Enchanted Isle, or Three weeks in the life of a shipwrecked Boston Clerk
...Two little boys each grabbed one of her legs and lifted them up and apart, revealing the childish slit. They had me kneel between them and I gently nuzzled the pouting lips, laving her soft slit with my tongue, breathing in the warm vapors of such a young cunny. I was going crazy with need.
My hands clutched her sides, feeling the soft golden hair that cascaded down from her head, feeling the incredibly fresh smooth skin. I felt Melony's hand curling around my prick which strained to slap against my belly as I suckled that little child.
"Pierce her!" the children cried, "Fuck her! Fuck her!" I stood up and Melony quickly covered my prick with her mouth, wetting me and bringing me to the peak of tension for the third time.
I could stand it no longer, and, as the children watched, I pushed Melony away and grabbed the little girl, pressing my prick against the entrance to the impossibly small virgin hole. I pushed just the head into the entrance, stretching her gently, and she groaned in pleasure, her belly rising to meet my thrust....
Chapters in Part One
Chapter 1: (Mg) Shipwreck!- I reach the island- Sweet rescue- First words about the Goddess- Melony defiled
Chapter 2: (Mg+b+ Mg rape vio bMg 3some spank) I arrive at the village- A twin initiation- A child raped- I am penetrated
Chapter 3: (Mggg) I recover at the river- Three girls at once
Chapter 4: (no-sex) I learn about the Goddess- Peter and Michael kidnapped by the Sun People- We begin a rescue
Chapter 5: (F+M+/b cast vio gg mg Mg) Philip's story of the Sun People- Our strange and sexy reaction
Chapter 6: (no-sex) A fitful night
Chapter 7: (ggm/M Mm ) A most pleasant wake-up-call
Chapter 8: (no-sex) I am dressed in my costume- We hike up the volcano
Chapter 9: (MF+/b whip needles bg ) Peter and Michael tortured- I make my entrance- Captured!
Chapter 10: (F+m+f+/Mmbg cbt needles Mb+g+/F+m+f+) The torture continues- Sunset- Tables turned on the torturers
Chapter 11: (no-sex) "Let there be light"- A plan of attack- Leaders and leadership
Chapter 12: (MM/g6 anal rape nc) Dierdra's Story- A child defiled for fleeting pleasure
In September of 1957, a fire broke out in the kitchen of a small house in Berlin. A fireman ventilating the roof found the manuscript which follows moldering in a pile of abandoned clothing and books in a far corner of the attic. Ownership has been traced to a sailor who served in the Nazi naval forces from 1940 until 1944, when he was killed in action. Attempts to publish the work in London in 1959 were scotched by the authorities. The original manuscript has only recently resurfaced here in America.
It is unknown exactly where or how the Nazi sailor may have come to possess the leather-bound memoir, but from bloodstains found on it, one can speculate that it was captured during some sort of military action.
This is not a book for the faint of heart: for every bloodstain found on the cover, there are twenty captured within its pages. The book presents subject matter that is not only violent, but morally repugnant: People raped and tortured for casual entertainment. Children subjected to every manner of sexual indignity. Private functions turned into public spectacles. Incest, sado-masochism, bestiality, pedophilia, homosexuality, sacrilegious rites, cannibalism-the list goes on. Certainly, everyone will find within these pages practices that offend. Still, the fact that such a place existed, that such a society grew and flourished in the evil grasp of a person like Cassandra, the villain of the piece, deserves our attention.
We have made every effort to retain the exact words of the original authors. Where there are errors of fact or of grammar, they are theirs. In some places, the pages were marked up for editing. Some of these changes were obviously dictated in London when the book was first prepared for publication. We ignored these, making only those changes that were obviously in the authors' own handwriting.
I say "authors" because it is apparent from the handwriting that hands other than Brian's contributed to this book. We speculate that Kate had a part in its preparation, and others may have written parts of their own stories: it appears that more than one feminine hand touched pen to page.
In keeping with the wishes of the families involved, the names of non-island people which appear in this book have been changed. (Even though the author had shortened all last names to but a single letter, the prominence of many of the families involved dictated further steps toward anonymity be taken.)
It is interesting to speculate just how this society, steeped in violence and sexual abandon when Brian first arrived, may now have changed. After all, how should one structure a society where almost everyone is destined to remain a child or young adult? How does one cope with a population whose members simply do not grow old and die in any normal time scale? Once Cassandra's peculiar brand of death control was discontinued, what arose to replace it?
