Cock Sucker Island Beyond Time

A LOST WORLD WHERE DESIRE BRINGS FORTH AN ANCIENT EVIL

*

Ivan says 'I'll tell you a story. About a tramp-steamer, we'll call it 'The Caprona'. That wasn't its real name, but it will do for now. It was doing regular haulage work on the Pacific run when it fell foul of a raging typhoon, the kind of terrible storm mariners speak of in hushed tones. For long hours the vessel was battered by mountainous waves, it was touch and go if they'd even survive without being swallowed up and lost. Yet once the storm receded they discovered they'd run aground on a reef, the ship holed and stranded. The crew were able to reach the beach of a sheltered lagoon. As they explore they discover they've been shipwrecked on a small coral island, remote and semi-circular. A ridge of low mountains around its outer rim -- volcanic in origin perhaps, shelving down through rainforest slopes and valleys to the blue enclosed bay, across the mouth of which the ship lies wrecked, but still accessible. Using vines to lash logs together into a raft, they return to its sloping cabins to consult the charts but can find no reference to the island, its name or location.

'It seems we've sailed clear off the edge of the map' mutters Aleksy, with nervous humour. His skipper's peaked cap and holstered pistol denoting his status.

'Each time I calculate a fix, the results are different' protests the heavily-tattooed navigator. 'It's as though the stars are moving.'

'Stars don't move. Except across millions of years.'

'Then it's the island that's moving, phasing in and out of time.' Only half-joking.

Aleksy grunts his derision.

Yet their plight could be worse. There are wild pigs and goats roaming the island, streams of fresh water that cascade down from the highlands into pools, fish darting in the crystal-clear stillness of the lagoon, and more fruit than they can possibly need. They ferry supplies across from the ship, fix up a radio distress beacon, fabricate a circle of crude huts from a framework of branches draped with tarpaulin waterproofs from the ship, with sleeping bags inside. Then they settle in for the long wait to be rescued.

The youngest member of the eight-man crew, Fleur is just eighteen, with a slipstream of floppy blonde hair and quizzical blue-eyes. A soft smiling vulnerability attractive to both sexes, and all genders. Outwardly shy, he'd needed no persuasion to initiate a mutually pleasurable sexual relationship with both Aleksy, and First Mate Karel during the voyage. He enjoyed uninhibited male sex. When that situation continued onshore -- the Skipper made sure a supply of Vaseline was brought over from 'The Caprona', it provoked violent jealousy from other members of the crew. The Captain summoned a meeting to discuss the volatile situation. Two of the crewmen bashfully admitted they were sexually involved with each other, and so weren't interested in Fleur. Two others said they weren't Gay, and didn't want sex with a youth no matter how comely or willing he was (and he was both), even though they were shipwrecked and there was no other outlet for their sexual energies. So the remaining three work out a rota according to which Fleur would visit their huts and sleep with them in turn.

The compliant young man settles comfortably into the arrangement. However, once the others hear and witness what's going on, see Fleur entering the huts, followed by the slurping and grunting sounds of vigorously passionate sex, they begin to reconsider their decisions. A further meeting is called. Fleur stands quietly, passively awaiting their decision, his ragged shorts affording teasing glimpses of what it is they're negotiating for, as a new seven-day rota is worked out determining that he sleeps with, and has sex with each of them in turn through the week. From man-Monday through to man-Friday, with Aleksy and Karel taking the weekend nights. Fleur accepts the situation without complaint, eagerly participating with each new partner, never showing favouritism or preference.

As the days and weeks extend with no possibility of rescue in sight, the men hunt, explore, forage, gather fruit and spear fish during the day. They discover the surf-washed ribs of other, older shipwrecks around the rocky shore. A Pirate frigate caught and ripped open on dog-tooth cliffs. A barnacled German World War I U-boat strewn with kelp, U-33 in faded lettering on its curved hull. Climbing inside through its leaking conning-tower, they find rusted firearms, and a 1916 pin-up calendar, but no bodies. Maybe the submariners had tried to escape the island in an inflatable dinghy, and perished on open seas of exposure and thirst? Or perhaps they'd even succeeded? Further along the coast there are skeletal remains mouldering in a cave, wearing Spanish armour. A crab skitters through the toothed jaws of one grinning skull.

