CASTAWAY, a short story by finch. Date added: 2011-01-15. Times viewed: 9955.
- Please SEND FEEDBACK - Writers love hearing from you. You can view the Authors profile here
- Intro: A shipwrecked Victorian woman gets swept up in primitive island fertlity rites.
It had been such an idyllic trip. Sailing through the South Seas beneath endless sun and impossibly blue skies, the crystal water, the strange sea life and quaint cultures of the islands. I knew I would never forget this journey. Sir Herbert, my fiancé, had been very solicitous, and Captain Gantry was extremely gallant. And then the storm, chaos, fear and disaster. Finally, blackness.
Someone put something cool and wet on my forehead, and it felt wonderful, though my head still pounded. It hurt to open my eyes. Voices murmured, but my brain was too scrambled to make out the words.
I heard drums. Stamping feet. People were dancing. A fire flickered. I was cold, and someone covered me. I shivered. I slept.
Later, I was able to open my eyes, but I was still very weak. A woman held a cup of broth to my lips. It was delicious, and I asked for more. She answered in an unfamiliar tongue. I watched her dip more broth from a kettle over the fire. She was brown, with large dark eyes, a wide nose and long black hair. As she bent over me, her breasts swayed. She wore nothing above the waist. I looked down, and below she wore a sort of skirt made of long leaves, perhaps from a palm tree. Her feet were bare.
I asked the woman where I was, but she just murmured in her unfamiliar language and urged me to drink more broth. I did so and lay back, exhausted. The sound of waves on the beach lulled me back to sleep.
The memories came to me in fragments. The long trip by schooner from Taratoa. The stars bright on a moonless night. Then the storm. The sudden crash and frenzied activity as the ship rapidly broke apart and sank. Screams. Desperately clinging to a piece of flotsam as the voices faded and the waves carried me away. Blackness. Where was I?
When the woman returned, I pointed at the ground.
“Fatu-Hiva?” I asked. It was one of the islands we had passed.
“Shu. Shu Naywa,” she answered, or something similar. Was that the name of this place? I pointed at my chest.
“Christine.” The woman reached out and caressed my breast through my torn blouse. I was shocked and pulled back.
“Kur stee,” she said, smiling warmly. I shook my head and took her hand, touching my head with it.
“No,” I said. “Christine. Christine.” I pointed at her, then took her hand and touched her face with it.
“What is your name?” I drew her hand to my face again.
“Christine.” I raised my eyebrows and pointed at her. A light dawned and she smiled.
“Lohana,” she said with a broad smile. She touched my face again. “Kur stee.” She grinned. She lifted my hand and placed it over her breast, full, round and very tan, with a dark nipple. She closed her eyes. Her breast felt warm and heavy in my hand. I had never touched one not my own before.
“Lohana,” she said, and sighed. She opened her eyes, rose, and called out in her unfamiliar tongue.
There was a rustle and several other women gathered around, smiling and chattering. All were dressed like Lohana, with bare feet and chests, and skirts of palm leaves around their waists. They were all a rich brown, clearly spending many hours under the tropical sun. An older woman came in, wearing a different outfit that covered her from shoulders to knees, also made of leaves. She spoke sharply to the other women. One went out and returned with a steaming kettle. The others pulled aside my rough blanket and began removing the remains of my tattered clothing. They fingered the remnants of my gown, exclaiming over the white fabric and the many tiny buttons, which took them a little time to master. I tried to protest as they undressed me, but they understood not a word.
As the last shreds of my gown were removed, the women began touching and exclaiming over my blonde hair and my fair skin. They stroked my legs and arms, touched my face, and fingered strands of my hair. I didn’t know how to protest this invasion of my privacy, and truthfully I didn’t have the strength.
They seemed stymied by my corset, certainly a garment they had never seen before. It took some time before they discovered the laces in back and worked out how to loosen them. I must admit it was a relief when they finally pulled it away from my body, chafed by the wet sand caught under the stiff fabric. I took a deep breath for the first time in days and lay back. The women now tugged at my shift, the only thing left to preserve the last bit of my modesty. I held my hand up and tried to explain that this just wasn’t done, but there were too many of them, I was too weak, and in no time it, too, was stripped away and I lay naked, blushing with shame. I tried to focus on the sound of the crashing waves in the near distance to distract myself from my discomfort.
