other than being held prisoner? Other than being forced to perform three times a day, like it or not? Oh sure, I've been treated just fine! Faugh!" Tom turned and stared at the ocean while Sam translated his words. Their conversation took some time.
"Sorry for the delay, mate, but I still ain't all that great with the lingo. I told her what you said, word for word - well, as close as possible - and she gave me an answer. Here it is, word for word.
'You are unsettled. This is not your place, not what you know, not what you understand. Yet <something I don't ken> answered our prayers and delivered you to us. It has been too many seasons since our last <don't know this one mate, something to do with having kids>. Our need is great, so we are more <something or other> to you than the others. <I think she's referring to the last couple of blokes, the ones that didn't measure up or something.> If you refuse our need, we will not force you any longer. But no longer will you be a <sheltered guest, I think>.'
She's giving you a choice. They won't kill you if you don't perform, but they won't feed you no more neither. Me, I hope you do the right thing, 'cause they need a new load of sprogs here."
"So if I put out, I'm their guest, at least until I peter out, as it were, and then they'll cut it off and make me an honourary woman. If I don't, then what? What happens?"
"Most likely they'll drive you out of the village. Take your choice - jungle or beach. It don't matter. If you ain't trained in jungle livin' you won't last two weeks. Starve to death. Or worse, maybe eat something wrong and die of gut rot. I seen it happen. Bad way to go - really bad."
"How much time do I have to make up my mind?"
"Until dinner, most likely. When Mama-san wants an answer, nobody keeps her waiting."
"Why the hell do they do this? And why the hell are they doing it to me?"
"Tom, this ain't no paradise. These ladies are tryin' to survive and keep their civilization alive. Why you're here, I don't know, but you are. The next bloke might be along in a week, or in ten years. Or longer. They need you probably more than you need them. It ain't so bad, really, once you get used to it. Me and Rhoda been makin' a pretty decent life for ourselves."
"You mean, you and her? Together?" Tom waved his finger back and forth between Sam and the grey-haired woman.
"Huh? Me and Mama-san? Not on your life! What gave you that daft idea?"
"You said you had something going with the head woman."
"Oh, I got ya. No, Rhoda - she's the one claimed me - she's the head woman of this village. Mama-san's top woman of the whole island. You'll probably see Rhoda later."
"This is just too much. I need some time to think."
"That's fine, mate. I got about thirty young'uns waitin' up on me right now anyhow. They're expectin' a story while they do all that shellin'. Well, I guess better a story than me shellin' them slimy things. It's Jack and the Beanstalk today, adjusted slightly for local conditions. See you in a bit."
Sam got up, nodded to Mama-san, and left. The old woman sat there on the other side of the mat and stared out at the ocean for nearly an hour before standing, nodding to Tom, and leaving. He nodded back, then watched as she slowly walked away. The woman held her head high, even though her steps were slow and her back was slightly bowed. It seemed the weight of the world pressed down upon those bare shoulders.
His keepers showed up with supper late in the afternoon. Sam arrived a few minutes later.
"Hiya mate. I see they're keepin' close tabs on you. Not lettin' you out of their sight, are they."
"I guess. Sam, how did you end up in this place?"
"Oh, that's a bit of a story. It's a bit daft, really. One day Jack and me were drinkin' down at the local, and we were tryin' out some of that there imported Yank beer, only it ain't really imported you see, 'cause they make it in the brewery in town under licence from the folks what really makes it. So there's this tourist bloke, and he's tryin' some of that same rot we're drinkin', an' he says it ain't nothin' like what he gets at home. So Jack gets this idea in his head that he wants to try real Yank beer. Only, he don't want to go into the city and buy some real import stuff. Nope. He wants to travel to the U.S. of A. for some."
"So you guys decided to fly from Australia to the U.S. - for a BEER?"
"Made sense at the time. Only we didn't fly. You see, Jack owned this oversized canoe, so we sailed."
"You SAILED to the U.S. In an oversized canoe. For a fuckin' beer. How big was that thing?"
"I dunno. Fifty foot, maybe. Big enough for the three of us."
"Three?"
"Yeah. Me, Jack, an' that tourist bloke. He promised us one hell of a drinkup when we got to L.A."
"Let me guess - you never made it. You got lost, and ended up wrecking on the reef. Right?"
"Oh no, we got there all right, and we had one hell of a good time. One of the best weeks of my life. That yank beer was definitely better'n the fake stuff we got. It still ain't as good as Foster's of course, but it's a pretty fair brew. No, we got caught in a bit of a blow on the way home. Lost the compass, the sails, damaged the rudder, and almost got swamped, but we made it. I just wish Jack had remembered to pack spare batteries for the radio. We were takin' in a lot of water when we saw this place and made for shore. There weren't much choice left, so we parked just off the reef and came in on a dingy. That's when the next blowup came along. Smashed our boat up on the reef and down it went, takin' all our supplies with it. If the ladies hadn't taken us in, we'd a been goners."
"And you paid their price. Any regrets?"
"Oh, sure. I've got ... I guess that's had, a girl back home. We had an understandin'."
"But that didn't stop you, did it? You just jumped in and enjoyed all the ladies you could."
"Mate, I spent two weeks alone in the jungle before I gave it up. Ended up I couldn't see any good reason for dyin', 'cause there weren't no way back home."
"What about Jack?"
"Him? Jesus, talk about your kid in a sweets shop. He was the happiest bloke on the planet."
"For a while."
