Shipwreced

This is a fragment of a much longer story I discarded. It was headed to the junk pile also. I reread it, dressed it up some and decided to publish it.

The genre is incest. The situation is the classic stranded on a desert island. It is set at the end of the Victorian era and just before the Civil War.

All characters are at least 18.

***

Barton Allen awoke to the roar of storm driven waves breaking on the coast of a Pacific island. He gagged and retched as the salt water washed over him and entered his open mouth. As he attempted to sit up, a shooting pain in his leg caused him to wince and groan. He glanced down and saw a bruise on his leg. It probably happened in those last frenetic moments when he clung to his mother and daughter as the sea engulfed them. He raised the front of his body on his elbows and frantically surveyed his surroundings.

In front of him, huge waves foamed and broke roaring on the silver sands. A few hundred yards behind him, thick verdant jungle foliage ringed the beach. He swung his head first to the left and then to the right, searching for his mother and daughter. Further down, the sundry items of his two masted brigantine were scattered about the beach.

Amid that wreckage, he could see the bodies of the crew. They appeared lifeless, their macabre motion caused by the breaking of the waves. Despair gripped his heart. Was he the only survivor? Was his family dead?

As his head cleared, he managed to sit up. Crates and steamer trunks floated in the water. In the distance, he could see the wreckage of the ship caught on a reef. It was all that was left of his ambitious expedition back to the islands where his daughter was born.

Down the beach, one of the seemingly lifeless bodies moved and tried to sit up.

"Hullo! Hullo!" His voiced cracked as tried to attract the attention of the other survivor. Hope sprang in his heart. There WERE other survivors. He thought of his mother and daughter. He prayed they had survived.

The figure set up. His heart surged as he recognized the long blond hair of his 20 year old daughter. She was alive. Barton struggled to his feet.

"Hullo! Cynthia!"

Cynthia Allen sat up. Her body ached from the pounding it took in her frenzied swim to safety. She had clung to her father's strong arms until a wave ripped her from his grasp. She was horrified to see she was amidst the drowned shattered bodies of the crew. Crab like, she scooted backward on her arms and legs . She struggled to her feet and took a few stumbling steps trying to put distance between her and the gruesome scene. A distant familiar voice caused her to turn in that direction. She recognized her father hobbling toward her.

She raised her hand to acknowledge her father's hail. He was safe! Joy sprung in her heart.

A mournful groan drew her attention back to the seemingly lifeless bodies. One of them moved. Cynthia recognized the iron grey hair of her grandmother.

Cynthia turned toward her approaching father. She raised a hand over her head, waving it back and forth. "Father! Grandmamma is alive."

Weak from her ordeal, she tried to walk toward her grandmother. She found her legs would not support her. Cynthia sank to her knees and crawled the few yards to where her grandmother lay.

Annabelle Allen lay on her back, her body encased in a whalebone corset. Below the corset, the undulations of the sea caused her chemise undergarment to move in concert with the water. Cynthia glanced at the thicket of her companion's pubic hair and averted her eyes. She was raised as a proper Victorian era woman. It was improper to view another person's nakedness.

She turned toward her father hobbling down the beach. Relief welled in her heart. She knew she was safe. Her father, the most important male in her life, was alive and well.

She turned her attention to her grandmother. As she attended to her unconscious companion and tutor, she was unaware that her short chemise undergarment had ridden up on her back, exposing her slim behind.

"Cynthia, you are exposed. Please cover yourself." Barton averted his eyes. He attempted to ignore the stirring in his ragged pants. That his daughter was a woman, there was no doubt. He watched her mature into a tall, full bosomed woman.

Her garment hid little. It was a mid thigh length cotton singlet. It's only purpose was to protect the skin from the pressure of the whale bone corsets of the day. It was sleeveless with a deep vee in front. Cynthia's large breasts caused the front to be higher than the back.

At first confused, she glanced over her shoulder. Her fair skin turned bright red. She struggled to her feet, brushing the undergarment down to its full mid thigh length. Her obvious embarrassment hid a secret thrill. As with most virgins of the Victorian era of the 1860's, she expected her husband to be the first man to see her nude body. That it was her father embarrassed and titillated her. She felt the quivering in her lower abdomen that she sometimes felt around a particularly handsome suitor.

