WARNING: This is a story for adults. If you are under 18, please stop reading immediately.
This story may be archived only with author's permission, and is not to be distributed without the name of the author, changed in any way, or sold. Copyright 1998 by Jane Urquhart. Completed 3/24/98.
NOTE: Lord Malinov chartered the wrong ship for his Erotica Writers Cruise; as a result, the regular writers of ASS/ASSM/ASSD are washed up on Malinov's own Pacific island. After an introduction, this story starts when we'd been on the island for a day or two.
This story is the third in a series about my adventures. The first two are "Janey's January" and "Janey's February."
When I told my friend Beth about Lord Malinov's Castaway Island orgy the first thing she did was find Malinov's Castle on the Web so she could see what the last one was like. I had no intention of going, of course, but it was something to talk about. Next she called me up and asked me what the hell I thought it had to do with me. Then, naturally, I had to tell her about this sort-of-a-journal I've been posting to a.s.s.m., which was news to her, and print out for her copies of my previous posts. I guessed my two stories made me eligible to go, but actually orgies aren't my sort of thing. After all, what I really am is a nice, sweet, five-foot-ten, slightly overweight mother of two with a part- time job and no tits.
Now, when Beth blows a gasket you can hear her all the way to Quebec. The way she tells it, I'm always dragging her into doing these wild, not to say terrible, things, like going to Florida for a perfectly innocent little getaway and winding up committing lewd and immoral acts. I see it quite differently--she's the bad influence, not me. I just kind of go with the flow. After all, she's a high-powered businesswoman. I'm just an humble part-time vocational counselor. How could I talk her into doing anything?
But now she's accusing me, loudly, of telling the world about all our private stuff and holding her up to ridicule and she's going to sue. So I hung up.
It took about twenty minutes before she was back on the phone, telling me I just had to go. I'd get to meet all these high-powered writers, maybe there'd be a TV crew, I could probably sell books to the romance publishers, she knows where there's venture capital for a whole erotica empire. I was shrinking with horror. I did think it would be fun to meet some of the writers, but come on--do I sound like some kind of porn entrepreneur? No way. Then she said she'd be glad to go along with me to take care of the promotional details. I needed her, she said. Without her, I'd probably just veg out on the beach and miss all the good stuff.
It was the first time since I met her that I had the drop on her. So I told her she couldn't go, you had to be a writer, it was out of the question. She said it was probably nothing but a collection of pot-bellied old men working out their frustrations by writing stories for the Internet. I said she was just jealous. She said she couldn't be bothered with such a collection of perverts. I said good, I'd have more fun without her. She hung up. Then I realized I'd backed myself into a hole--I had to go. To an orgy. Me.
The next day she called again and said she was sorry she was so bitchy, I should go and have a good time, and did I know where to buy some sexy clothes because what I usually wear certainly wouldn't do. Beth is nasty, brutish, and short, not to mention an absolute knockout and rich, but basically she's a good egg. I promised her I'd write all about it when I got back and give her a copy. So I guess this is for Beth, but I thought I might as well let the rest of you know how it was for me.
The way I saw it, nobody was going to pay any attention to me at all unless I whittled a sharp stick into a javelin and killed a wild pig at 35 meters, if there were any wild pigs. I heard some guy behind me say something like, "I bet she writes vanilla," when I was standing by Mal's fire. Let's face it, I'm just not orgy material. So, the hell with it. I wandered off on a rocky path that seemed to go straight up.
It was hard travelling at first, but within five minutes the path had widened a little and smoothed out. It just kept going up. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, I came out onto a wide grassy plateau, with a few palm trees scattered around. The place was absolutely beautiful. The meadow sloped downward gently toward the ocean on one side, so I wandered off in that direction and ultimately wound up on the edge of a kind of cliff. Down a fairly steep forty-foot slant I could see our beach--the path must have curved a little. The view was breathtaking. Sand, then green water, then blue-green, then a beautiful royal blue. Where I was standing, right at the edge, the grass was only an inch or two high, so I just sat down and stared. I was hot, even though I was only wearing a white T-shirt and shorts. I was sweaty and it was mortally hot and humid, but the breeze was almost cool. Finally I lay back and just relaxed. It was great to be away from the crowd. I went to sleep.
"You're going to get a hell of a sunburn."
It was my mother, nagging away as usual. But she almost never said "hell." Come to think of it, she didn't have a nice bass voice, either. I opened my eyes. Big, tall guy. Dark. I was squinting, and I couldn't make out anything else because he had a blinding sunny halo all around him.
"You look like my guardian angel," I said.
"I am," he said. "I've come to rescue you from the demon sunshine."
"If I'm not hallucinating this whole thing," I said, "you're an angel from Texas."
"Good ear. Can I sit down, or do I have to just stand here?"
"Sit," I said. He sounded nice.
"Actually," he said, "I'd rather we both go over there about twenty feet and sit under that tree. I'm still worried about your sunburn."
I took his outstretched hand and struggled to my feet. I was still half asleep, but I did notice that he pulled my weight without turning a hair.
We sat under the tree, and the shade did feel good. I liked being rescued. I don't think anybody ever rescued me from anything before; usually I'm the one that does the rescuing.
"I'm Sandman," he said, putting out a hand. "And you're Janey. I recognized you from that wholly inadequate description in your January story."
