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."
JANEY'S TRIP (FM rom)
by Janey
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.
"OK."
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."
"Water, too?"
"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?"
"Uhhh, sure."
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."
"Uh huh?"
"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?"
"Please do."
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."
Smooth, very. I wondered if his friend had any idea what she was getting.
I
relaxed. The stroking continued. Unbelievable.
I was lying there getting wet and this guy had hardly touched me--just a few
strokes, back and forth--and a kiss. I could stand this
all day. It was like being just a little
bit drunk, and taking tiny sips every so often so you'd stay that way and
not go up or down. My eyes closed. A kiss, this time right where his
hand was, on my inner thigh. I shivered.
He took my left hand in both of his and began caressing it. Then, slowly,
up my
bare arm, almost to the shirtsleeve,
on the inside. So gentle it almost tickled. But not
quite. His mouth on mine. Light pressure,
an opening, a tongue darting in, then
withdrawing. Mouth gone. Tiny kisses
on my neck, then around, following the shirt
collar. Stroking my arm. I was melting
away. Nobody can give you an orgasm just by
stroking your arm and giving you little
kisses, right? I wouldn't bet on it. I could feel the
electricity build. But if it took all
day, I'd wait. Gladly.
I opened my eyes, lifted my head a little so I could see what I was doing,
and
lightly placed my hand on his khaki
shorts where they covered his penis, which was quite obviously watching the
proceedings with interest.
"No, don't," he said. "I want this to take a while, and if you do that, it won't."
My, God! This is Saint Francis. I jerked my hand away as if I'd been burned.
As
somebody once said, this was the most
fun anybody could possibly have with her clothes
on. Just then, of course, he began to
lift the bottom of the T-shirt.
"Sit up a minute," he said. I did, and lifted my arms so the shirt would
come off
over my head. He reached around me,
not quite touching, and unsnapped my bra. I just
wear it for show, really, so people
will see the bra line on the back and think there's
something in front.
He looked at what he'd uncovered and said, "I've found another discrepancy.
You
have tits. Not great big ones, but enough.
Ample.
"Now lie down again."
"Yes, sir." I did. Now the stroking was on my stomach.
"You have tiny blonde hairs on your stomach," he said. "Fuzz."
"True," I said.
"I like it."
Anything you like you can have, I thought. The stroking continued. I wondered
what he was thinking. Then the thinking
stopped.
He lay his head on my chest, gently. He was so gentle. I couldn't believe
it.
Believe it, I told myself. One hand
came up under my right breast, stroking, gently. Up a little more. A touch,
just a touch, on my nipple. I shuddered. Inside the turmoil was
getting worse. I mean better. More and
more electricity. Oh! So nice! He moved his head a little, and flicked my
other nipple with his tongue. Bliss! His whole mouth on my
breast, lightly sucking, tongue touching
only now and then, oh, happy nipple! The other
hand, still moving around sort of aimlessly,
stroking. My hand on his back, just touching
him.
It all stopped. I opened my eyes. He was taking off his shirt, then his
shorts and
his underwear. Naked. He wasn't really
Adonis, kind of a crooked nose, a small but
bright scar on one side of his chest.
He was close enough.
"Slide out of your shorts," he said. I did. "Now relax."
Easier said than done. Here we were, naked as jaybirds, under a palm tree
on a
tropical island. But not real. Out of
time. I lay back and waited to see what would happen next. He started where
he left off, just gently stroking. I didn't know whether I wanted to wait
all day after all. I has getting very excited. Tiny little orgasmic feelings,
you know,
little bolts of lightning, were shooting
through my vagina and up into my stomach. Could
this keep on so long I'd throw up? No.
Never. But my God!
Then both hands, sliding up my sides, gently holding my breasts. Thumbs
stroking, stroking. Left nipple, a touch,
another. I couldn't help it; I grabbed his arm and
bit his hand. Not too hard. Then I let
go. I opened my eyes again.
"Hey, Sandman?"
"Yeah?"
"Can't you please just stop the preliminaries and come inside? I don't think
I can
stand this anymore."
No answer, just a body stretching out, a body looming over me, my legs opening
wide, my hand guiding, my eyes looking
directly into his, a few inches away, his gentle
smile, his warm penis slipping into
my oh-so-slippery vagina. A kiss, long and intimate. A hug. No more movement,
just lying there, feeling. All filled up.
