Castaway Island - Cover

Castaway Island

Copyright© 2025 by Taoman

Chapter 8

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8 - Three women and a man are castaways on a Pacific Island after their plane crashes. This is a redo of my work, Master's Island, which I posted 25 years ago. The younger girls are both 19 now, and I have changed the pirates to a no ethnic specific description. The story has also been expanded and rethought.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft   Coercion   Reluctant   Slavery   Heterosexual   Fiction   DomSub   MaleDom   Humiliation   Harem   First   Oral Sex   Big Breasts  

Day Nine – Hunger

The last ration bar was gone by the eighth dawn.

The Perrier was down to two warm cans.

Coconuts were harder to find after the storm had shaken the trees clean and flung most of the nuts far out to sea.

Hunger settled over the camp like a fever.

Taylor had been setting crude fish traps in the lagoon since day six: woven baskets of palm rib and airline seatbelt webbing baited with scraps of peanut shell. Every morning, he’d waded out at low tide, hoping. Every morning, the traps had come up empty.

Until day nine.

He hauled the first trap onto the sand and felt the weight before he saw it: three fat silver parrotfish thrashing inside, scales flashing like coins. The second trap held a small spiny lobster and a pair of squirrelfish. Enough protein for all of them, maybe for two days if they were careful.

He carried them back to camp on a palm frond like a priest bringing an offering.

The girls were sitting listlessly in the shade when he walked in. Brittany’s cheeks were hollower, Jennifer’s ribs starting to show. Kimberly looked up first, eyes widening at the sight of the fish.

“You caught them,” she said, voice cracking on the last word.

“Caught them. Cleaned them. Cooking them now.” He dropped to one knee and began gutting the parrotfish with the Swiss Army knife. The smell of fresh blood and sea hit the air.

Jennifer actually moaned. Brittany pressed a hand to her stomach.

Kimberly stood, arms folded tight across her chest as if holding herself together. “We’ll help,” she said quickly. “Tell us what to do.”

Taylor didn’t smile. He just pointed. “Kimberly, stoke the fire and get water boiling. Brittany, gather dry coconut husk for smoke. Jennifer, clean these guts off the blade when I’m done.”

They scrambled to obey without a murmur. For the first time in nine days, there was no pushback, no protective hovering, no defiant tilt of Kimberly’s chin.

While the fish roasted on green sticks over the coals, the smell drifted through camp like a drug. The girls sat in a half-circle, eyes fixed on the sizzling flesh, swallowing hard.

Taylor turned the skewers slowly. “From now on,” he said quietly, “this is how it works. I fish. I trap. I dive the reef when the weather allows. I bring it back. I cook it. You eat because I decide there’s enough for four mouths. That clear?”

 
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