Travels of the Mind

12. Storm - Shells upon the Shore

She stepped out, out of the house in London, for a few moments, just to calm her mind, tugging the raincoat tighter to her, the weather looking foul with wind and rain. On the radio there had been weather warnings -- a storm was coming. The rain of a few hours ago was coming back with a vengeance. It was Friday. It was not going to be a good weekend. The weatherman promised that.

There had been a bit of an argument with Benjamin, and Maisie had been difficult, fractious and bad tempered. The woman needed a bit of a break. Was it all getting too much for her? She knew, though, what it really was -- her frustration at not getting pregnant again. Then there was the more than unsettling way she kept found herself in more than daydreams, not perhaps nightmares, certainly translocations -- real or unreal? She did not know. Was it all a steadily increasing madness? But she did need to return to Maisie, Benjamin and that so mundane need to write a report. It was Friday, it was needed by the Monday.

She thought of Harris; yet was surprised she could not recall the colour of his eyes. Who was he? She never seemed to spend long with him, yet in so many different places. It was unsettling.

A passing lorry went through a puddle sending up an enormous splash over her. She gasped, and then another wave came breaking over the side of the ship sweeping her off her feet, she grabbed and caught her hands on a rope and held on for dear life. The change so sudden, the translocation dramatic. What?

"We're going to founder. The storm! Seen nothing like it. Every man for himself," the old sailor in oilskins looked straight at her, "... and woman!" Behind her, another man cried out, "land!". Another wave and both were gone.

The ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment her motion being so stopped, the sea broke over her. The rage of the wind so great, the woman could not believe the ferocity of the storm. And where was the lorry and her street?

Seamen were trying to get a boat slung over the ship's side; and she was pulled up and unceremoniously dumped into the boat, every moment expecting to see Harris there all cool, calm and collected to take charge and get her to safety. But he was not to be seen, eleven in the boat heading out into the wild sea and the shore. It was clear enough that the sea went so high that the boat could not live, and they should all be inevitably drowned. How -- she had been walking down her street. And now the wooden ship she had so suddenly found herself in disappeared into the maelstrom of waves. Her world suddenly circumscribed by the bow and stern of the little rowing boat and the raging sea all around.

Someway achieved, rowed, or rather driven about a league and a half, when a raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern took the boat with such a fury, oversetting it, and all swallowed up in a moment. Such confusion of thought. Why, where, how -- was this the storm Harris had forewarned? She had seen -- experienced -- nothing like it. Suddenly in the sea. Salt water in her mouth, the waves lifting and dropping her. She swam well, but hopelessly, taking in more salt water until, fortuitously, a wave having driven, or rather carried her, a vast way on towards the shore, having spent itself, went back, and left her upon the sand, half dead with the water taken in. She had the presence of mind not to let the sea drag her back and got upon her feet and took to her heels and ran with what strength she had further up the sand to throw herself down in utter weariness but free from danger and quite out of the reach of the water. She slept and, on waking, expected to find herself back in her own bed or just walking in raincoat down her street, but, no, beneath her head, soft sand, and it was not soft English rain falling on her but the bright sun of a new day. The howling gale of a storm no longer all around her. She blinked, rubbed her eyes and swung around to sit up.

There she was on a beach, palm trees and lush vegetation beyond. The sky so blue, the air so calm. She knew that it was over, the storm had passed on through, leaving all sorts of damage in its wake. Offshore, the wreck of the ship, dismasted, listing and quite broken.

She was not alone. Harris, for it was he - of course it was he - was sitting upon an overturned palm tree, uprooted in the storm, regarding her. The man was dressed not in his usual tweed or smart blazer, but in a suit of clothes made entirely from the skins of animals. A waistcoat, and breeches open at the knees, and both loose; beside him, leaning against the palm, a furled umbrella clearly also made of skins.

"Well, well, well, a castaway. You survived the great storm. Of course you did! Today it is Friday, you know? Should I call you 'Friday' I wonder? Not the Friday I might have expected, comely certainly, but not a handsome fellow." Harris thin smile came to him. "Most certainly not a fellow, perfectly well made, with straight, strong limbs; tall, and well-shaped; having a very good countenance, with hair long and black; forehead high and large; and a great vivacity and sparkling sharpness in his eyes. I can see that in your eyes, though, vivacity and sparkling sharpness. Tawny coloured skin? Face round and plump? Not you. Nose small? Well, more medium, I would say, but certainly a very good mouth, thin lips, and fine teeth well set, and as white as ivory."

