Tropical Dreams

NOTE: "Tropical Dreams" was written as an episode in the Spring Orgy on Malinov's Island, which was underway on the sex story newsgroups during the summer of 1998. This story takes place after the authors attending the Erotic Writer's Workshop on the _S.S. Sybaris_ flee the apparently sinking ship and are stranded on a deserted (?) island. This version is slightly different than that which I posted to those newsgroups in July 1998. As always, comments are appreciated; you can e-mail me at the address in my profile.

Copyright 1998 Pulp Fan.

* * * * *

An animal gleam in her eye, the cavegirl ripped off her fur bikini top, exposing her glistening, voluptuous breasts to the chill night air. Nude but for a flimsy loincloth, cherry red nipples hardening instantly in the sea breeze, dishevelled hair flying in the wind, she stood there like a pagan goddess, a goddess glad that she had human worshippers and intent on making one of those lucky stiffs worship a little more at her altar...

"Lana want Pulp Fan!" she growled, fixing the man lying on the ground in front of her with a hungry, feral look. "Lana want him now!"

Staring up at her, Pulp Fan--or Pulp, as he was generally known--could feel the familiar stirring beginning in his groin. He couldn't help himself--Lana was incredibly hot, a dead-ringer for Raquel Welch in "One Million Years B.C.".

Of course, that wasn't too surprising.

_All_ of the cavegirls on the island looked like Raquel Welch.

The lifeboats had landed on the shores of Malinov's Island a few days before. Expecting the island to be deserted--as Mal had asserted it was--the castaways were shocked to learn otherwise. Pulp could still vividly recall the consternation that had flashed across his fellow author's faces that fateful day when Poison Ivan had rushed into camp, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Dudes! Kim's been eaten by a caveman!", before collapsing in an exhausted heap.

It was bedlam. Their collective cries of horror were muted somewhat when, after catching his breath and sucking down some coconut juice, Ivan had hurriedly explained that his statement wasn't meant in the literal, cannibalistic sense--what he had meant was that a caveman--with Kim as his willing partner--was muffdiving like there was no tomorrow.

And the castaways' reactions on learning that the island was indeed inhabited by a small tribe of cavefolk completed its 180 degree turn when they learned two interesting facts. Fact number one--all of the cavegirls looked, and dressed, like Raquel Welch in the aforementioned dinosaur pic. "Buxom bronzed babes in bodacious bikinis," as one scribe had joyfully put it. Fact number two--the cavemen, while not stunningly handsome, had been prodigiously endowed by nature, both in size and stamina, when it came to their "packages."

Actually there was a third interesting fact as well, fortunate given the first two. And that was that the sexual appetites of the cave dwellers were incredible. The cavegirls had swooned over the (relatively) good-looking batch of men that had washed up on their shores, while the cavemen, having to that point subsisted solely on a diet of Raquel lookalikes and bored stiff of it, were like kids in a dessert smorgasbord with the fantastic variety now literally at their fingertips. They had never dreamt that women could come in such varied shapes and sizes and colors! Not that the brave writers minded...

And so, in addition to doing each other, the castaways had expanded their erotic horizons. A few less adventurous souls had muttered some warnings about tainting the pristine neolithic culture that clearly existed on the island, but their reservations were overwhelmed when they themselves were overwhelmed by the rapacious cavefolk. Coming up for air, even the initial naysayers had to admit--their new friends may have been primitive, but fucking certainly wasn't rocket science and what the natives didn't know about it hadn't been discovered yet! Plus they were good at keeping the sabertooth tigers at bay...

Indeed, the only downside that anyone had been able to come up with was that Uther had yet to figure out an appropriate story code to indicate cavemen (or cavegirls), assuming of course that they ever made it back to civilization in order to post a story.

All of which explained why Pulp was now frantically shedding his clothes, freeing his throbbing erection, while Lana tore the skimpy barrier from around her loins and, dropping to all fours, sinuously crawled towards him like a sleek jungle pussy, wetting her full, red lips with her moist, pink tongue. Reaching him, she wasted no time on preliminaries--she might not have been a woman of the 90's (well, technically she was, though she didn't know that), but she knew what she wanted and how to get it. Throwing him back against the ground, she straddled his hips and in one fluid motion sank down on him, burying his hard shaft in her molten depths.