"No, he never got tired of it. Even near the end, he'd snuggle up with his favourites and spend the night doing whatever he could. It wasn't what quit workin' what got to him, it was growin' his own pair." Sam arched his back for a second, making his breasts stick out on display, then relaxed and smiled rather wryly. "You know, life does play funny tricks on a soul. I go out on a bit of a walkabout and end up here. Now I'm talkin to probably one of the few other blokes in the world that don't think this is paradise. Go figure."
"I guess no matter what I decide, what happened to you, likely as not, is gonna happen to me."
"'Fraid so, mate. Mama-san says it's 'cause the menfolk that first came here, back in the dawning of the world, insulted the island's spirits. They got cursed, their sons got cursed, even their male dogs and pigs got cursed. All of 'em what changed survived. The rest died rather horribly.
"Is that why they, uh ..." Tom made a cutting motion with his fingers.
"I recken so. They did do it sorta ceremonial-like, though they never did offer up a reason for doin' it."
Tom lowered his head into his hands, then shook it back and forth. "I'm not sure I can handle this. It's just too damned bizarre. An island full of women, a place that changes men into -- into -- well, into eunuchs, and it's not even on the map!"
With a furrowed brow and a rather puzzled look, Sam inquired - "It's not?"
"No! I picked up new air and sea charts three years ago and this place just isn't here!"
"S'truth! Guess that explains why we don't get more visitors. So why ain't it on the map? With all them fancy new satellite things crowdin' the sky, you'd think they'd spot somethin' this size, wouldn't you?"
"Sam, nowadays they got satellites that can tell what brand of smokes you're carrying by reading the pack. They're sure the hell not going to miss a fuckin' island. Somebody, somewhere, has to know about this place. God, this is so confusing! Of course, none of this is helping me make up my mind!" He was almost screaming by the end of that last sentence.
"Don't look now, mate, but you ain't got any time left. They're comin' for you."
He turned to look, of course. Four women and one of the teenagers were heading for him. Three of the women he recognized from his village - his keepers. The other woman and the teenager were strangers.
"The older blonde one's Rhoda. The young'un beside her is her daughter Beth. By the looks of things, I think Rhoda's givin' Beth first crack at you."
Tom saw a very pretty thirty-something blonde woman walking beside a beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager who was no more than fifteen and was wearing nothing but the usual grass skirt. The girl's breasts were moderate sized cones pointing straight at him, capped with light pink aureoles and nipples. Like everyone else, she was darkly tanned, and that contrasted sharply with her varicoloured golden tresses. Very shapely, she had long arms, long, coltish legs, and an utterly captivating smile. Both cheeks were dimpled as the women approached.
Beth stepped in front of the others and spoke to him in a smooth, melodious voice, then held out her hand.
"She wants you to go with her and put a baby in her tummy. Tom, Rhoda was my first here, and she's got two of mine, so I know her an' Beth better'n my own sisters. Rhoda's nervous, and Beth's scared as shit. You could probably get away with turning her down if you took Rhoda instead, but I wouldn't bet the ranch. Unless, of course, you'd rather head into the jungle."
Tom couldn't help himself. He stared. And stared. The young woman looked so beautiful. She was almost the twin of his ex wife when she was that age, when he had first fallen in love. Those blue eyes seemed to grow larger and larger the longer he looked. Eventually, he could see nothing else. Sam said something, but the words just flowed around him, unnoticed and totally ignored. When she blinked and tilted her head, he came back to himself, sort of.
Tom allowed her to take his hand and pull him to his feet. She then led him away to a nearby shack, with the others following close behind. Sam watched him go. A sad, wistful smile slowly crept over his face as the women and their newest captive entered the hut. Tom turned and looked back just as they were leading him inside, his expression reflecting his agonized indecision. Then he was gone.
"Poor bloke's had his mind made up for him, just like Rhoda did to me." Sam was talking quietly to himself. "You gonna have any regrets, Tom? Lots of em? Maybe just one big'un, like me? Or you gonna go like Jack did instead? He always was the brave one. Sometimes I wish I had half his guts."
<Fin>
Author's notes: I've always wondered about being lost on a desert isle, with a whole lot of beautiful, attentive women around. Would it really be like an adolescent wet dream? Tom Largent - the protagonist. 5'11", 170lbs, blonde, blue eyes, slender, wiry muscles, very handsome. Leiana - Tom's sometimes girlfriend, before the crash. Raquel - #1 woman, the nurse. 5'6", 110lbs, 23 yrs, black hair, dk brn eyes, moderate build, moderate breasts, good looking, virgin. Elizabet - #2 woman. 5'2", 140lbs, 34 yrs, black hair, dk brn eyes, solid build, fairly large breasts, very good looking. Marilyn - #3 woman. 5'5", 130lbs, 22 yrs, light blonde hair, blue eyes, curvy build, moderate breasts, pink nipples. Sam - the last one shipwrecked. 6'2", 200lbs, blonde, blue eyes, heavy, strong, pert breasts. Jack - Sam's old buddy. Rhoda - Sam's main squeeze 5'8", 130lbs, blonde, blue eyes, medium figure, 35, good looking. Beth - Rhoda's eldest daughter. 5'6", 96bs, blonde, big blue eyes, slender and coltish, small cone-shaped breasts, light pink nipples. Beautiful. Generations: A - 9-10 years - virgins B - 15-16 years - virgins C - 22-23 years - virgins D - 34-35 years E - 42-43 years F - 47-48 years G - 55-56 years H - 61-62 years - Mama-san