Friday? Harris dressed in skins? A wrecked wooden sailing ship? It came to her just where she was. "Not Crusoe's island?"

"The very same. Exactly so. Castaway, shipwrecked. Crusoe alone for years and years -- twenty-five before meeting Friday. And here we are, just the two of us. Shipwrecked and alone, a man and a woman."

It was not as if Harris did not know that she was a woman irrespective of her nakedness. He had had the pleasure of her body in all ways a man can enjoy a woman. The sea had, indeed, torn her clothes from her and she was as naked as Friday had been on that day Crusoe had rescued him. But her body so different from Crusoe's Friday. She knew Harris was quoting from the book. What turmoil might have come to Crusoe's mind had Friday been a woman, not a man? Had he seen rather than the hanging genitalia of the male, the rounded shape of a woman's hips, a plump mound of Venus all covered in dark, mossy hair and her full pointing breasts. How would Crusoe, after so long alone, not been overwhelmed by lust? Would his cock have burst open his carefully stitched together skins?

But Harris did not do that, just took her by the hand and led her up the beach. Half drowned; she was not really in the mood to be fucked! One thing to read about, quite another to be there on Crusoe's island.

The morning so different from the storm. The sky so azure blue, and the sea so calm and peaceful. Just the wreck giving a jarring note. Harris keen to make for the wreck to see what could be salvaged, discarding his clothing and entering the sea naked. Her eyes on him. Such a fine frame, such a handsome man, so virile and lithe. She, eventually, followed him in through the small waves, more than a little nervous at again being in the water.

Hard work but so all consuming. Preparing a raft and transferring stores and provisions. Trips back and forth bringing casks, sacks, all manner of items. Two or three bags full of nails and spikes, a dozen or two of hatchets, a grindstone, two barrels of musket bullets, seven muskets, fowling-pieces, barrels of powder more and a large bagful of small shot, all hoisted down the ship's side to the raft.

Muskets and pistols for defence and fowling pieces for game, but Harris carried another gun with him at all times, as well, for a very different purpose. Indeed, his penis, his man gun, all at the ready with powder and shot, hanging to hand in two pouches to his front. His penis for her vagina. Smooth bore, not rifled, penis into vagina. So natural that it would happen, and it did, it most certainly did, in the shade of the palm trees up the beach. Naked as Friday had been for Crusoe, there was a certain inevitability about it, as they settled down close by each other on the sand. The view so beautiful, the day so warm. It was she who rolled onto him. Lying on his body, looking down at Harris's face, her breasts pressed against his chest. And she felt it. The strengthening, growing feeling of a penis becoming hard, she could feel it moving, pushing its head up through her curls to lie hard, and so very noticeable, running up from her slit to her tummy button, her body pressing down upon it.

"Why?" she asked, knowing there would be no answer. "How long am I here?"

She kissed him. However real it all felt, it could not be. She did not feel disloyal to Benjamin. She did not know if Maisie was from her union with him or her several unions with Harris. Her legs opened and she wriggled downwards, pushing the smooth roundness of Harris into her. No foreplay, the male straight into the female. Or rather the female straight onto the male, enveloping and absorbing him into her. Hardness within her, as she opened herself to him, pushing him up and up to touch her cervix. She wanted that, her cervix, well painted, coated and under-coated, whitewashed with his semen. Harris was not stopping her this time. He let her ride, up and down, wringing an easy orgasm before she made him, too, come inside her, drawing his semen out and into her.

She slid from him, falling down and onto her back, legs parted, leaking semen a little -- but not too much; gazing at his penis slowly shrinking, wet from her, semen at its tip. She had braved the storm, come through it and had, finally, got his -- not another man, not a whole tribe of men, not men at a dinner party, but him -- Harris - to fuck and inseminate her. She would want to do it again and again until...

