This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults. If you're not both of those, don't read it. Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die. You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe. The fictional characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.
If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.
This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact, but if you make money off of it without my permission, you're breaking the law and pissing me off.
During my recent vacation on Maui, I picked up the idea for this little story, and managed to get it back to the Mainland, in spite of Homeland Security AND the agricultural inspectors!
For those of you unfamiliar with things Hawaiian: The Island of Maui is actually composed of two volcanic peaks connected by a narrow isthmus of land. The larger, southern peak, is the Haleakala volcano (Ha-LEY-ah-ka-LAH NOT holly-ACH-ah-lah). From sea level, it rises to just over ten thousand feet. Most resorts on the island are on its west coast, as is the port town of Lahaina. Kihei, Wailea, and Makena are all located on the western shore at the foot of Haleakala, while Lahaina, Kaanapali, etc, are on the western side of the northern peak.
To the west of southern Maui is the island of Kaho'olawe. (Until very recently this small island was used for bombing practice by the US military. Efforts are currently underway to clean it up and restore native plants and wildlife, but tourism is not allowed, as there are still any number of undiscovered munitions, some live, scattered about the island.)
Between Maui and Kaho'olawe is the tiny island of Molokini. Molokini is the crescent shaped partial rim of another volcanic caldera, and is a favorite dive spot.
North of Kaho'olawe, off the western coast of northern Maui, is the small Island of Lana'i (LAH-na-EE not lah-NYE).
A Hawaiian spear fishing sling is kind of like a slingshot for a fishing spear. The simplest models consist of a hollow, tube-like handle with an attached elastic band, usually surgical tubing. The spear is long and slender and usually either barbed or split into two or three smaller skewers at the business end. The shaft of the spear is inserted through the handle and fitted to the tubing. Holding the handle with one hand, the fisherman draws back the spear and the rubber tubing, releasing them to propel the spear into the fish.
And, oh yeah, since Hawaiian names actually mean something, long ones don't get shortened unless the short form also means something, usually something pertaining to the original meaning.
Got that? Okay, on with the story...
Kaho'olawe was already bathed in sunlight as I dropped my fins on the sand. Molokini was almost hidden against its bulk, while Lana'i was a shadow on the northern horizon. I figured the timing was perfect. By the time I got my mask adjusted and waded out past the mild surf to put on my fins, the sun would be just about ready to pop up above the shoulder of Haleakala.
I surveyed the lava flows at each end of Makena beach. The southernmost looked more impressive above water, but I'd found the smaller flow at the northern end of the beach to be a better dive. The coral seemed more alive and sea life abounded in the natural crevices and grottoes formed when the molten lava flowed into the sea some hundreds of years ago.
I was a little surprised to see another snorkel already making its way toward the seaward end of the northern flow, but I could live with it. It was a big body of water and one snorkeler wasn't likely to cross my path or flail me with his fins the way the dabblers and paddlers often did during the day.
I waded beyond what little surf there was and squatted in the warm, tropical waters to don my fins. Ducking my head under water to ensure a good seal with my mask, I dipped a little sea water into the mask. I had found that if I kept a little water in my mask, all I needed to do to clear fogged lenses was roll my head back and forth a bit.
With the snorkel fitted between my lips, I started a leisurely paddle toward the sea. The trade winds were blowing up enough of a chop that I had to occasionally clear water out of my snorkel. With the little valve beneath the mouthpiece, it was a simple matter to reach up and block the end of the tube with a thumb while blowing into the snorkel, expelling water and air alike.
When I got to where the water was between twenty and thirty feet deep, I raised my head to look around for the other snorkeler. About fifty yards away, a lovely pair of bare buttocks suddenly humped into the air, followed closely by a pair of slender brown legs, ending in small, bare feet. I watched as they slipped gracefully beneath the waves, thinking that it must have been an awfully skimpy suit she wore, then, figuring I was far enough away that we wouldn't get in each other's way, I started hyperventilating in preparation for making my own dive.
It's an incredible experience to glide along the bottom in crystal clear water and watch the sea creatures in their vicious cycle of daily existence. It looks so serene, until you realize that almost everything in the ocean is carnivorous, and that a lot of what we find so strange and beautiful in the ocean's creatures are primarily means of predation or survival.
I equalized the pressure in my ears and propelled myself along with my fins, using my hands mostly to steer.
A small Moray, about two feet long, glided sinuously between rocks and coral, darting suddenly under the lip of a lava outcropping to come away with a small crab in its jaws. Brightly colored fish, most of which I couldn't even begin to name, darted here and there. They ranged in size from tiny slivers to four or five pounders.
Finally feeling the burning in my lungs, I allowed my bouyancy to carry me to the surface. As my head broke the waves I expelled my hoarded air through the snorkel to clear it of sea water. I paddled lazily, regaining my breath, and raised my head to look for the other diver. She was a little closer, but still well clear of me, and was doing the same as I - looking around for other divers. We acknowledged each other with an exchange of hand waving, and returned to our underwater world.
I had just popped to the surface after my fourth or fifth dive when I heard screaming from nearby. I looked, and sure enough, the other diver seemed to be in some kind of trouble. With the fins and an overhand stroke, it took only moments to reach her side. She had spit out the mouthpiece of her snorkel and was clumsily treading water. I ducked my mask under to see if she was fouled in something.
It was only then that I realized she was naked beneath the waves. I might not have noticed anything but that slender, curvaceous body and the cloud of long black hair trailing behind, had she not been treading water so oddly - using only hands and one leg. I looked closely at the stationary foot and noticed a number of slender black spines sticking out of its sole.
Raising my head, I dropped the mouthpiece of my snorkel and asked, "Sea Urchin?"
She gave me an agonized nod. "Yeah!"
Since I was wearing fins and she wasn't, I was able to keep us both afloat. I dumped the water from her snorkel, helping support her with one hand, and put the mouthpiece back in her mouth. It would be easier for her to breathe that way, and she wouldn't have to worry about keeping her head so far out of the water. I replaced and cleared my own snorkel and turned my back to her.
She got the message and draped her arms over my shoulders, a fishing spear sling hanging from one wrist, but no spear in sight. I suppose I could have used a rescue carry - swimming on my side with my arm across her chest, but piggyback seemed the quickest way to get her ashore, especially since she had the snorkel and I didn't need to worry about keeping her head out of the water. Her weight pushed me down a little, but not much, and my snorkel stayed pretty dry, though I had to clear it more frequently.
I prefer to take my time when swimming in the ocean, conserve my energy, and let the surge of waves help me get where I'm going, but this time I felt a sense of urgency, and stroked toward the beach as fast as I could. I was glad to have the fins on my feet as they drove us shoreward at a good clip, despite the extra drag of her body. She helped by keeping her feet together and letting them trail behind me, above my churning legs.
Despite the urgency of the situation, I couldn't help but be conscious of the soft warmth of her breasts against my bare back, nor, occasionally, the soft brush of pubic hair above the elastic band of my swim trunks. Mentally shaking my head, I tried to put the thoughts those touches aroused out of my mind, with only moderate success. Certainly, the tent in my swim trunks was creating more drag than I needed at the moment.
.... There is more of this story ...