This is a story of true love and sexual relationship between two young adults. It is a fantasy and a fabrication and simply could not happen at this late stage of the millennium. It includes all too graphic descriptions of very, very large breasts and other more or less private parts. If you are younger than the characters in this story, you should certainly not be reading this kind of thing.
You mustn't even download it and save it to floppy to read when you are old enough.
"They've seen us!" Paul came scrambling down the bank in a shower of twigs and pebbles and broke into a stumbling run along the sand, which was already drying after the squall. It was heavy going, and Paul's calves and thighs protested as he drove himself up the shelving beach. "Ginnie, they've seen us! It's a ship."
Ginnie crawled out into the sunlight, shading her eyes. Simultaneously, a rocket soared into the distant sky and burst with a thump which echoed off the hills. "A ship? Where is it?"
Paul arrived, shoulders drooping as he gasped for every breath. "Round the headland still. A few miles offshore, and it might take them hours before they can launch a boat and find a way into the lagoon. But they were flashing a light. I waved my pants at them. I think they were sending Morse, but I can't read that stuff. And I don't know semaphore, either." He stopped, panting, and turned to see if the ship had appeared yet.
"If they've got a telescope, they'd have gotten the message," Ginnie laughed. "Where did you leave your pants?"
"Up there on the hill. I was too desperate to get back and tell you. Come up and see. If they've got a telescope, they'll see you and get here before sunset instead of waiting for morning."
"I'm trying to get out," Ginnie complained. "It's not so easy as it used to be."
Paul leaned into the hut and offered a hand. Ginnie grasped it. His hand always felt so strong and reassuring. So leathery, so tough, so horny. Hers had remained soft and feminine even after all these months on the island. Their island.
She let him help her to her feet, feeling the crunchy sand warm between her toes. Paul's head only came up to just above her shoulder. It must be hard for him, pulling her upright. She was so much heavier now.
"Let's go, lover. Lead the way." He scampered ahead, tugging at her hand. "Hey, steady! I can't run, you know..." He was a couple of years older than her, but he was just like a kid in so many ways.
It took them ten minutes to reach the top of Telegraph Hill. The ship was hove to, still several miles off, but obviously stopped. An off-white dribble of smoke rose straight up from her funnel.
"What is it, a liner?"
"Cruise ship, by the look of her." Paul squinted into the sun. "They still haven't put a boat down. Maybe they're worried about getting in before nightfall. I wish they could tell us what they're doing."
"There's a light flashing," said Ginnie. "They must have been watching for us. With a telescope. Wave your trousers at them again."
"They must be able to see us. Clearly enough to know we're back up here on the hill. Er, Ginnie..."
"You think I ought to cover up?"
"Wrap something around yourself, maybe. If they can see us with a telescope, they'll be fighting on the bridge to get a look at you."
"I don't have any clothes with me. Not up here. In fact, I've got nothing that really fits me any more."
Paul retrieved his pants and gave them a wave. He was rewarded by a flurry of code from the ship, and a few moments later, a prolonged blast from the fog siren.
"They're pleased to see us," Ginnie interpreted freely.
"Not as pleased as we are to see them. I suppose we need to get down and start making preparations to get off here. They'll be coming ashore at crack of dawn, probably." He turned to her and held his arms wide. Ginnie enveloped him in a hug. His face was lost in her stupendous bosom. She smelled of fresh sweat. He wasn't complaining.
"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, lover, we'd better go somewhere less public! Ahh, you are thinking what I think you're thinking! You'll never be able to get your pants back on, not with that thing waving around like that. Come on, let's get back home!"
Ginnie always referred to their little hut as 'home'. It was a modest enough dwelling, but it was all theirs. It had taken them three weeks to make it weatherproof, using the drifting wreckage, planks and wooden pallets. And the empty food boxes, of course. It wouldn't have been a proper shipwreck without all those convenient boxes of food.
