The Crash
I suppose this is really for posterity's sake, but my name is Terry Grant. I used to be a freelance explorer. Mostly taking rewards for mapping out uncharted places, but when that's your profession you tend to put yourself out of a job. That, or you end up doing crazier and crazier things, like flying over the Arctic Circle in a plane like so many ship-bound explores had done a century before. It's 1938... or at least it was when I set out. A son of a veteran of the first Great War I wasn't aiming to get drafted into the second one that everyone knew was coming. So, I took near suicidal mission for laughable pay.
Everything was going well the first few hours. I took off from Ireland and began heading north. The company wanted to know really if there might be oil in the ice, jungles were tapped, so were deserts, and plains; why not under ice? Sense or no sense the pay was fair for the work. One pass over, one pass back. Honestly, I wasn't even there to scout the oil. I was just there to see if someone could fly over and back safely. Short answer: You can't.
My instruments began to freeze up worse than I had anticipated. The flaps were becoming harder and harder to move. I grunted and raged against the stick of the mono-wing plane. It was certainly worth more than me, and it wasn't a Great War surplus bird by any standard. I imagined planes like this were already being fitted with machine guns and armor. I wished mine had some kind of magical self-heater. That was the last thought before I went down in a scream of metal and man. I must have hit my head because I blacked out.
Her House
I awoke in pain and stiffness. Thankfully, I realized, I had woken up at all. Not only that, but I was warm. I tried to roll over and it hurt too much. I gasped sharply and my vision swam. There were soft footsteps and a bowl was being pushed to my lips. I drank and fell asleep again. When I woke again it was night. I could tell because several insects were being very loud and rude. I felt better this time. I felt my jaw and the copious amount of stubble confirmed I had been out for some time. I blinked furiously trying to focus my vision. The room was surprisingly big. I could see several archways leading to other room. It reminded me of the homes you saw in rural Spain or Mexico, there was a bit of Victorian England and some kind of tribal decorations. I was on a Spanish style sleigh bed in the thickest silk sheets you ever felt. I just wanted to wallow down into them and never wake up.
However, the nagging question of where the hell was I was my forethought. There were no houses in the middle of the Arctic Circle. I stood up on very shake legs. I hadn't been out long enough for them to atrophy and that was good. I was wearing a Spanish style peasant shirt and loose cotton trousers. I quietly ratted around. I felt the tight pull of expertly applied bandages. I pulled them off. Whoever had bandaged me was thorough. The wounds were almost healed. They itched so whoever had tended me probably intended them to stop my scratching. I yanked them off with more zeal than before.
I walked into the room to my left and found an art studio. I saw several pictures, and some early ones where I was the subject. Something wasn't quite right about this house, but I could put my finger on it. No, I don't mean its existence, I meant something more basic. I was holding up a charcoal sketch of a mountain landscape when I heard the clack of beads. Someone was home. I put the sketch back so I didn't look like too much of a snoop and tried to limp out of the studio to no avail.
"Nosey, aren't we." I turned unimpressively and came face to face with the prettiest dame I'd ever seen. She was of a dark complexion, like smooth Italian coffee. This might have bugged a lot of people, but I tended not to meter my desires for any women. It was just unprofessional of a professional world traveler to deny himself on grounds of racial purity or some such hokum like that. She had gams that went all the way up, a slender waist, wide, wide hip and a very large bust. Big round brown eyes and full mocha lips drew you to the fact her ebony hair was drawn into a stylish (for Victorian England) bun complete with what looked like a silk net over it.
She was swearing long leather boots and stockings. It was really immodest for what I was used to she had a skirt that was exquisitely died in bright colors in some kind of South American style. She wore a Spanish blouse, you know the ones that have the low necklines and down cover the shoulders. It was white silk. She had a basket with flowers under arm. She was wearing a bunch of gold and beaded bracelets. She put the basket down and sashayed toward me.
