The warm sea gently laps the storm tossed figure on the sand until it stirs; opens salt encrusted eyes; licks dry thirsty lips; lets go of the spar it is resolutely clutching; struggles to its knees and mentally offers a prayer to its deity. Later the shipwrecked sailor will wonder why his god has decided that he should be saved and all his shipmates on the caravel drowned, but for now all he can conceive of is an urgent need for water.
Gathering his strength he stands. Upright, he can see nothing but golden beach stretching away to left and right, backed by thick, menacing jungle.
Conscious of the weight of his wet sailcloth breeches and wool shirt, weakly he strips and wrings them between calloused fingers. Unclothed his vigorous and athletic body belies the white of his hair and beard, and a witness might well remark the size and robustness of his manhood peeking from its nest of luxuriant, curly hair.
His garments still damp, he dresses again and laboriously starts along the shore, the sand striking hot on the bare soles of his feet. His search soon becomes increasingly desperate. There is no gap in the jungle. No sign of any natives - though whether that is good or bad, given the shipboard tales of cannibals, he is unsure. But, more importantly, nor is there any sign of fresh water. Is he to be saved from the sea only to die a lingering death from thirst? To be on land yet cursed with "Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink".
Finally, staggering, he can go no further. He must rest. Seeking a modicum of shade under the foliage edging the beach he falls exhausted and soon sleeps.
~~~~
High, laughing, joyous voices wake him. Opening his eyes he stares to where three young, graceful, desirable maidens are cavorting naked along the foreshore. Has he already died? Is he in the Musselmen's heaven to be eternally serviced by nubile virgins?
Hoarsely he shouts; waves urgent arms; stumbles after them. They appear not to notice but dart toward the wall of foliage and vanish. Frenziedly he lurches toward the spot. There is a gap, a narrow path leading into the jungle. How has he not seen it before?
Part way along the path two of the maids dance on while closer the pale skinned blonde waits, arm outstretched, beckoning him to follow. Thankfully he shambles forward only to see her skip merrily after the other two.
Another faltering hundred yards and the brown haired, coffee coloured maid pauses and waves encouragement to him. Hands on knees, chest heaving, he regains his breath and once more follows.
Again they gambol ahead, breasts a bobbing, limbs gleaming in the sunlight. This time it is the third, the ebony maid, who tarries to urge him on. Are they playing with him? Teasing him? He has no choice but to struggle along in their wake.
Abruptly the bushes fall away and he emerges into an immense clearing with a wide lake in the middle, fed on its far shore by a stream tumbling out of a low cliff. Happily the maidens dive in, joyfully splashing each other as they swim toward the falling water.
Water! He almost falls into the lake in his hurry to taste it. Fresh! For several minutes he gulps until his thirst is satisfied and his stomach distended. Raising his head he sees the maidens have reached the far shore and are climbing the rocks below the waterfall. Suddenly they disappear behind the curtain of spray.
Anxious to find the village, but since, like so many mariners in this Year of Grace Fifteen Forty Nine he is unable to swim, he desperately stumbles on around the edge of the lake in pursuit. Finally he reaches the far side and drags his exhausted body up the rocks.
Behind the falling water is a small opening. Reeling with fatigue he staggers through to find himself in a short rocky passage leading into a largish cave. It is bright and well lit, though he cannot see by what means. In the middle is a smaller pool edged with sand, beside which stands an ornate table. On the table are bottles of wine and baskets containing fruit, bread rolls and cooked meats.
The three maidens are nowhere to be seen. Later he will search for them but now, thankfully, he drinks the wine straight from the bottle then, ravenously, sets upon the food. It melts in his mouth with tastes and flavours beyond any he has known before.
Hunger assuaged at last he determines to explore but, overcome again by fatigue, lies down on the sand and sleeps.
~~~~
He awakes to find the air cool with the freshness of dawn. He feels fit and strong again, filled with an energy he has not known since his youth.
The table has vanished. The pool is still. Looking at his reflection in the waters he at first does not recognize himself. His skin is clean and unblemished; the lines of age gone; his hair once more thick and red.
But those maidens, where have they gone? There is no way forward, yet they couldn't have gone back past him in the narrow passage. He turns and strides back toward the entry. Except for the rush of the waterfall all is quiet. Mystified he returns to the pool.
Half submerged she lies at its rim, delicate arms draped along the edge, full, coffee coloured breasts floating teasingly, gently rising and falling with each breath. A small smile creasing her lips.
They stare at each other for several long moments, a sensual appetite building between them.
At last she holds her hand out to him, her voice husky and seductive. 'I'm Dawn. Come, time to perform your duty.'
He doesn't stop to enquire what that could be; urgently his hands pull on the draw string of his breeches. Wordlessly he lowers them and steps out to stand with feet apart, his body firm all over with the strength of youth. Looking down at her, he wonders at the smoothness of her mound and the way her clit is already showing its head.
Her smile deepens and she sighs in admiration of the beauty and thickness of his ample meat that stands erect, waiting for her to taste. Lithely she climbs from the pool and kneels before him to worship his rampant manhood.
Hungrily her lips close around his thick and veiny weapon, tongue caressing its broad, purple head. Full and rigid it waits as eager lips run up and down its length and her hand toys with already aching balls.
He groans and clutches her wet shoulders. 'Turn around,' he says.
He kisses her neck; closes his eyes and slides his fingers along her shoulders; pushes her forward until she is on hands and knees; runs his rope calloused palms down her smooth back to her buttocks to thrust strong fingers between her thighs. Spreading her wide he drives deep into her waiting cunni.
She gasps. Cries, 'Yes! . . yes! . . harder! . . faster!'
He uses her strongly, furiously, hammering in and out of her soft tunnel with a need grown overpowering from months of shipboard abstinence. His hands slip from her hips and push round to her chest to seek, grasp and maul the firm softness of her pendant breasts.
She moans, she cries out with pleasure, she pushes back at his bludgeoning tool. At last he feels the strong grip of her shuddering cunni muscles as she cums and he explodes to fill her.
Easing his softening cock from her, he turns to the pool and lowers his head to relieve a parched throat. He drinks deeply, sighs and turns back to resume his assault of her fair flesh.