The older woman dipped a sponge into the kettle and lifted it dripping from the pot. Steam rose from it as she lowered it to my skin and began gently soothing my injuries and washing away the sand and grime. She uttered a command and a few of the other women also dipped sponges into the warm water and joined her in bathing my outraged flesh. My embarrassment faded under their ministrations. I did desperately need a bath and there was something so soothing about the gentle strokes of these native women. They lifted my limbs carefully, turning my body gently to reach all of my skin. The women seemed very interested in my pale flesh, so much fairer than their own, and my blonde curly hair, such a contrast to their own long black tresses. One of the women lifted one of my breasts and laughed, and I gathered she was commenting on its size, quite a bit larger than their own. I was embarrassed, but not as shocked as when another woman tugged at the hair between my legs. They all laughed, and I gathered that their own pubic hair was less luxuriant. The women all jabbered and spread my legs to see, each of them touching, stroking, pulling at the hair and commenting. I was too exhausted to resist, and mortified at the unwanted response of my body to their attentions. I prayed they wouldn’t notice the growing wetness between my legs.
Warm wet sponges bathed my neck, under my arms, my breasts and belly, and finally, between my legs. I was startled at their frank casualness, but there was no denying I needed bathing. It seemed that they may have lingered longer than needed between my legs, but the sensations were so pleasurably confusing, and I had no words or strength to protest.
A few days later I was strong enough to leave the hut, and sat in the shade under some palm trees by the shore. Some women and girls gathered shellfish in the shallows. The girls would bring me what they found and tell me their names for cockles, crabs and other sea food, though I found them difficult to pronounce.
More days passed this way, and as I regained my health I joined in the food gathering. I wore only the palm leaf skirt the other women wore, but as there were no men around it didn’t seem to matter a great deal. Some of the younger girls went completely naked, diving in the water like young seals. Part of me was disturbed at their wantonness, but another part appreciated them living in such an innocent state of nature.
For my own part, it took only a day of the tropical sun before I was badly sunburnt. The next day I rose with a whimper. One of the girls looked at my red flesh and exclaimed, then ran off, returning with the old woman I had seen the first day. She looked at me, roughly turned me around to look at my back, then handed the girl a gourd with a stopper in the top. The girl gestured to some friends, and they gathered around me. She poured generous amounts of a greenish substance from the gourd into their hands, and they all began rubbing it into me, laughing and chattering all the while. Before I knew someone had untied my skirt and I stood naked as they swarmed around me smearing me with greenish ooze. It was disconcerting, though the ooze did feel cool and eased the burning sensation. Two of the girls rubbed the fluid into my burnt breasts, lifting them and laughing, and I imagined commenting again on their size. I felt embarrassed, but much more so when I felt a hand reach from behind me and smear cool goop between my legs. I jumped and turned around. The girls laughed, and I felt another hand reach from behind me on the other side and do the same. I jumped again and they laughed so hard a couple of them fell down. I couldn’t help joining in.
The days went by, and I grew nut-brown, bemused at all the years I had striven to preserve my lily-white skin, and how quickly I had abandoned that pretense, along with my modesty. I waded half-naked along the shore, my bare breasts bobbing for anyone to see, and I imagined a ship passing by and how shocked the sailors would be.
I still saw no men, or even boys, which seemed strange to me. I tried to ask, but the gestures I used when collecting seafood were too primitive for such a complex question. The girls and women seemed little troubled by the lack of men. Their little society was very self-sufficient, even when it came to affection. It was not uncommon to see two of the girls lying entwined together on the beach, stroking each other and murmuring. Sometimes at night I would hear soft cooing and rustling, and sometimes cries of pleasure. It shocked me at first, but like everything else, it soon came to seem natural.
Then everything changed.