'So others have been stranded on this island, and never escaped,' says Aleksy. His voice barely above a whisper.

'We've come too far' concedes Karel grimly, his eyes grimed with fatigue. 'This is the place where ships come to die, an island wrenched outside of normal time.' He can smell his own sweat. It smells of fear.

The next day they strike out inland a short distance, haunted by the cries of howler monkeys. Trekking up through lush tropical vegetation where exotic birds strut and preen. Reaching a clearing affording a vantage point over the full curve of the island, they pick their way carefully over loose stones, creepers and vines. Stumbling across mounds of stone overgrown with moss and foliage. A waterfall cascades through its centre into an idyllic pool defined by the eroded form of ancient walls and terraces. As they hack away at the dense undergrowth they uncover what are obviously the ruins of a crumbling temple constructed of cyclopean stone. It's hot. Insects drone around them as they gaze with uncomprehending eyes this way and that.

'It's like there was a civilisation here a million years ago, before the dawn of time' breathes Aleksy in hushed awe, pushing the rim of his peaked cap up his sweat-beaded forehead.

'More likely the island was part of a vaster vanished land-mass, prediluvian Lemuria maybe, submerged in swirling tides' adds Karel. 'And this is all that remains of an advanced pre-Ice Age lost civilisation.' He itches the loose crotch of his pants. Sweating profusely and unshaven, he spits a long stream of phlegm onto the basalt. It seems to tremble beneath his feet in response. Detecting DNA.

Returning to the camp the Skipper can see that discipline is lapsing, men are seizing the opportunity of taking Fleur into a sheltered grove or hidden cove for daytime sex. He watches him splashing naked through shallow tide-pools between conch-shells and washed-up jellyfish. Then crouching to bestow a juicy blowjob, or to provide anal sex. Aleksy can't help his mouth twitching up into a slight grin -- Shee-it!, but that boy's horny as a heathen. Sex has become his way of contributing to the welfare and morale of the stranded party. He does nothing else. Blatantly giving, and receiving pleasure, as is his way. And what's wrong with that? Nothing. Except that, if the party is to survive here, there is work that must be done too. Realising this, Aleksy arranges for a separate hut to be constructed at the temple site. Fleur will spend his long lazy days there, in the 'Sugar Shack', with members of the crew visiting him with gifts of succulent fruit or cooked fish, in exchange for sex.

Fleur no longer bothers wearing anything. It's always warm. He wears a garland of flowers, blossoms in his hair, and nothing else. He enjoys their lascivious gaze, their lustful attentions as they watch him sashay across to meet them, his pretty cock and balls swaying in a permanent state of semi-arousal. He bathes naked in the pool, stretches out and basks like a big cat on the large smooth temple-stones, feeling the friendly sunshine-warmth drying his near-hairless body, awaiting his next visitor, lounging in decadent indulgence, like the spoilt queen of the island. Purring his pleasure as he sucks one man's cock, then -- after a discrete pause, greeting another, cock so stiff it's heavy in his crotch, crouching to present his sweet little pucker to receive their inflamed erection between those pert peach-smooth ass-cheeks, groaning out his pleasure while ejaculating in long white coconut-milk streams as they spurt deep into him. His spilt sperm-cells melting into the temple stone.