One can only hope that the new rulers have turned the island into the peaceful paradise it should have been from the beginning. One trusts they've introduced education and the principles of democracy. One prays they've found ways to balance Sexplant-induced orgies with spiritual values.
There is much here we can learn about the virtues of our own society, our own system of government, our belief in the sanctity of life and the innocence of childhood. These memoirs serve well as a classic study in what can go wrong.
W. P. Morgan Everett, Mass. November 11, 1988
Shipwreck!-I reach the island-Sweet rescue-First words about the Goddess-Melony defiled.
Warmth. Soothing warmth and blue sky, broken only by soft hair gently caressing me. Sweet, tender breasts hovering near. Silky tan skin touching mine. The soft hollow of thighs and the promise of a girlish cunny barely hidden beneath coarse-clothed shorts. The nightmare was over....
My ship had sunk three nights before in an howling South Pacific storm. The waves had repeatedly crashed and pounded over the deck until the ship finally broke apart, spilling its crew into the swirling waters. I hung on to a piece of splintered wood until daybreak, listening to the death rattle of the converted freighter as she went down, hearing occasional cries and struggles of some poor man fighting for his life.
By morning, I was alone. The storm still shrieked, driving the waves into 15 and 20 foot frothing peaks. Even with the little light provided by the sun far above the black clouds, it was difficult to see very far.
By what must have been noon, I was failing fast. My arms could hardly hold on to the piece of wood anymore. I would climb the side of a swell, hover at the top for a blessed moment, and then be hurled down the far side, sliding deep in a trough to face the next wave which threatened to crash over me.
It seemed like years later that, from the peak of a crest, I spotted a small boat drifting along with me, some 200 yards behind. I hailed it, getting a mouth full of salt water for my efforts, but there was no answer. I swam towards it, using up most of my remaining strength, and somehow managed to pull myself aboard before collapsing out of fear and exhaustion.
The boat was empty except for a small pack bound to one side containing a canteen and a few cans of emergency rations.
I drifted for three days, the wind carrying my tiny lifeboat far from the shipping lanes. With provisions gone and canteen almost empty, I was beginning to wonder at my chances. I'd been lucky enough to escape the swirling suck of the dying ship, luckier still to have found the lifeboat and survived the fury of the storm. Now I lay, tossing on the South Pacific swells, being baked to death by an unrelenting sun. My lips were dry; my mouth was dry; my throat rasped with every breath. It looked as though my luck was running out.
A bird flew overhead. Then another. More. At first, they were all seagulls, but then I spotted a flock of land birds!
I pulled my head up above the gunwale and slowly scanned the horizon, looking for anything but blue water. It was then I saw the island for the first time.
It rose from the sea, a snow-capped volcanic wonder, some 8 miles long from where I could see it. I could not tell how wide. The original volcano had cracked and fallen in bygone eons, leaving wide plains which had grown to be lush tropical jungle. A new central cone now towered almost bare above this paradise, smoke wisping from its top, casting the shadow of power and doom.
I paddled for shore, fighting a cross-wind which seemed bent on driving me away. Clouds welled up in the evening sky and lightning played on the volcano's crown. I spotted a small stream at the edge of a sandy beach and dragged my way to shore, stumbling onto the beach and collapsing as rain fell on my upturned face, wetting my thirst-swollen mouth.
When I opened my eyes to the morning warmth, a shadow had fallen across my face. I turned to see the concerned eyes of a darling young girl who was softly bathing my tortured face. She tossed back her long, black hair.
"You are awake!" she said, with a lilting English accent. "I was so worried about you. How long have you been at sea? Are there any others? Where did you come from?"
"Hold on a minute," I managed to reply, "one thing at a time." I told her how I had happened upon this island and then asked her how a pretty little girl like her (she could not have been more than 12) had landed in such a place.
She continued her ministrations as she spoke. Her name was Melony, and she had sailed from England, bound for India and her father. There had been a great storm and the crew had put her and the other colonist children into the ship's single lifeboat, casting them off with a single crew member to man the boat. They had drifted for days, finally running out of food and water. The crewman had died and the children grew very weak. Eventually, they had drifted to the island, where they had been ever since.
As she told the story, I had a better look at the young lady. She wore shorts that appeared to have been hand-made from some ancient cloth, stretched tight around her pretty bottom. Across her small breasts lay a ribbon of sailcloth, standing out in stark contrast to her soft, tanned skin.
She explained the origin of the clothes, scrounged from some of the steamer trunks and other debris that began drifting ashore shortly after their arrival, part of the flotsam from the shipwreck.