I shook. It was odd to be so formal out on this Godforsaken island.
"I thanked you for the review," I said. "I thank you again."
"You're welcome," he said. "I like being thanked in person better than by e-mail."
"I saw you on the ship, but I didn't know who you were. You seemed to stay out of the light, somehow."
"So did you." He smiled.
"What are you doing up here, far from the madding crowd?"
"I saw you start up the hill, and after a while I thought I'd like to see where you went. I followed you. So the real question is, what are YOU doing here?"
"Sleeping, I guess," I said.
"That's not what I meant."
"Well, if you really want to know, I left because I felt sorry for myself. All those cute babes like Kim and Taria, not to mention those cheerleader children, running around half dressed with the men chasing them made me feel like Grandma. I think Bronwen's bored with me, we talked so much on the ship. And the men--half of them are the same age as the nymphets, or maybe younger, and most of the rest were all tied up or otherwise not useful. One really obnoxious midget with a grey braid down his back kept trying to pinch my butt. He had to reach up to do it. Obviously I'm not cut out for this orgy stuff. Should have stayed in Boston. At least I could get some raisins to eat there. And maybe an omelette."
"Well," he said, "I'm glad you came. And I have some crackers and a sausage to share."
"Yep, water, too." I hadn't really noticed his backpack until he pulled it over and fished out a pint bottle. "Here."
I took a big drink. Too much for my share, really, but, heck, there was plenty more just down the hill if he got really thirsty.
"Thank you," I said. "I'm not really hungry, but the water was good." I leaned back, propping myself on my elbows.
I told him that I felt I knew him a little because I'd loved his stories, but that he was a little younger and a little taller than I'd pictured him. He's a swimmer, like me, so we traded swim meet tales. He remembered all about my domestic arrangements from my stories. (He actually remembered what I'd written. Wow!) So he told me about his life. He wasn't married, but was about to be. He'd majored in computer science at the U. of Texas, and had a job with a big company. Then he got personal.
"You know, I called your description of yourself wholly inadequate. You want to know why?"
"You obviously want to tell me, so I'll listen."
"Your legs. I was looking at your legs while you were stretched out asleep over there and they really did a number on me. You have fantastic legs."
"Really," I said in a flat voice. I poked one of them out in the air and looked at it. "Good, huh?"
"Yes. Very good. Astonishing, as a matter of fact. Most women's legs are too skinny. Yours aren't. Very nice, rounded thighs. I can see the muscle, but it's not enough to ruin the line. Calves the same. Swimmer's legs. Very nice."
"Well, thank you, I guess."
"May I touch?"
He touched my leg, all right. He moved so that he was facing this supposedly fascinating object, put one hand under my heel and the other under the spot just above my knee, and gently lifted the leg. Then he leaned over and--took a good long lick. I felt like jumping out of my skin, but I held still. This was getting interesting.
"A little salty," he said, looking off into the distance. Then he turned his head to me. "But still very good."
Now what could I say to that? Nothing. I am not great on the uptake, especially in a situation like this. Definitely, this was a situation. I just lay there, still resting on my elbows, watching.
He wriggled closer until my leg was over his thighs. Then he started stroking it, very, very gently. Ankle, calf, knee. Back to ankle. Oh, delicious feeling. Then inner thigh, a couple of fairly earth-shattering strokes. I let myself fall back into the grass.
He stopped and spoke. "There was another inaccuracy."
"Your face. You said it wouldn't launch any ships. Actually, I think it might. Maybe not a whole Greek armada, but at least a dozen or so."
"Why don't you keep on rubbing my leg while you talk to me?" My body began saying this was way past interesting--maybe exciting.
"I was talking about your face. May I touch it, too?"
He reached up with one hand and stroked my cheek. Gently. This guy was good! The other hand just sort of lay there, on my thigh. All this attention was making me warm, breeze or no breeze. Then he leaned over and kissed me, at some length. His lips were as gentle as his hands. His mouth was a little open, so I kept waiting for his tongue to come crawling out. It didn't. So I went after it. This kiss lasted maybe four hours. Or thirty seconds? I don't know. He backed off, and thigh stroking commenced again. I was seriously liking this. In fact I was beginning to get that empty feeling "down there" that I told you about before. It seems to come when I realize I'm about to get a filled feeling.
"You're also taller than you said, aren't you? A couple of inches?"
"Look, five-ten sounds a lot better than five-eleven-and-seven-eighths, doesn't it?"
"Not to me. I'm taller than you are."
"For a man in Texas you're only a little taller than ordinary. I'm female, I live in Boston, and I've had shit about my height since I was twelve. Kids are really nasty, and adults aren't a hell of a lot better."
"I think you're the right height, and the hell with everybody else."
What could I say? Here's this dreamboat still, oh, so gently, stroking the inside of my upper thigh, looking at me with those beautiful blue eyes, and paying gentle compliments. I considered saying, "Wanna fuck?" and discarded the idea--not my image. Tried something else.
"Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Not any more," he said. "That's already done. The rest will be the best part."
The arrogant prick. Even if he was, indeed, right.
"Do I get any choice in what happens next?" I asked.
"Of course," he said, "but why don't you leave it up to me for a while? I don't mind the responsibility."
"One other question. What will your fiancee think of this?"
"This is not real," he said. "Castaway Island is out of time. She won't mind."