The 'Sugar Shack' is soon rank with the stench of decayed blossoms, male body-sweat and sex, like the pagan temple it had once been. Vacel, just a little older than Fleur at an impressively-endowed twenty-three, had at first claimed not to be interested in gay-sex, but not only becomes his most ardent partner, but the only one to reciprocate. They skinny-dip together, splashing each other playfully, then lie beside the waterfall deliciously fused into undulating sixty-nine, before crouching over to fuck doggy-style, sometimes as other crew-men watch, applauding their mutual climaxes. Once, with their passion temporarily sated the two explore among the ruins. Scraping away moss and lichen, Fleur uncovers the faint images of ancient carvings, men with obscenely exaggerated phallus enjoying sex with a variety of mythical beasts, frogs and giant octopus-deities, as well as with each other. Sex-power rituals, Vacel suggests. In the whirls and wavy lines he points out the pattern of a ten-planet solar system. A two-mooned Earth. Mars -- surely? No, count out from the centre, Mercury, Venus -- and Earth, with two lunar companions. Did the ancients know things we've forgotten? Or has the configuration of the universe changed since their cataclysmic demise?

Yet as the group's ordeal extends the castaways are becoming more tribal, with long hair and beards, their bodies bronzed by the sun, tattered clothes repaired with bones and decorated with shells. Resembling the figures in the bas-reliefs. It's almost like a reversion in time, muses Aleksy, as in ancient Rome, Fleur has become the temple whore. They're sluicing their sexual energies into him. He drinks it in. The situation continues for three months. Aleksy worries, but holds his peace as long as he dares. Until full moon approaches. He draws his pistol and fires into the air to attract attention. They gather around him curiously. Some are streaked with face-paint. One wears a Spanish helmet looted from the skeleton-cave.

'Look at you, look, you're like savages' announces the Skipper. 'We're losing it, we've got to keep this together.'

'Don't wave that gun at us. You don't get it, do you?' yells back the tattooed navigator. 'You can't shoot us. You think we survived that storm? We did not survive. We are already dead, this is purgatory.'

Aleksy pulls Fleur to him, pinioning the naked youth tightly before him, tracing a course down his stomach with the barrel of the pistol, across his navel, brushing his penis, tracing along its length to the coyly hooded glans, flipping it this way and that. Fleur squirms as it firms.

'You all like this?' demands Aleksy. 'You want to fuck him? You want your hard-ons rammed up his pretty little tight ass? Of course you do. Let me tell you, the dead don't feel sexual desire. The dead don't get erections. We are here. We will be rescued, all we have to do is hold this thing together until then. But I'm not unreasonable, it's full moon, tomorrow we work, but first, we party...'

Aleksy ferries the remaining supply of alcohol across from the wreck. There's some from the sub too. Bottles of Prussian grog. In a burst of furious activity they work together building a man-high bonfire on the beach, and prepare to barbeque a speared pig. As the huge chlorophyll-green moon fills the sky the fire roars, erupting a swirling dance of spiralling sparks to dance in the space between the stars. They drink and smear dripping pig-fat. As things became more riotous and fights breaks out, Vacel and Fleur smile secret smiles and whisper to each other. They slip away into the enveloping darkness, hand in hand, escaping to the privacy of the 'Sugar Shack' where they suck tongues and take their pleasure with each other's bodies.

Ravenous for flesh, warm fingers encircle stiff cocks, crushing them together. Fleur moans as he crouches to slurp his lips over the inflamed head of Vacel's cock, drinking in the taste of him, the sensation of the urgent hard-on filling his mouth, its chemistry flooding his brain. He's drunk on its odour. Then Vacel collapses down, so he can slide his mouth down the length of Fleur's shaft, squeezing it deep into his throat, greedy for it, clasping it there, using his mouth to caress the pulsing shaft. They writhe together, fused, rolling over and over. Their bodies and limbs entwined, sucking and thrusting as furious energies roar through them. Fat sweaty balls squash down over noses on the down-stroke, gulping hot air on the upstroke. Saliva, diluting pre-cum jism, dribbling and drooling from the corner of mouths. Drawing apart only long enough to shift cock from mouth, and re-socket it into arse, wriggling back onto it to begin again. Their sinuous bodies glistening in the luminous green glow of moonlight. Until orgasm shudders in shocks radiating out from the base of the vertebrae, consuming them both in a single mutual erogenous riptide. Gasping, lying interlocked in the afterglow, a trickle of milky white spunk oozes from Fleur's rectum to spill onto the stones beneath them, absorbing into it, individual spermatozoa swimming down, feeding into its ancient primeval basalt. Igniting long-dormant responses.