Annabelle, her grandmother, forgotten for the moment, coughed and spit up seawater. Her sallow color showed her distress. Barton hurried to her side. He knelt in the surf and lifted her head. More seawater spewed forth. Concern knit his brow as he beheld her. He expertly undid her tightly laced whalebone corset. Her breathing eased. Her substantial chest heaved as she took big gulps of air. Her eyes fluttered open as her son tenderly stroked her arm.

Annabelle Allen looked up into Barton's concerned face. She lifted her arm and lovingly stroked his cheek. "I'm fine, darling, I'm fine."

Cynthia, accustomed to casual displays of affection by her grandmother and father, smiled. "Grandmother, it's good to see you are well."

The two adults quickly pulled their hands away from each other. As one, they turned and looked at Cynthia kneeling in the sand.

"Yes, dear. I'm fine." Anna's eyes moved from her near naked charge to her father and back again. The chemise was not designed to preserve modesty. The deep vee exposed Cynthia's substantial cleavage.

Cynthia's embarrassment grew as she realized her father was staring at her overly large breasts. They were her embarrassment. Women of the era were expected to have a slim almost elfin figure. While her hips and waist were boyish, her breast ballooned to an outlandish size. At an early age, her grandmother taught her to wear a tight bandeau to reduce the size of her unfashionably large mammaries.

They continued to be an embarrassment when she reached the age of her majority and entertained suitors. Her suitors fell into two categories. Those repulsed by her breasts but lured by her father's wealth. And those attracted by her father's wealth but salivating at her chest size. To her grandmother's dismay, she spurned them all. None measured up to her father.

"We must get Anna to the shelter of yonder trees," Barton croaked, "she needs to be out of this brutal sun." Barton scanned the sky. In the distance, he could see the dark roiling storm clouds. He knew in these climes storms usually hit in waves. They would need to find shelter or perish from exposure.

Father and daughter lifted Annabelle to her feet. They half carried, half walked her to the shade formed by the jungle growth. They deposited her on the sand under the trees. Cynthia sat next to her, her undergarment pulling high on her slim thighs.

"Cynthia, take care of your grandmother. I'll see what can be salvaged from the wreck."

Cynthia nodded. Using one hand to shield her eyes from the sun, she Looked up at her father. He appeared godlike, framed in a halo of sunlight. True, she saw him infrequently. His voyages kept him away for months at a time. However, when he was home he regaled her with tales of exotic places while she sat on his knee. Lately, particularly after his last trips and shortly after she turned 15, he insisted she not sit on his lap but in a chair.

Barton stood. His eyes flicked from his daughter's nubile body to his mother lying prone under the tree. His mother's eyes moved from his face down to his crotch and back. He spun on his heels and walked back to where the wreckage of the brigantine was washing up on the shore. He resisted the urge to adjust his rigid cock until he was well down the beach.

Annabelle, 56 years old, lifted her upper body on her elbows and surveyed her surroundings. She looked lovingly at the broad back of her 38 year old son moving toward the water. He was her only child. His father, like him an adventurer, left on a voyage when Barton was 17 and never returned.

The world of the 1830's was a difficult one for a single woman to raise a child. Fortunately, her late husband, although consumed by wanderlust, left an estate that generated sufficient income for her and her beloved son to live comfortably.

She never remarried nor took another man to her bed. Many men courted her. That was not unusual. A handsome woman with an income was considered good marriage material. However, they soon realized that her devotion to her son was total, allowing room for no other man.

The disappearance of his father devastated Barton. He woke up nights crying for his lost father. He would cross the hall to Anna's room and crawl into bed with his mother seeking comfort.

Anna, desperate to console her despondent son, let him sleep with her when he was distressed. Over time, he stopped going to his room and slept nightly with her. Anna realized this was of questionable propriety. However, she was desperate. He was all she had left. She would cuddle him to her bosom and they slept that way.

At some point, he began having nocturnal emissions. Annabelle was progressive for a woman of the Victorian era. Rather than castigate him, she counselled him that such things were normal for a growing boy.