One day the girls rose with a sense of excitement that was palpable. Food gathering was set aside for the day, and there was constant lively chatter in the air. The women helped the young girls brush their hair and weave flower necklaces, and everyone joined in singing what seemed happy songs. One young girl seemed to be trying to explain to me what was going on, with smiling expressions and waves of her hands, but I was quite lost. She and some of the other girls turned their attentions on me, brushing my hair with some difficulty, plaiting me a necklace of fragrant frangipani blossoms and placing a large hibiscus blossom behind my ear. They dipped coconut oil from a shell and spread it over my skin, giving it much-needed moisture after all the sun and salt. I felt quite pretty and wished for a mirror, feeling absurd to be preening in my half-naked condition. Toward evening, the old woman appeared, carrying a large wooden bowl. The girls all gathered round and she handed each one a coconut shell full of the liquid in the bowl. They each drank eagerly, then passed the shell on. It reached me and I dipped the shell in the bowl and lifted it to my lips. It tasted strange, but not unpleasant. The woman urged me to drink another bowl and I did, though the girls had each had just one.
Shortly after it grew dark, in the sudden way it does in the South Seas. The stars were very bright, and I was captivated by their beauty. I swayed a little to the sound of the waves, feeling very relaxed and happy. How fortunate I was to have washed up in this little paradise. The other girls and women sat not far away on the beach, though I didn’t hear the usual conversation. Everyone seemed as lost as I in the beauty of the night. I idly spread coconut oil on my arms and legs, reveling in the soft feeling. My skin seemed so sensitive. In the dark, my hand strayed under my necklace of flowers to my breast, and my nipple stiffened. I thought of how long it had been since I had even seen a man, and wondered if I would ever see one again. I caressed my other breast and shivered, then slid my hand down my body and between my legs.
I let out a soft gasp when my fingers reached my most sensitive area. It felt exquisite to spread the warm coconut oil there, and my fingers found wetness as they explored. I closed my eyes and reached inside…
Drums.
I opened my eyes. I heard waves, but over them I could barely hear the sound of drums, a slow, steady beat. I looked around, and all the girls and women were sitting on the beach, smiling and looking expectantly out to sea. The drums grew louder. Soon, I could see splashes sparkling in the moonlight, and hear a chanting coming from the approaching canoes. The voices were deep. Men!
As they approached the beach, men leapt from the bow of each canoe and pulled it up on the sand. The canoes were large and elaborately decorated, and each held at least 10 paddlers.
It was strange to see men after so long. They were all dark and well-muscled from their active lives. They wore even less than the women, each of them with merely a cord around the waist and a small flap of cloth in front and back. Most of them were intricately tattooed, patterns of black decorating their arms, torsos and even faces.
The women seemed to know what was expected, and they divided themselves between the canoes, 5 or 6 girls to a canoe. The old woman took me by the arm and led me to a group of men. One large and very ugly man seemed to be the leader, and he reared back when he saw me as if repelled. The old woman spoke sternly, and both of us climbed into the canoe. The ugly man and the rest of the paddlers followed, and soon we were at sea.
The men rowed strongly, chanting again the song we had heard as they approached. A drummer in the stern of each craft kept time. I felt strange, a little light-headed and dreamy, and found myself caught up in the chanting. “Hoo, Wan-ya,” is what it sounded like, and I felt my breath and heartbeat synchronize with their chanting. Hoo, Wan-ya. The stars seemed to swell larger and smaller with each breath. Hoo, Wan-ya. Where the paddles dipped into the water, bluish sparkles seemed to follow their path and drip from the blades like jewels. It was mesmerizing.
We approached another island, and the men in the back of each canoe used their paddles like rudders to steer us in, riding the waves like a dolphin or seal. It was exhilarating, and I laughed out loud. When we reached the sand, the old woman took my arm and guided me out of the canoe and up the beach. I felt a little unsteady and was grateful for her grip. The men were chanting a new song now.
We entered a clearing, brightly lit by several large fires. Men pounded large drums with sticks, producing a booming sound I could feel in my chest. The men’s chant grew louder.