She was a delightful vision, her clear young skin tanned chestnut brown from the long days in the sun. Her supple legs were perfect in form, leading upward to proud, forming hips, a narrow waist, and just the beginning swells of breasts. Her face was exquisite, with dimpled cheeks and tiny nose. And those eyes. Those soft, expressive eyes. It was a lovely face.
I realized she had finished her story and was looking at me intently. I shook my thoughts away. This was a young girl of not much more than 11 or 12 and I am 26, a Boston lad, and had been quite busy appraising her! "Um, how long have you been here?" I stammered.
She replied, "A long, long time."
I was hoping to pin it down a little closer than that. There was a fair chance they were still looking for her, thereby making my own chances of rescue a little better. "Well, do you know on what date you were shipwrecked?" I asked, trying to pin it down.
"Oh, yes," she responded, "It was September 15, 1863."
The shudder was involuntary.
Her eyes looked startled at my reaction. Not an extraordinary reaction, considering that I had been shipwrecked on June 3, 1937!
I restrained myself, using that voice we adults use when children are embarrassing themselves and we charitably would like to limit how stupid they sound: "Do you know what year it is now, little one?"
"Oh, yes," she promptly replied, "We have kept careful track. It is 1936."
"Well," I thought to myself, "being only one year off after 74 years is not bad.... Seventy-four years? This child is older than my grandmother!"
I caught her hand as she continued to bathe my face, feeling her tiny soft fingers captured within mine. "Excuse me, Honey, but do you realize what you are saying? Do you know how old that makes you? Surely you did not mean to say 1863?"
"I certainly did mean to say 1863," she replied, tilting her head, opening her eyes very wide, and pouting her sweet lips prettily, rather obviously insulted by my implications. "I may have been only 6 years old but I remember the war in America and I remember that American ship that fired on us, breaking the mainsail mast and blowing great holes below the water, and I remember watching the Calcutta as she sank to the bottom, condemning me to being marooned on this strange island."
Something clicked in my mind. Second year History. The effects on the outside world of the American Civil War. The HMS Calcutta, attacked by an American warship because she was suspected of carrying supplies destined for the South. A great furor after the war when the English story was born out and it was proven that we had fired on and sunk an unarmed ship carrying passengers, mainly women and children, from England to India. All hands were thought to have been lost.
The captain of the American vessel was ultimately court-martialed. The crewmen said they could see children on deck even before the firing began. The attack was characterized as the act of a madman.
My little girl had grown quiet again. I looked at that sweet little face once more and asked, "How come, if you are 80 years old, you are so remarkably well-preserved?"
This time she did not act angry. Only a little sad at having to deal with someone of such obviously limited intelligence. "One ages very slowly on this island," she almost whispered, "I appear to be around 5 years older after 73 years. It would take me almost 200 more years to grow up, if they did not take me before then."
She stood up, brushing the sand from her legs. "It is not necessary for you to believe me. You shall see for yourself."
I didn't intend to hang around this island long enough to discover whether I was going to sprout gray hair, so the last remark did little to unnerve me. But I did want to know who or what was going to "take" her, so I asked. Then I wished I hadn't. It seems that there is a self-styled "Goddess" who lives on the other side of the island who keeps most of the island's occupants enslaved. They tend her house, pleasure her guests, raise her crops and generally keep her in the lap of luxury.
Periodically, in order to satisfy her sexual whims, she requires a number of human sacrifices. She breeds the older children to replenish her stock, allows the babies to grow to whatever age pleases her by having them avoid eating whatever herb or fruit is responsible for slowing their aging. She then starts feeding them the magic plant and keeps them young. Melony had run away because the Goddess had chosen to sacrifice her.
It seemed like good thinking on Melony's part.
While Melony related the tale of the Goddess, she massaged the front of my body, pulling and tugging at my muscles as she made her way down my body. As she knelt above my waist, stroking my stomach, I fought to control my thoughts and my organ. But as she began removing my pants, I began to reconsider. After all, either her story was true and she was way past the age of consent and it really was all right, or her story was untrue, and she and I were stuck on a tropical island together, possibly forever. Either way, we might as well get acquainted, and the gorgeous little child was driving me into an erotic frenzy.
She had my pants off and was staring at my restless cock. "I have never seen one so big before," she murmured, "The boys like it when I play with theirs. May I play with it until it squirts that stuff out?"
Could I turn down such a request? She cupped it in her little hands and gently stroked it as it snapped to ramrod attention. She played her hands up and down the shaft, cupping my balls then moving to flick her hands rapidly over the head until I thought I would go mad. "Please," I rasped hoarsely, "let me see you naked."