They hear answering murmurs from the night around them. Snarling shapes flit in the darkness, like bats -- but not bats, more as though the very temple itself is stirring. Figures emerge from the shadows. The crewmen hungry with lust, but hideously transformed, naked and grotesquely aroused, following the rich pheromone sex-scent. Vacel and Fleur turn, watch them drawing closer, parting their legs in anticipation, their newly restiffened erections burning. Tongues hung out like panting hounds. The men fall on the quiescent youths with ferocious urgency. Hypnotised and sex-intoxicated, as they're taken for the first time the two growl like beasts, hearts pounding in heaving chests, bracing themselves as cocks ram into their receptive holes, pistoning smoothly into moist mouth and tight anus simultaneously. No subtlety or tenderness, just raw desire. Fleur had taken them all individually, but never together. Vacel has only ever taken Fleur. It no longer matters. Their lusts are equally insatiable.

Those who built the temple had knowledge of mystical sciences. Of terrible wisdoms and blasphemous elemental forces, generated by sex-magic. Which, by their unwitting replication, they are now awakening. And the men are devolving. Taking on the forms of the ancient dead, becoming them. Fleur is down on all fours, skewered on cock, the navigator pulsing and jerking deep in his throat, Aleksy humping his arse, and as his body is convulsed by yet another orgasm, he can feel malevolent alien ghosts writhing in his head. His body glistens with sweat, his nostrils flared, his back arched, the surface beneath him already slippery with spilt emissions. Glancing across he can see Vacel also hunkered down, with Karel choking him with a huge red erection, while the cook humps him from the rear, balls-deep. Before they switch places, with two more men circling, masturbating their leaking cocks as they impatiently wait their turn. A powerfully erotic vision. A ring of tirelessy hard cocks plunging into them one after the other, howling their animal ecstasy into the night. All of them possessed by disembodied souls adrift in eternity, seeking new flesh. Playing with madness and crawling terror. Strange new constellations play among the stars above their ghastly orgy. Setting time in reverse, receding the island into a primordial lost prehistory.

The following morning Fleur flinches awake aching and in shock. A deep tenderness radiating from the base of his spine, an itch inside his ass, and his body flecked with wrinkles of dry semen. The brightness of the sky hurts his eyes. Naked crewmen lie sprawled where they fell. Their breathing is low and shallow. Dawn has dispelled the foul night-wraiths. But they'll be back, more powerful, as dusk returns. If the castaways are forced to remain in this place for much longer they'll all be damned beyond salvation. Consumed by raging thirst Fleur slithers across warm temple-stone to the edge of the pool, plunges his head beneath the tranquil silver surface, and drinks deep. Withdrawing, he shakes his head like a dog.

His senses returning he stands slowly on shaky legs. Pacing to the stone margin, gingerly separating strands of matted pubic hair from his urethral eye to piss a long stream into the undergrowth. Standing legs spread, so he can gaze out across the curve of the island. Scarcely daring to believe what he sees. It seems their radio distress-signals have finally been picked up, and a rescue vessel has appeared at the mouth of the lagoon. He blinks heavily, three times, but it's still there. Soon after, a rowboat beaches to take them from the shipwreck island. As he sits it the small boat being ferried away from the golden beach, Fleur -- wearing clothes for the first time in months, glances back at what he's losing. At this accursed place of heaven, and hell. He had been contentedly indulged here. He would never again in his life enjoy the attentive services of seven lovers catering to his every need. A great sadness consumes him as he watches the nameless island recede behind the vessel's wake. The secrets of the island will never be spoken of. The sexual trysts never admitted, never divulged, even between themselves in guilty embarrassed silences. But he remembers. He would never forget those beautiful and terrible days. Never.'

'Who was Fleur? Was it you Ivan? Or were you one of the crewmen who fucked him?'

'I never said it was true. I never said I was involved. I'm just telling you the story. Believe whatever you may.'