Janey's Trip (FM rom)

        When I told my friend Beth about Lord Malinov's Castaway
Island orgy the first thing she did was find Malinov's Castle on the
Web so she could see what the last one was like. I had no
intention of going, of course, but it was something to talk
about. Next she called me up and asked me what the hell I
thought it had to do with me. Then, naturally, I had to tell her
about this sort-of-a-journal I've been posting to a.s.s.m.,
which was news to her, and print out for her copies of my
previous posts. I guessed my two stories made me eligible to go,
but actually orgies aren't my sort of thing. After all, what I
really am is a nice, sweet, five-foot-ten, slightly overweight
mother of two with a part-time job and no tits.

        Now, when Beth blows a gasket you can hear her all the way to
Quebec. The way she tells it, I'm always dragging her into doing
these wild, not to say terrible, things, like going to Florida
for a perfectly innocent little getaway and winding up
committing lewd and immoral acts. I see it quite
differently--she's the bad influence, not me. I just kind of go
with the flow. After all, she's a high-powered businesswoman.
I'm just an humble part-time vocational counselor. How could I
talk her into doing anything?

        But now she's accusing me, loudly, of telling the world about
all our private stuff and holding her up to ridicule and she's
going to sue. So I hung up.

        It took about twenty minutes before she was back on the phone,
telling me I just had to go. I'd get to meet all these
high-powered writers, maybe there'd be a TV crew, I could
probably sell books to the romance publishers, she knows where
there's venture capital for a whole erotica empire. I was
shrinking with horror. I did think it would be fun to meet some
of the writers, but come on--do I sound like some kind of porn
entrepreneur? No way. Then she said she'd be glad to go along
with me to take care of the promotional details. I needed her,
she said. Without her, I'd probably just veg out on the beach
and miss all the good stuff.

        It was the first time since I met her that I had the drop on
her. So I told her she couldn't go, you had to be a writer, it
was out of the question. She said it was probably nothing but a
collection of pot-bellied old men working out their frustrations
by writing stories for the Internet. I said she was just
jealous. She said she couldn't be bothered with such a
collection of perverts. I said good, I'd have more fun without
her. She hung up. Then I realized I'd backed myself into a
hole--I had to go. To an orgy. Me.

        The next day she called again and said she was sorry she was so 
bitchy, I should go and have a good time, and did I know where
to buy some sexy clothes because what I usually wear certainly
wouldn't do. Beth is nasty, brutish, and short, not to mention
an absolute knockout and rich, but basically she's a good egg. I
promised her I'd write all about it when I got back and give her
a copy. So I guess this is for Beth, but I thought I might as
well let the rest of you know how it was for me.

                         ----------

        The way I saw it, nobody was going to pay any attention to me
at all unless I whittled a sharp stick into a javelin and killed
a wild pig at 35 meters, if there were any wild pigs. I heard
some guy behind me say something like, "I bet she writes
vanilla," when I was standing by Mal's fire. Let's face it, I'm
just not orgy material. So, the hell with it. I wandered off on
a rocky path that seemed to go straight up.

        It was hard travelling at first, but within five minutes the
path had widened a little and smoothed out. It just kept going
up. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, I came out onto a wide
grassy plateau, with a few palm trees scattered around. The
place was absolutely beautiful. The meadow sloped downward
gently toward the ocean on one side, so I wandered off in that
direction and ultimately wound up on the edge of a kind of
cliff. Down a fairly steep forty-foot slant I could see our
beach--the path must have curved a little. The view was
breathtaking. Sand, then green water, then blue-green, then a
beautiful royal blue. Where I was standing, right at the edge,
the grass was only an inch or two high, so I just sat down and
stared. I was hot, even though I was only wearing a white
T-shirt and shorts. I was sweaty and it was mortally hot and
humid, but the breeze was almost cool. Finally I lay back and
just relaxed. It was great to be away from the crowd. I went to
sleep.

        "You're going to get a hell of a sunburn."

        It was my mother, nagging away as usual. But she almost never
said "hell." Come to think of it, she didn't have a nice bass
voice, either. I opened my eyes. Big, tall guy. Dark. I was
squinting, and I couldn't make out anything else because he had
a blinding sunny halo all around him.

        "You look like my guardian angel," I said.

        "I am," he said. "I've come to rescue you from the demon
sunshine."

        "If I'm not hallucinating this whole thing," I said, "you're an
angel from Texas."

        "Good ear. Can I sit down, or do I have to just stand here?"

        "Sit," I said. He sounded nice.

        "Actually," he said, "I'd rather we both go over there about
twenty feet and sit under that tree. I'm still worried about
your sunburn."

        I took his outstretched hand and struggled to my feet. I was
still half asleep, but I did notice that he pulled my weight
without turning a hair.

        "OK."

        We sat under the tree, and the shade did feel good. I liked
being rescued. I don't think anybody ever rescued me from
anything before; usually I'm the one that does the rescuing.

        "I'm Sandman," he said, putting out a hand. "And you're Janey.
I recognized you from that wholly inadequate description in your
January story."

        I shook. It was odd to be so formal out on this Godforsaken
island.

        "I thanked you for the review," I said. "I thank you again."

        "You're welcome," he said. "I like being thanked in person
better than by e-mail."

        "I saw you on the ship, but I didn't know who you were. You
seemed to stay out of the light, somehow."

        "So did you." He smiled.

        "What are you doing up here, far from the madding crowd?"

        "I  saw you start up the hill, and after a while I thought I'd
like to see where you went. I followed you. So the real question
is,  what are *you* doing here?"