She should not have been surprised at the palisade, the ladders to enter or the several cave apartments behind the wooden door. It was all as Crusoe had made. So snug inside by candlelight at night and so totally dark when the last candle was snuffed out. Crusoe had been alone for many a long year, but a lonesome bed was not what they made. Two together in the utter darkness, naked bodies together and often intimate. Such pleasant rollings and copulations. Often night and morning with the occasional fuck in the middle of the night. She had with Benjamin, and so she did with Harris. Waking in the night, in the blackness, and reaching out to hold his penis. She knew men or boys sometimes held theirs as a comfort and she found the same. Like a teddy bear or rag doll, but rather different. Comforting in the same soft way. Perhaps more like a floppy toy frog than a bear or a doll! She would lie awake sometimes for a little while holding Harris' so warm penis and balls in her hand thinking. Other times she might go a little further, not so much kiss teddy or her rag doll as suck Harris' penis into her mouth, often with her taste upon it. He might wake or he might not. Like with Benjamin she did manage to make him cum without waking. A girl's dream, not a plastic dildo, but a real fleshy penis to play with in her bed, all hard and one to be made to work with a bit of effort with lips and tongue.

Of course, Harris might wake and then do much the same to her. So exciting in the dark being unable to see what he was about to do. Feel his lips suddenly touch her flesh, maybe her thigh, maybe just beyond where thighs stop and wet sex begins. Wonderful to lie there in the warm blackness and feel lips and tongue at her sex; again, a girl's dream -- she could imagine who she wanted to be licking her. Who might the schoolgirl in her bed imagine between her so spread thighs, nightie pulled up, pyjama bottoms kicked off or sleep shorts removed, which man or boy would she want? A film star, a teacher, a handsome lad at the school?

Harris so good, and after she came, he would come up and kiss her with lips all wet from her and his own bedtime spendings. A loss of fertile semen from her vagina but Harris would then add more, deep within her before falling back asleep, probably still connected to her, his lovely penis softening and shrinking in her vagina.

Unsurprisingly she wished to see more of the island. Harris took her inland along a brook and then branching out they travelled a fair way, pausing to drink from a little spring of fresh water, which issued out of the side of the hill. The country appeared so fresh, so green, so flourishing, everything being in a constant verdure or flourish of spring that it looked like a planted garden. They descended into a delicious vale, with an abundance of cocoa trees, orange, and lemon, and citron trees; pleasant to eat and very wholesome.

She found it a little strange that Harris wore his skins, yet she went naked. A strange contrast to those cultures where the women go about with the women covered from head to toe, yet the men walk in shorts and tee shirts. Might there be cultures like that where the women go naked whilst the men wore loincloths?

"Could you be naked too?" she asked, and Harris obliged. Two naked people under the citrus trees in the dappled shade. Both naked, but Harris seeming more so with his penis extended and jutting upwards. It was, though, how she liked to see him. His maleness, his virility there for her. His jutting erection reminded her of the tribesmen of Papua New Guinea with their penis sheaths, their Kotekas -- gourds placed over the penis and tied around the waist with a string. Were they to hide the penis, protect it from harm (yet their balls hung free) or simply decoration? A group where the men were traditionally part covered. Was it perhaps to hide erections? Harris's was not at all hidden. She knew by the growing wetness between her legs that she would make his erection go away in her own feminine way. She would take it from him, pull it into her and gobble it all up.

She drew Harris to her, pulled his body to hers, so his penis was squashed between them. She looked upwards into his face and pursed her lips. The kiss was long and intimate, tongues entwined like snakes -- a mating ritual indeed. With her arms around his neck, she pulled herself upwards and then let herself down, a delicious impaling, such a wonderful feeling of being opened -- fully opened -- absorbing all of the penis into her body.

How far away she was from Benjamin. Half a world away? Was it a dream, yet it all felt so real. She with her other man -- Harris. If marooned on a desert island with two men that would surely be how it would be. A risk the men might fight over her. That could well happen with some men - some women. Better that an accommodation was made. But what if four men and one woman washed up on an island. It would not be the same at all as one man and one woman. Would the woman agree to be shared, or would she simply be shared? Would there be a fight over her? But she had Harris. Indeed, did she have him! Under her, she rising and falling, her thigh muscles working as she drew herself up and pushed down onto his lovely strong cock. She so open and receiving, taking his maleness, and, at the end of their copulation, taking his seed.