"Uunngghh!" he cried as he felt himself being enveloped by her satiny oven. The sensation was unbelievable, as Lana rose and fell, flexing her muscular thighs to drive him in and out of her, over and over again. Reaching up to cup her heaving breasts, diamond-hard nipples burning into his palms, he could feel himself spiralling higher and higher.

"Pulp!"

"Yes!" His body shook.

"Pulp!!"

"Yes!!" It seemed like there was a small earthquake hitting the island.

"PULP!!!"

With that last cry, the earthquake hit with full force. Or so it seemed to Pulp Fan as he snapped awake to find himself being shaken frantically. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" he muttered angrily, shrugging Taria's hand off his shoulder.

"Sorry, but it looked like you were having a nightmare," Taria explained, sitting back down a few feet away, next to the blazing fire.

Pulp sighed with the memory of his dream. "No, not a nightmare," he said. "It was a dream--you know, the cavegirl dream."

"Again?" Taria asked, eyes widening with astonishment. "That's what, the third time this week? Do you _ever_ dream of anything else?"

"Sue me. And I'll probably keep having the damn dream until I get to _finish_ it," he concluded pointedly.

"I already said I was sorry," she said. "I thought you were having a nightmare."

"No, no, I'm sorry," he replied, upset at himself for rebuking her for her kindness. "I don't mean to snap at you. Thanks for being concerned; it's just that each time the dream gets more vivid and just once--just once!--I'd like it to come to its conclusion. I mean, the cavebabe is the spitting image of Raquel Welch! Can you imagine, me, doing Raquel Welch? Ivan would turn green with envy!"

"I'm sure," agreed Taria out loud, though her thoughts were not quite as sympathetic. Men were curious creatures. Here an orgy had been in full swing on the island for nearly a week, with more and different couplings than anyone but the most jaded writer of group sex stories could imagine, and yet Pulp was upset he hadn't finished having sex in his dream with an imaginary Raquel Welch. On the other hand, he _was_ kind of cute and had been a willing and imaginative participant in the authors' reindeer games...

"Hey, I know what will cheer you up!" she announced, a bit of a smile playing around the corners of her lips.

Over the last week, Pulp had come to know that hint of a smile well. When it hinted, better things were sure to follow. "And what's that?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Let's go for a moonlight swim in the lagoon," she suggested. "I'll even wear my fur bikini--for a little while, at least!"

Pulp laughed. "You don't own a fur bikini," he pointed out. "And if you did, it went sailing away on the ship. But," he continued, "I'd be happy to go with you anyway!"

"That's mighty big of you," she laughed, sticking her tongue out at him as they arose.

"It's not too big yet," he replied with mock seriousness. "But it's likely to get that way soon!"

Stepping away from the warmth of the fire, around which many of their fellow castaways were either sitting--some alone, some in groups--sleeping, or engaged in some carnal activity, Pulp and Taria clasped hands and wandered off. The full moon lit the way as they traipsed barefoot through the sand along the beach, the balmy sea air blowing clean across their faces, gently rolling swells flooding cool over their feet.

Shortly after they had made landfall, the writers had broken into small bands to explore the island in search of food and water. One such group had discovered a freshwater lagoon a short ways inland, complete with its own little waterfall splashing down into it. It had quickly become a popular destination for amorous interludes. It had also become a hot spot for non-erotic entertainment as well when, on a dare, The Bear had jumped into the stream above the waterfall and was swept over the edge, taking a twenty foot plunge which ended in a gigantic "splash!" as he landed in the lagoon. "Just like a wet-and-wild," he had enthused as he emerged from the water, prompting a flurry of comments as to who was exactly wet and wild--and how wet they exactly were. Following in his footsteps--or pawprints--it had become a sort of right-of-passage for the castaways to take the "lagoon-leap" as they termed it, and many embellished their own plunges with twists, turns and barrelrolls. Many had gotten so good at it that someone had suggested holding a competition, but some of the genre writers complained that they wouldn't be judged fairly and the idea hadn't caught on.

As they drew closer to the lagoon, Pulp suggested they leave the beach and cut across a verdant hill. Though Taria initially demurred, he insisted it would be a shortcut.

"The lagoon has to be just on the other side of the hill," he said. "The beach goes out and then curves around. Going over the hill will be quicker. Plus we haven't been to the top, and there's gotta be an awesome view from up there in this moonlight!"