“Bon witchy-TAya, bon witchy-TAya,” Is what it sounded like to me. It was loud now, and coupled with the drums the sound had a physical force that rocked me. I felt myself moving in time with the music without trying.
In the center of the clearing there was a platform. It was heaped with fruit and flowers surrounding a large statue. The statue seemed to be of a woman, with grossly exaggerated breasts and belly. There were smaller, lower platforms in front of the large one, each covered with palm fronds and flowers. The women all gathered in a semicircle near the statue, sitting on palm leaves on the ground. They all swayed with the drums and chanting. Behind them the men stood in a ring, the fire glinting off their skin and tattooed faces. Perhaps I should have been frightened, but I felt preternaturally calm, as soothed by the music as I usually was by the waves. I swayed with the other women and smiled, often closing my eyes.
Suddenly a scream split the night. The men all made a high-pitched ululating sound, and the drumming picked up a faster pace. A grotesque-looking man leaped into the circle and began dancing around the platform holding the statue. He wore a large mask that reached almost to his waist, with huge grinning features. Around his waist was a grass skirt, and protruding from it was what seemed to be an enormous male organ, at least three feet long and suspended from his waist by a cord. He held a sort of staff in one hand, gnarled and decorated with shells and feathers. The man whirled and leapt in the firelight, his organ bouncing up and down, his stick spinning in his hand. The chanting began again, at the same faster pace as the drums. Some of the women whipped their heads back and forth to the beat, their glossy hair flying in the firelight. I felt the drumbeats and chanting pounding in my blood, in my chest, crowding out all thought and memory. My skin felt warm and alive, exquisitely sensitive to the breeze, the heat of the fire and the occasional touch of the women swaying next to me. I closed my eyes and rocked my head to the drumbeat, whipping it back and forth like the others. Suddenly the music stopped.
I opened my eyes, and the dancer stood before one of the young girls, pointing at her with his staff. She rose, and several of the grown women gathered around her, taking her hands and leading her to one of the small platforms. She moved languidly, her head swaying as if she still heard the music, her eyes half-shut and a small smile on her lips. The women untied her skirt and helped her up onto one of the low platforms, where she reclined among the fragrant blossoms. A scent of jasmine and something more exotic drifted through the firelight. The women raised coconut shells filled with oil, and dipping their fingers into it anointed the young girl, spreading the oil over her entire body, while she swayed and smiled.
The drumming began again, slow and urgent, and the chanting rose and fell, sounding now like “Uwayyy-O! Uwayyy-O!” I looked around at the other women and girls and they all watched, swaying and smiling.
The crowd of men parted and a young man appeared. His tattoos seemed fresh. He had the smoothly muscled body of a young, active man. He was beautiful, I thought, with even features, wavy dark hair and intelligent eyes. It took me a moment to realize that he wore no loin cloth, but was naked, the firelight flickering off of his aroused manhood. It embarrasses me now to share that this was the first time I had ever seen a male erection, and I found the sight quite riveting.
The young man’s eyes were fixed on the young woman swaying on her flowery perch, and I followed his gaze as he approached her. She was lovely, I realized, her long dark hair full and glossy, her features even and pleasing, her lips full, her eyes dark and welcoming. She had smooth, perfect skin, the rich brown tone of the islands that I have come to prefer to the milky skin so prized at home. Her young breasts were still small, but pleasantly rounded, and her erect nipples betrayed her arousal. I felt my own nipples respond in kind and lifted one hand to caress them beneath my floral necklace.