Slowly he withdrew, almost all the way--not quite. Then back in slowly.
I heard a
bird call. Nothing moved. I breathed.
A hand on my brow, pushing my hair back.
"I like your messy hair."
I hugged him down on me. He was heavy, pinning me to the ground. No midget
this one. I smiled.
"What are you laughing at?" he said.
"I was thinking that you're not a midget, then I remembered it's not politically
correct to call the others, you know,
the short ones, midgets. My best friend is really
short, and I wouldn't hurt her feelings
for the world. But I think midget all the time--
sometimes runt--because I started thinking
that way in junior high when they asked me
how the weather was up there. Fucking
midgets, I thought."
"Bad girl. I might have to squash you for thinking evil thoughts."
"You already are. Squash me some more."
"My pleasure." But instead he lifted himself on his elbows and gradually
withdrew again. Then back in, slowly.
Again. And again, and again, slowly. I was going,
no, coming, gone, a-a-a-ah!
"Sandman. Stop fucking around! More. Now!"
"Yes, ma'am," he said. In. Out. In, out. In, out. Faster. Harder. Me, coming
again. Not so loudly. More like a groan.
In, out. In, out. "Ugh. U--ugh." Collapse.
Silence. I held him, tight. My life
preserver.
He lifted his head and looked at me. Big grin, not gentle at all.
"Thank you for rescuing me," he said.
I looked up, puzzled. "From what? It was the other way around, you rescued
me!"
"Never mind, maybe we rescued each other."
He rolled off and lay beside me.
"Think we'll get chiggers?" I said.
He looked alarmed. "God, I hope not." Then he relaxed. "Naw, this is paradise,
remember? No chiggers here. Now if this
were Texas . . . ."
"We have ticks in Massachusetts, and mosquitoes," I said helpfully.
"But no tarantulas, no rattlesnakes, no cotton-mouths. And no chiggers.
Hey, let's
eat, then go back to the mob. I feel
better."
We put on our clothes, ate his sausage and crackers, drank the last of the
water,
and walked across the field, hand in
hand. We had to let go during the last few minutes
to make it down the steep path. But
he was holding my hand again when we walked into
the camp or whatever it was.
--------
Until the people came to get us Sandman and I hung out nearly all the time
together. I caught him watching once
when one of the cuties walked by swinging her
butt, but I took him off behind some
bushes and got that right out of his mind. Can't be
too careful.
Sometimes we separated for a while. I got a lot more social, for some reason.
Playing around down on the beach I talked
to Kim a while about this and that and then I
taught her how to put the shot with
a coconut. Given her reputation as a loose cannon,
maybe that was not the best thing to
do, since you're not supposed to put the shot
actually at anybody, but what
the hell, it was fun.
I even talked to the little guy with the braid. He's OK if you ignore
some of his
quaint notions. He said pinching butts
is just a sideline with him. Actually, he likes big
women who dress up like little girls.
He said he'd love to get me some little girl clothes
that would fit me and then we could
have a hell of a time. I declined.
It was even more fun, however, just to hang around, holding Sandman's hand.
We did that a lot and people kidded
us. Supposed to be an orgy, they said, and what the
hell was wrong with us? Sandman would
just smile and say everything was fine. I really
love that guy.
Then the big boat came for us. We knew it would, sooner or later. Sandman
and
I clung together on the beach watching
it come in, slowly.
"I'm not going to wait for them," I said.
"What do you mean?
"I'm leaving now. This is not real, we're out of time, remember?"
"I love you," he said.
"And I love you."
We hugged each other hard, nothing gentle about it. We kissed once more.
Then
I turned and walked down the beach away
from the others, went behind a palm tree, and
snapped my fingers.
My mother is a little bit of a witch. She's Irish, but she doesn't make
much of it
except now and then. I don't know why
she thought I'd ever need it, but she once told
me, "If you're ever in a place that's
not real, that's out of time, and you want to come
back home, just get off by yourself
and snap your fingers." So I did . . . .
-----------------
And now I'm sitting at the computer in frozen old Boston, writing this up
for
Beth, and for my husband Bob--he'll
understand, just the way Sandman's fiancee will--
and for anybody else who cares to take
a look.
-------THE END------