There had been fresh meat and vegetables, loads of dried stuff still in its wrappers and cartons, frozen food of all kinds. It had been a stroke of luck that the ship had broken in half and that the stern had drifted ashore and broken up on the same island as the two of them, as they clung to their life raft. What had happened to the rest of the crew and the few passengers, they had no idea. They were too busy being grateful for all these provisions.
It was Ginnie, ever practical, who pointed out that the frozen stuff wouldn't keep, and she it was who had built the crude chilling room, diverting the constant trickle of fresh water from the spring so it could slowly evaporate and keep the frozen goods in almost usable condition as long as possible.
"We'll still have to eat it all, though," she had said. "I've laid it out so we just have to gradually eat our way into the store. It's no good throwing anything away. We'll just have to binge until all the perishable stuff's gone, then start rationing ourselves. Whatever, we've got enough to last us for ages. And they're sure to find us before long. They've got satellites and things," she added with that delightful vagueness of hers.
It was as well they liked each other, Ginnie had often thought. It wasn't as if there was anyone else. If it wasn't exactly paradise, there were certainly far worse ways of spending one's time. By day, they gorged themselves on a bewildering variety of foodstuffs. By night, being forced to share a confined space, they made love.
Not immediately, of course. They were both virgins when they dragged themselves up the beach and sprawled exhausted in the sand. They remained pure for almost a week. They were working too hard building their shelter and securing the drifting flotsam from the wreck. In the end, it was the fire that did it. Paul had a box of matches in the pocket of his galley assistant's trousers. Even after laying them out on a rock in the hot sun, it took several days before they had dried out sufficiently to risk trying to strike one. As the first match flared into life and immediately spluttered out, they realised they were going to have to build a fire and keep it burning day and night, like the Olympic flame.
That night, by the flickering glow, Ginnie took Paul into her arms and laid him gently on his back.
"Have you ever done this before?" she had asked him softly.
"No," he whispered. It could have been much worse, she realised. He might so easily have answered, 'done what?'
And their first inexpert fumblings gradually became more practised, as Mother Nature took a hand, sighed resignedly, and taught them how it was done. Since then, with nothing else to do at nights, they had discovered a few ways of doing it that dear old Mother Nature herself probably hadn't thought of. Paul's wiry strength and Ginnie's wondrous inventiveness, staggering athleticism and incredible flexibility produced positions that must have made Mother Nature's eyes water.
And all the time, as the weeks passed, they ate enough for a small army. They were working hard enough to burn up a tremendous amount of energy, but they were eating enough to put on a substantial amount of healthy flesh. The odd thing was that Paul remained more or less the same weight as when they arrived. Ginnie didn't. Never a small girl, she could carry the extra weight, and she piled on the pounds at an almost frightening rate.
After three weeks, Paul had found her sitting in the doorway of the hut, with her few clothes spread out in front of her. "I can't get any of these things on any more," she wailed. They had only the clothes they stood up in when they arrived. Paul had been working when the ship struck, and Ginnie had just arrived back at her parents' stateroom after an exhausting game of volleyball. So Paul had his pants and white shirt, Ginnie wore only her shorts, a T-shirt and a bra. Their shoes had disappeared, kicked off when they clambered on to the raft. The clothes were practical enough, once they had been rinsed and dried out, but poor Ginnie's simply didn't fit her any more.
"Put them away somewhere safe," Paul had advised her. "You're a little overweight at the moment, but maybe they'll fit you again if you get thinner."
Ginnie had stuck her nose in the air and didn't speak to him for two days after that remark, although their lovemaking continued unabated at night. In fact, Ginnie had put him through such a strenuous couple of nights that Paul vowed to be nice to her from then on.
Fortunately, it was warm enough for them not to need clothes, although Paul wore his pants, if only to stop things from flopping around too much as he worked. Ginnie realised there was no way to stop her things flopping around. Her belly rounded out, her thighs and hips broadened and her buttocks became more and more generous. But it was her breasts that became most spectacular. Clearly, Ginnie was a girl with a genetic predisposition towards large breasts. "My mother's are big, too," she pointed out. "You don't remember my mother?"
.... There is more of this story ...