Acknowledging he might be right, Taria allowed herself to be persuaded. Donning their footwear, they cut inland, meandering slowly up the gentle slope, palm fronds softly sighing in the tropical breeze. Reaching the summit of the small hill, Pulp pointed.

"There, what did I tell you?" he said. Ahead of them lay the lagoon, its still waters shimmering with the silver light of the moon. From their vantage point, a large expanse of the island was exposed to their view. Seen by the light of the moon, the landscape was surreal, as huge black shadows crisscrossed the land, checkerboarding the island, while tall trees rustled in the wind, devoid of color, seemingly alive in the stark illumination. They stood for a moment in silence, drinking in the eerie vista. For a moment, it was easy to imagine that they were the only souls in creation and that the starry night belonged to them alone.

"Everyone gets lucky once in a while," Taria finally responded, breaking the reflective mood and jabbing him playfully with an elbow.

"I should certainly hope so," Pulp grinned. "The key question is, though, how lucky?"

"Well, wait until we get to the lagoon and I'll show you!" Taria laughed.

Heading back down the hill, towards the lagoon, disaster struck.

One moment they were walking side by side; the next, Taria's hand was torn from Pulp's grasp as the ground seemingly opened up beneath her and swallowed her whole. A surprised scream cut the still night air for a split second before ending abruptly.

"Taria!" Pulp yelled frantically, as he gazed in stunned disbelief at the hole which had opened in the hillside beside him. His voice reverberated in an underground cavern as he shouted her name over and over, but only his echoes answered back. Laying on his stomach, peering into the pitch blackness, Pulp could see nothing; the moonlight was too dim to penetrate deeply into the crevice, which jealously guarded its secrets. Finding a lengthy branch, Pulp probed downwards, trying to determine how deep the hole was, but the stick was swallowed up without reaching bottom. He feared to drop it, lest it strike Taria, lying below.

There were flashlights and rope back at the camp. It wasn't far--he could be back in minutes with help. Hoping that she might be able to hear him, even if she couldn't respond, Pulp Fan called down to Taria, "I'm going for help! I'll be right back with the others--we'll get you out!"

Still receiving no reply, Pulp leapt to his feet and tore off towards the camp.

* * * * *

"That's odd," thought Taria. "One minute I'm walking with Pulp Fan at night, and now here it is daylight again." The sun was shining brightly, only a few wisps of clouds breaking up the brilliant expanse of blue sky. Before her, close at hand, the sparkling waters of the lagoon glinted in the golden light.

"What the fuck happened? I was walking with Pulp... I must have blacked out or something...but something's strange." Her mind raced frantically. "The lagoon--it looks different... I know! Those palm trees--they weren't there yesterday!" Three large palm trees swayed in the breeze along the shore of the lagoon, in a spot where Taria would have sworn there were no trees. Hell, that was the spot where, just a few days ago, Bronwen and Vicky Tern had made love one lazy afternoon--to the delight of those swimming in the crystal water! Other details about the scenery weren't correct either; for one, the waterfall wasn't in exactly the right place. And the path the castaways had cut through the underbrush winding upwards towards the stream was gone. Something was wrong...seriously wrong.

Taria turned her head to look out towards the ocean. At least she tried to, but was shocked when nothing happened. Worried, she tried to bring a hand to her face but it remained at her side. "My God! I'm paralyzed!" she thought in horror. Her mind spun wildly for a moment before she realized that she was standing. Her rational mind asserted itself. "If I'm paralyzed, how come I haven't fallen down?"

There was a noise behind her; to her relief, she turned to face it. At least she could move sometimes! However, if she had been startled at the changes in the lagoon, the sight that met her eyes was enough to make her question her sanity. Standing before her was a rakishly handsome young man, sporting an engaging grin. Not that this would generally have been surprising, except that Taria was pretty sure she knew (by sight at least, if not more intimately!) all of the ship's company on the island, and she was positive he was not one of them. Just as she was positive that none of her fellows went around armed with a cutlass and flintlock pistol!

Taria opened her mouth in order to demand he tell her just who the fuck he was. At least her mouth opened; however, what came out of it was somewhat different than what she had intended. A voice--not her own, but very close to it--exclaimed with delight, "John! You startled me! What took you so long?"