One night, shortly after his 18th birthday, Annabelle awoke to her son suckling at her breasts. As was the custom in those times, she had breastfed him until he started school. Weaning him was difficult. However, eventually she succeeded.

Now, distressed by the loss of his father, he was reverting. She gently pulled her breast from his mouth. Like a baby, he fretted, his mouth formed a moue and made sucking sounds. Sighing with resignation, she lifted her teat to his mouth. Hungrily, he took it in his mouth with one hand caressing it.

Annabelle cradled her suckling son's head in her arm. Her free hand stroked his head. The sensations he caused reminded her of his father and their lovemaking.

There were nights he cuddled spoon fashion with her, his arm thrown over her waist, cupping her breasts. Annabelle struggled with the impropriety of this. The young lad she took to her bed was becoming a young man with all the needs that presented. However, her love of him was total. She covered his hand on her breasts with hers. She often dreamed of his father when she and her son slept like this.

One night she awoke to him dry humping her. She scooted away and turned on her back. During the day while he was at school she struggled with the import of this. As she dithered, trying to reconcile the situation in her mind, one night he exploded, spraying her behind with his emission.

Though she was taken aback, it awakened an unholy arousal in her. Her gown, soaked with his seed, clung to her body. She found it curiously arousing.

That first time, he was inconsolable when he woke up and saw what he did. She tried to comfort, to explain that what happened was normal for a boy his age. His mournful laments caused her to hold him to her bosom to comfort him. Though 18 and a man in years, his sorrow caused him to do the one thing that always eased his distress. He pushed aside his mother's nightgown and took her teat in his mouth. Annabelle held him in her arms and stroked his head. She was surprised that this act of motherly love aroused sexual feelings in her.

As he reached his majority and began taking a more active part in running his father's export import business, he still suckled for comfort and security. Mother and son never made a conscious decision to take their relationship to the next level. There progression to having sex was organic, growing from years of shared intimacy.

She smiled as she recalled the first time he entered her. Her gown had ridden up around her waist from his dry humping. She could feel his cock sliding through the pillows of her ass. She leaned forward, took his manhood in her hand and positioned him at her entrance. Then she pressed back.

The rapturous feel of her son entering her was other worldly. Her seafaring husband learned much about sex during his travels. He taught his wife all that he learned. He had not, however, prepared her for the intense duality she felt as she became both mother and lover to her son.

Anna's sex life with her long lost husband was varied and exciting. She accepted the Victorian dictum that men were naturally polygamous while women were naturally monogamous. On his voyages to the far flung corners of the world, he learned new and exciting ways for them to have sex. She taught what she knew to her son. He learned to control his arousal. She expertly taught him the techniques of oral sex. They sometimes spent hours orally pleasuring each other. She taught him the things she loved and the things her husband loved. He became her compleat lover.

At some point in his twenties he came back from a voyage with a book he discovered in an exotic land. It was called the Kama Sutra. She and her son delighted in trying the many sex positions detailed in the book. The sex life she shared with her son was as full and satisfying as the one she had with her departed husband. They held the secret relationship close, realizing social and financial ruin lay with discovery.

Beyond him, she saw the wreckage of their ship. Fear gripped her as she recalled the howling tropical storm that caused their ship to founder. She and Cynthia clung to each other below decks while the ship was driven before the storm. She recalled the sickening sound of sturdy American oak splintering on the coral reef. Barton appeared in the door of their cabin, tall and reassuring. He ordered them to remove their cumbersome clothing as they would have to swim for their lives.

She recalled helping Cynthia remove her hooped dress and crinolines. She was removing her own clothing when the ship lurched and rolled to its side pitching them into the angry sea. Barton clung to them both until the force of the water separated them.

Annabelle turned her head and looked at her charge. She was sitting against a tree with her eyes closed. There was much she needed to know, the circumstances of her conception and birth was one. The other was the fact that Annabelle was ill and might not survive the rigors of being shipwrecked.