It was a standing copulation. An unusual position, but did they not adopt many positions? In the cave at night more usually face to face, but sometime with Harris 'spooning' behind her. Out on the hot sand, sometimes Harris just lay there on his back, arms and legs spread and let her do everything, positioning, mounting, fucking, his hands unmoving, their only connection what she chose to do -- rub herself against him and push his penis into herself. His only movement, eventually, the steady pulse from his penis as he expelled his semen into her. Good at other times to get on all fours, or rest on her arms with her bottom so in the air and let Harris approach her, like the goats did in their pen.

"Do you remember." She had asked and not only did he remember, of course he did, but he had heated grease once more and applied it. That was not going to make a baby, but she had got on all fours and then rested her head on her arms as Harris had applied the slippery and very hot grease to her anus, his fingers all around, circling and then entering. So hot but just about bearable. And then Harris, clearly dipping his erection in the hot grease, pushed it in. Such an easy entry, like a well-oiled or rather well greased machine, the so hot organ just sliding up and up her back passage. A gasp from him as he drove fully 'home'. Her hand reaching and feeling his balls, so slippery with grease, right up tight against her. Holding them, keeping him deep in her bottom. The heat allowing her to feel it all. Her fingers curling with the excitement of it. So much better than that first time. Harris spooning her, his hot, well-greased, penis deep in her bottom.

No chance of making babies, but the anal intercourse was certainly consummated once more. More hotness within and she, too, came, her own greasy fingers flicking away at her sex, playing her clit. Much as she did when young in her own little bed, albeit most certainly without a large, male organ deep in her bottom -- or anything else for that matter!

So much sex on the island. She encouraging the intimacy. Harris often removing his skins at her request for them to play naked on the beach, in the water or amongst the trees. A man and a woman playing sexual games. Harris had threaded seashells gathered on the shore as necklaces or to be worn around her waist but covering very little. He seemed to like her naked -- that was perhaps unsurprising. The shells clattered and tinkled pleasantly on her body. Over time she gained quite a collection. An almost bikini made from scallop shells, so mermaid like, with a covering for her breasts, and one to cover, if not very well, her mound of Venus. Her chestnut curls peeked enticingly around the shell -- or so Harris had said. Reflected in the water, she could see what he meant. Sexual fun with shells! She too tried boring holes and threading shells to make not exactly a necklace for Harris, at least not around the neck joining his head to his torso but certainly the neck of his cock. Cock jewellery made of seashells. Amusing to fashion, amusing to dress Harris with them. Enjoyable to erect him with hands or lips and have him display.

Leaving Harris sleeping after a late evening fuck, she made her way alone, along the path to the high cliff, up and up into the bright evening light where she stood looking out to sea, her long shadow stretching out beyond the cliff and down and out upon the very ocean. She could see her shadow way out to sea beyond the dark shadow of the cliff, she standing atop; the low sun behind making her appear so tall, a giant of a woman. So slim and, most certainly without a rounded belly.

On the horizon not a ship to be seen, not a whisp of smoke. Maybe, where they were and when they were, it could only be a white sail. No steam ships in Crusoe's time. Nothing either way to be seen, just an empty ocean. Vast seas out to the horizon in all directions. They, Harris and she, were alone. Utterly alone. A couple, certainly a man and a woman, shipwrecked upon a desert island -- a lush and abundant desert island, but nonetheless castaway. Might there be more people one day? Would the cannibals come, as with Crusoe? Would there be a real Friday? Would there be rescue? Jolly jack tars coming ashore in a rowing boat delighted by the sight of a naked woman. Might there be... might there be a child for her or children -- how long would she be on this island? Days had stretched into weeks. All so much a longer experience than before: a visit to the fair, a race across London, a night upon the plain.

Could Harris get them off, return them to the real world, just like that? She had asked and he had smiled in his so enigmatic way; had smiled his thin, somewhat infuriating smile, and simply said she was shipwrecked and should make the best of it. Was there not food aplenty? Fish, fruit, vegetables and game? Yes, and might there be a child, though she missed Maisie -- and Benjamin. Oh, to have another baby, perhaps a boy.