As the young man approached, the attendants backed away, and he was left standing alone before the young woman, who smiled at him, still swaying slightly with the music. He raised a hand and touched her hair, and she closed her eyes and tipped her head back, smiling. His hand traced down her throat and onto her chest. He paused at her breast, fingering the nipple in apparent wonder, and the young woman arched her back. He moved forward, parting her knees and touching her between her legs. The young woman gasped, and her teeth flashed in a smile of pleasure. The young man took his swollen organ in his hand and placed it at her female opening. His buttocks tensed as he pressed forward. She spread her legs wider and he swayed back, then forward again. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
The young man began moving back and forth now, his erect manhood sliding in and out of the young woman’s opening. I could see the firelight glinting off of her juices as he moved in and out, and became aware of my own juices flowing, the growing sense of urgency inside me and the swelling of my breasts. I squeezed my breasts with one hand and stroked between my own legs, marveling at the wetness there. I felt myself lifting my hips in time with the young girl, squeezing my thighs over my hand as it moved.
The drumming and chanting grew louder and faster now, and the young man moved in time, his strong young body swaying in and out, the young woman arching her back and lifting her hips to meet him. They seemed unaware of anything but each other, their coupling primitive and eager, both of them seeming to want to devour and engulf the other.
Suddenly the young couple stiffened and cried out together, and the crowd ululated loudly. I felt overwhelmed with the sensations in my body, the pounding music, the firelight, the flowers and the strange new urgency in my loins.
The young couple were surrounded and guided out of the firelight, and at the same time small groups of women guided other young girls to other flower-covered platforms. The ritual of undressing and anointing the girls with oil was repeated, as they each scanned the crowd eagerly for their mates, and soon a young man appeared before each of them. Soon a half dozen young men were thrusting their throbbing organs between the thighs of each young woman, all of them seeming lost in the joy and pleasure of the experience, their heads thrown back, mouths open, backs arched, hips thrusting to meet the pounding thrusts of her young man. The drums pounded and the chanting rose and fell, the music and the incredible sights before my eyes making me feel transported to another time. A warm musky smell joined the scents of the fire and the flowers, and I realized it was rising from the heated young bodies thrusting and throbbing before me. Their bodies glistened with sweat and I could almost taste their overheated flesh.
My mouth fell open as my fingers worked in and out of the hot dripping opening between my thighs. I was not so much unaware of the gaze of people around me as uncaring, swept up in the lust that filled the night air. I watched the young bodies thrusting and straining together, and lifted my own hips in time with theirs.
Suddenly one of the couples cried out in ecstasy, and the others rapidly followed, their shouts of joy mingling with the ululations of the crowd. Each of them were led away out of the firelight, and I wondered if the ceremony was over.
But the drums continued and grew deeper and louder. The masked figure appeared again, leaping and twirling in the firelight, swinging his staff as he circled the altar. The fire flickered over the massive stone statue. The giant breasts and belly seemed swollen with power and potency. I felt myself swaying to the music.
The masked man leaped in the air and came to the ground. His staff pointed at me, his giant erection bobbing obscenely. I blinked, confused. Several women gathered around me and urged me to my feet. I wanted to protest, ‘No, no, I’m just…I’m not…,” but I had no words they would understand, and my mind was strangely befuddled. The music pounded in my ears, and the men in the circle stamped their feet as I was led to the altar.
The women untied and removed my skirt, leaving me naked. I felt embarrassed by my huge breasts and my white skin. I wondered fearfully if anyone could see the wetness on my thighs from my urgent stroking. My heart pounded as they helped me up onto another small platform, one still unused and a bit higher than the others. The women produced coconut shells and dipping their fingers, spread warm oil all over my body, the oil seeming to stimulate my skin and make it even more sensitive. They spread the oil everywhere, stroking it over my erect nipples, making me shiver with their touch, between my legs, mixing with the juices already dripping there, and even between the cheeks of my bottom. I smelled the sweet aroma of the blossoms beneath me as I moved, their scent making me almost swoon. The music pounded in my blood.
The crowd parted and a man stepped forward, the largest man I had ever seen. He was a massive creature of corded muscles and sinews, his legs looking like great trees, appearing almost as if carved from stone. A cape and headdress of brightly colored feathers draped over his head and shoulders, shimmering in yellow, red and blue. The rest of his body was covered in elaborate tattoos, strange sea animals and serpents seeming to writhe in the firelight. As he stepped forward, two men moved toward him and removed his cape, and I saw that he was naked. He moved toward me, and the women who had anointed me slipped away. The drumming, chanting and stamping of feet grew louder and more insistent.