What the hell was happening?

"I'm sorry, Tara, my lass," replied the stranger. "The captain insisted I be in his company. It took me longer than I thought it would to slip away." Tara? As he spoke, Taria's bewilderment was complete when she stepped forward into his waiting arms and eagerly brought her lips to his. John enfolded Taria--or Tara--in his arms as she clung to him, her soft lips pressed against his, slightly parted, her tongue eagerly darting out to dance with his.

"This has _got_ to be some sort of dream," Taria said to herself--though for a dream, the guy was a damn good kisser. And her body wasn't obeying her--in a dream, wasn't your body supposed to listen to you?

Breaking off the kiss, the buccaneer began to plant tender kisses on her upturned face while murmuring soft words, words that she replied to in kind. Taria's head was spinning; she had no control over her body or her speech, and had no idea why she was saying what she was saying, but she could feel--vividly--the pirate's lips upon her, his strong hands running up and down her back, stroking her through her shirt. Though she was confused, Taria's body responded to his caresses; she could feel herself growing moist, could feel her nipples hardening, eagerly anticipating the delights to come. Hey, Pulp wasn't the only one who could have a sexy dream!

"We must hurry, my love," he whispered, his hot breath tickling her ear. "Captain Jennings will be back soon, and I must return, to look as if I had stayed with the hunt. He'd take none too kindly to discovering that his wench and first mate were lovers!"

Wench? Taria was pissed for a moment, before figuring what the hell, it _was_ a pirate dream. Might as well go with it--she _could_ be a saucy wench!

"Please John, let's just take the treasure and go! Or leave the treasure and run off, just the two of us!" Taria heard herself say. Her gaze swept up the hill, lit on the mouth of a cave. Resting before the entrance were two massive chests, padlocked, each sporting a crude skull and crossbones design carved into the wood.

"Ah, would that we could, lass," he replied, holding her close. "But you know we'd never make it. There's not enough of the crew loyal to me on ship, to hie the treasure back 'fore sailing away. We couldn't take the ship, and if we ran on the island, the Captain would hunt us down. I promise you though that when we reach New Providence, I'll ship with someone else and find a way to take you with me. I swear to you, Tara, we'll be together!"

As he spoke, John knelt on the grass, pulling Tara down beside him. "For now, let us enjoy the little time we've been able to steal."

Tara/Taria lay on her back, cushioned by the wild grasses growing on the side of the hill. The pirate lay next to her, his lips finding hers and drinking passionately, while his hands roamed over her body. The few clouds floating in the azure sky seemed to promise her that soon, she would be floating too.

One of his hands swiftly undid a few of the buttons of her shirt, sufficient for him to slip a hand inside and cup her naked breast. She moaned against his mouth, seeking to capture his tongue, as the rough fingers toyed with her rapidly hardening nipple, teasing the pink morsel, causing the warmth to spread through her loins. His other hand grasped the hem of her skirt, pulled it up to mid-thigh, and slid beneath it, running up and down her calves and thighs. Each time he slid his exploring hand up her body, he drew closer and closer to her womanhood. Slowly the ache built inside her, to feel those fingers at the junction of her thighs, frolicking in her slippery folds.

His mouth descended along her body, licking her neck, kissing the hollow of her throat, sliding lower until he reached her breasts, now bared to the balmy sea air, pink coral tips kissed by the sun. His lips captured a turgid pink tip, sucking it slowly into his mouth. Tara gasped with the sensation, loving the feel of his agile tongue sliding along her sensitive nipple.

"Oh yes," she breathed heavily, reveling in the sensation of his mouth on her tits, feeling his hand sliding inches from her moist pussy. "Please touch me!"

Chuckling softly, the pirate closed the final few inches, entwining his fingers in her soft fleece before moving his hand lower, brushing the length of her damp slit. Tiny jolts of pleasure sparked through her vibrant body, the sea breeze acting almost as another lover as it caressed her exposed flesh.

Wetting itself in her slickness, one finger circled around her steaming hole before slowly pushing into the wet, warm sheath. Tara cried out, one hand pulling his head harder against her firm tits as her body welcomed the clever intruder. The finger slid in and out of her, caressing her satiny inner walls, causing her love juices to flow ever more freely. She gasped as a second finger squirmed its way inside her dripping cleft, filling her hot cunt.