She frowned as she realized Cynthia wore only her undergarment. Then she took stock of her own dress. She wore no more than Cynthia did. Her own overly large breasts were barely contained in her short chemise undergarment. She noted that she and her son's child shared the deformity of an unladylike overly large bosom. Those few suitors she entertained were at once fascinated and repulsed by them.

Annabelle continued taking stock of herself and their situation. Her eyes widened as saw her iron grey pubic thatch exposed to the African sun. She pulled her chemise down as far as it would go Still it barely covered her mature thighs. She turned her head toward her granddaughter.

"Cynthia," she croaked. Her throat was dry and raspy.

Cynthia's heart leapt at the sound of her grandmother's voice. She crawled the few yards to her.

"I'm here, grandmamma! Are you well?"

"I'm fine, child! What of you?"

A quirky smile played across Cynthia's lips. "Aside from this revealing undergarment, I am fine."

"Perhaps your father will find clothing for us in the wreckage."

Annabelle reached over and patted Cynthia's hand. "Trust in your father, dear. He will take care of us."

Annabelle looked down at the beach where her son struggled to pull a large chest from the surf. In the distance, she could see a wall of black clouds moving toward the shore. The storm was returning. She recalled the captain, a quite handsome fellow, told her that in these climes tropical storms came in waves until their strength was exhausted.

Cynthia watched the black storm clouds swallowed the sun as her shirtless father sprint toward them. As he reached them, the rain began to fall in torrents. Even in these dreadful circumstances, he cut a fine figure. He was easily a foot taller than her 5' 2". His many travels and adventures left him muscular, broad shouldered and tanned, unlike her soft pasty-faced suitors. They failed miserably to inspire her as her large masculine father did.

"We need to get back amongst the trees. I have experienced these storms in my travels. The surf could be pushed up to where we are."

Barton and Cynthia struggled to get a weakened Annabelle to her feet. The ferocity of the storm grew. The rain beat down on them. He wrapped one arm around his mother's waist to support her as they trudged deeper into the jungle. His hand surreptiously cupped her breasts. His mother's hand came up and covered his hand. She loved him with a mother's unconditional love. That love was enhanced by their twenty plus years sexual relationship.

"Father!" Cynthia strained to be heard over the roar of the storm. "I see an outcropping of rocks over there. Perhaps, there is shelter."

Barton turned his head to where his daughter pointed. The rain and wind pressed against his back. "Lead us there," he yelled to make himself heard over the roar of the storm.

Cynthia took the lead, the violent wind pushing her toward the rocky outcropping. She could feel the rain and wind push her garment up. Vainly she tried to hold it down. Then gave up. She was aware that her father could see her bare bottom. Even in these calamitous circumstances, she felt a thrill in her lower abdomen.

She spied a lighter opening in the darker outcropping and moved toward it. It was a cave. She turned to holler her find to her father. The wind blew her chemise up over her head, blinding her. For a few frantic moments, she struggled to pull it down.

Barton fought forward holding his mother tightly, his hand still under her breast. He saw his daughter turn, point and yell something. Her words were lost in the fierce wind. Then her chemise blew over her head. For a brief moment she was virtually naked, her slim womanly body exposed to his gaze. She was pneumatic, having a full round bosom with vivid pink nipples set amidst lighter pink puffy areola. Almost invisible blond hair covered her pubic area. Despite himself, his cock hardened. His mother groaned. He realized he was squeezing her breast and quickly loosened his grasp.

Cynthia finally got her garment down. She was red with embarrassment. The torrent let up briefly. She could clearly see her father and grandmother. His hand lay familiarly on her breasts. She pointed toward the cave.

Barton could see her pointing ahead. Using his free hand, he motioned her to go into the cave. Holding his mother tightly, he followed his daughter into the cave.

Exhausted, Barton let his mother slip from his encircling arm. She collapsed to the moss covered floor of the shallow cave, her chemise around her waist, exposing her large mature behind, full thighs and hairy crotch. Cynthia watched as her father unabashedly pulled her grandmother's undergarment down, restoring her modesty. She smiled as he affectionately patted her grandmother's leg. He loves her as I do, she thought.

Barton looked up at his daughter. Her cotton chemise was transparent from the rain. Her lithe body with her outsized breasts was on full display. So like her mother, he thought.