The giant stopped before me, looking at me as if at an unfamiliar creature. His enormous erection bobbed before him, seeming almost as large as that of the shaman. He towered over me. He reached out a huge hand and cupped one of my breasts, and I felt as if electrified. Pleasure coursed through my body and I felt as if I would do anything if he would only never remove his hand. My nipples felt like rocks. I found myself moving, rising to my knees, my hands cupping and lifting my breasts, offering them up to the giant. He grunted, seeming surprised, and reached out another hand, taking one breast in each enormous fist. He squeezed gently, and I shivered, throwing my head back and closing my eyes. The giant’s hands moved to my shoulders, then slid slowly down my body, sliding slickly in the warm oil. He seemed surprised when his hands reached my tiny waist, almost encircling me, then moved on to my hips. His hands felt huge, strong, warm and surprisingly soft. They pressed against my thighs, pushing them apart, and I sank back on the altar, my eyes closed, lifting my hips and offering myself up to him.
I heard him grunt again, and felt his hands slide under my bottom, pulling me forward. I felt my blood pulsing in my head, my chest, and between my legs. Something hard and hot touched my belly, then slid down, and I realized it was his giant male organ. It paused at my slick opening, then pushed tentatively forward. I spread my knees still wider, eagerly lifting my hips to urge him on. I felt completely wanton, ready to forever abandon my Victorian principles and doubts and surrender myself to this lustful giant. He seemed to sense my eagerness and pressed forward, his manhood entering my feminine temple, my nether lips stretching to accommodate his girth. He was impossibly huge, and I knew he must split me open, but I cared not. My hands gripped his thighs, pulling him on, and he slowly moved deeper, spreading my thighs wider as he came, my feminine organ stretching still farther to engulf his giant staff.
He pushed into me still deeper, filling me, feeling impossibly huge. I couldn’t take any more, and yet I did, and still he pressed into me, stretching me deeper and wider. My head thrashed from side to side, my hair slick with sweat. Strangled animal noises erupted from my throat as he pinioned me with his enormous manhood. And then he stopped. He held still for a moment, and I heard the drums, the stamping feet, the chanting. My head swam with delirium. The giant swayed back, and his organ slipped slowly out of me. I cried out in protest, gripping his huge muscular thighs with my nails, but still he withdrew, and I cried out in the anguish of loss, until suddenly, with a rush, he shoved his huge prick back into me, not slowly, but suddenly, all at once.
I bucked off the table, crying out. My eyes flew open. The giant began swaying his body, shoving his huge meaty organ into me, then out, then back. I felt overwhelmed, as if I would at any moment split apart, collapse into atoms, drift with the smoke into the starry sky. The chanting grew louder and more insistent, the drums keeping pace, and he pounded into me, his huge hands gripping my hips and grunting with each thrust. I rose to meet him, timing my movements with his own, trying to draw him in still deeper, deeper, wanting him in me, wanting him to fill me, yes to fuck me, to fuck me and never stop!
The giant grunted and thrust, harder and faster, and I pulled back my lips and snarled in my animal lust, thrusting my breasts at him, clawing at him, trying to pound him with my hips the way he pounded me with his giant pulsing rod. I writhed like a wildcat, consumed with passion. He tipped his head back and roared, and I felt a huge gush of hot fluid erupt from him inside of me, and then my own body seemed to explode and I screamed, screamed and flailed, cursed, cried, the agonizing pleasure rocking through me like an avalanche. I was sure I was dying and was glad. It seemed a fitting end, exploding into the universe with the stars and moon.
The giant stepped away and disappeared, and I collapsed on the altar, gasping, inhaling the scent of bruised flowers, sweat and glorious, musky male. And still, the drums pounded, on and on.
(Comments, suggestions and requests are welcome.)
Send feedback
- Use for below to send feedback to author - View the Authors profile here
- The following form will send feedback to the author about this short story, please enter your e-mail if you wish a reply (which is obviously at the authors own discretion)