Normally I say I wouldn't back away from a woman like this, but there was one other thing. She was about seven foot two inches. I looked, her boots didn't have much of a heel. I was about six foot one myself. Another thing, she was very muscular. Not like male strongman at the circus, but very defined very appealing, but not exactly a normal female of my species. Oh, she was plenty curvy too. Don't mistake me on that. However, realizing this I noted that some of her curvaceous parts came from proportion than God-given good luck. She promptly picked me up, threw me over her shoulder and tossed me back into the bed. She placed herself over my hips and I balked.
"Miss," I said but she put a long slender finger to my lips. "Shush" she whispered. She spoke English but with a very strange cadence and accent. It wasn't a Spanish one either. She unhooked her skirt from the side and her silk undergarments shown pretty and purple against her dark skin. "I don't want my first man to spoil it with stupid questions." That was the end of that. She pulled my cock out and began rubbing it.
"Mmm... the orchids do work on you little men." I felt what she meant and a quick look confirmed that I had grown considerably. My balls hung heavy and dense with virility.
"What did you do to me!" I demanded weakly. She put her hand over my mouth.
"Nothing you won't love in about ten seconds, now shut up, stud." She said rubbing with the other hand until my arousal pleased her. She ripped off her panties and pulled my hand to her sex. It was just like a normal woman's but I realized why she wanted me to have more manliness. She forced three of my fingers into her sex and moaned, wetting copiously. She cried something in no language I'd ever heard and began riding my hand. It didn't last long. She gave me a wolfish grin and voraciously impaled herself on my rod. I want you to know that I fought back, but this woman was strong. A motion from her powerful thick thighs and my hips couldn't buck to the side. If I tried to push her off she pinned my hands. Nothing was stopping her from pressing her body to mine, her breasts smothering my face.
Then I couldn't fight. She pulled her blouse open and let me kiss the black flesh. She took me. That was the simplest way to describe it. I came often. She'd roll off me and I flopped to the floor. My attempts to get away only excited her and she took me again. Riding me on the floor, I never grew flaccid. Never ran out. My cum dripped from inside her body. Hell, she even laughed and let me come on her dark skin.
I'm lying on the floor trying to hold onto consciousness. Her fingers are covered in my seed and her nectar as she pumps my large member with her hand. Then she falls asleep. Carefully I extricate myself from her and find my pants. I begin to limp out of the house. Wherever I am I need to get away from it. I emerged into a bright beach-like area. The waves crash against a severe rocky coast. I could see the jagged teeth of obsidian wash ashore, as well as, jut up from the white, foamy spray of harsh waves. It was morning, I couldn't believe it. We'd tumbled for hours... then again, it sure felt like it. I staggered onward.
The Island
A cobblestone path stretched on into a small forested area. I looked to my left and right and saw several other dwellings. The outside looked like a cross between several cultures. Predominantly Spanish, English, and maybe some Oriental work, it was all tied together with very tribal motifs. I began walking down the path. I should have probably have stayed off of the winding path, but I was so tired. "Tired, sweet one?" Came a familiar cadence but a different voice. I snapped toward it. Seven feet tall, long legs, a little fuller (think proportionately). She was dark-skinned, green eyed, and red haired. She wore a corset and trousers. She had a basket full of large vegetables. She wore a sun hat that was styled after last century Cuba. I balked and began to limp the other way.
"Oh, don't be like that, dear. I'm not going to take you like Myri did. I'm a more mature woman." I ignored her and kept limping. She strode easily and picked me up by the scruff. "I said stop." I thought she'd be mad but she giggled. I nodded and she put me down. She sat down on the clover and put my head in her lap. She began to stroke my hair and I calmed down.
"Better?" She said. She smelled like sweat and earth and fragrant flowers. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions, no?"
I nodded. I closed my eyes. "Where am I?" I groaned.
"To put it simply you're in Amazonia. Well, not exactly what we call it, but the name works." She ran her fingers over my face. "Handsome." She cooed. "Ever since that Spanish man came we've used the name. So, yes, we're amazons. It's a little more complicated than that, but you're one of ten men on an island of thousands of us. You're our slave."