        "Sleeping, I guess," I said.

        "That's not what I meant."

        "Well, if you really want to know, I left because I felt sorry
for myself. All those cute babes like Kim and Taria, not to
mention those cheerleader children, running around half dressed
with the men chasing them, made me feel like Grandma. I think
Bronwen's bored with me, we talked so much on the ship. And the
men--half of them are the same age as the nymphets, or maybe
younger, and most of the rest were all tied up or otherwise not
useful. One really obnoxious midget with a grey braid down his
back kept trying to pinch my butt. He had to reach up to do it.
Obviously I'm not cut out for this orgy stuff. Should have
stayed in Boston. At least I could get some raisins to eat
there. And maybe an omelette."

        "Well," he said, "I'm glad you came. And I have some crackers
and a sausage to share."

        "Water, too?"

        "Yep, water, too." I hadn't really noticed his
backpack until he pulled it over and fished out a pint bottle.
"Here."

        I took a big drink. Too much for my share, really, but, heck,
there was plenty more just down the hill if he got really
thirsty.

        "Thank you," I said. "I'm not really hungry, but the water was
good." I leaned back, propping myself on my elbows.

        I told him that I felt I knew him a little because I'd loved
his stories, but that he was a little younger and a little
taller than I'd pictured him. He's a swimmer, like me, so we
traded swim meet tales. He remembered all about my domestic
arrangements from my stories. (He actually remembered what I'd
written. Wow!) So he told me about his life. He wasn't married,
but was about to be. He'd majored in computer science at the U.
of  Texas, and had a job with a big company. Then he got
personal.

        "You know, I called your description of yourself wholly
inadequate. You want to know why?"

        "You obviously want to tell me, so I'll listen."

        "Your legs. I was looking at your legs while you were stretched
out asleep over there, and they really did a number on me. You
have fantastic legs."

        "Really," I said in a flat voice. I poked one of them out in
the air and looked at it. "Good, huh?"

        "Yes. Very good. Astonishing, as a matter of fact. Most women's legs 
are too skinny. Yours aren't. Very nice, rounded thighs. I can see the 
muscle, but it's not enough to ruin the line. Calves
the same. Swimmer's legs. Very nice."

        "Well, thank you, I guess."

        "May I touch?"

        "Uhhh, sure."

        He touched my leg, all right. He moved so that he was facing
this supposedly fascinating object, put one hand under my heel
and the other under the spot just above my knee, and gently
lifted the leg. Then he leaned over and--took a good long lick.
I felt like jumping out of my skin, but I held still. This was
getting interesting.

        "A little salty," he said, looking off into the distance. Then
he turned his head to me. "But still very good."

        Now what could I say to that? Nothing. I am not great on the
uptake, especially in a situation like this. Definitely, this
was a situation. I just lay there, still resting on my elbows,
watching.

        He wriggled closer until my leg was over his thighs. Then he
started stroking it, very, very gently. Ankle, calf, knee. Back
to ankle. Oh, delicious feeling. Then inner thigh, a couple of
fairly earth-shattering strokes. I let myself fall back into the
grass.

        He stopped and spoke. "There was another inaccuracy."

        "Uh huh?"

        "Your face. You said it wouldn't launch any ships. Actually, I
think it might. Maybe not a whole Greek armada, but at least a
dozen or so."

        "Why don't you keep on rubbing my leg while you talk to me?" My body 
began saying this was way past interesting--maybe exciting.


        "I was talking about your face. May I touch it, too?"

        "Please do."

        He reached up with one hand and stroked my cheek. Gently. This
guy was good! The other hand just sort of lay there, on my
thigh. All this attention was making me warm, breeze or no
breeze. Then he leaned over and kissed me, at some length. His
lips were as gentle as his hands. His mouth was a little open,
so I kept waiting for his tongue to come crawling out. It
didn't. So I went after it. This kiss lasted maybe four hours.
Or thirty seconds? I don't know. He backed off, and thigh
stroking commenced again. I was seriously liking this. In fact I
was beginning to get that empty feeling "down there" that I told
you about before. It seems to come when I realize I'm about to
get a filled feeling.

        "You're also taller than you said, aren't you? A couple of
inches?"

        "Look, five-ten sounds a lot better than
five-eleven-and-seven-eighths, doesn't it?"

        "Not to me. I'm taller than you are."

        "For a man in Texas you're only a little taller than ordinary.
I'm female, I live in Boston, and I've had shit about my height
since I was twelve. Kids are really nasty, and adults aren't a
hell of a lot better."

        "I think you're the right height, and the hell with everybody
else."

        What could I say? Here's this dreamboat still, oh, so gently,
stroking the inside of my upper thigh, looking at me with those
beautiful blue eyes, and paying gentle compliments. I considered
saying, "Wanna fuck?" and discarded the idea--not my image.
Tried something else.

        "Are you trying to seduce me?"


        "Not any more," he said. "That's already done. The rest will be the 
best part."

        The arrogant prick. Even if he was, indeed, right.

        "Do I get any choice in what happens next?" I asked.

        "Of course," he said, "but why don't you leave it up to me for
a while? I don't mind the responsibility."

        "One other question. What will your fiancee think of this?"

        "This is not real," he said. "Castaway Island is out of time.
She won't mind."

        Smooth, very. I wondered if his friend had any idea what she
was getting. I relaxed. The stroking continued. Unbelievable. I
was lying there getting wet and this guy had hardly touched
me--just a few strokes, back and forth--and a kiss. I could
stand this all day. It was like being just a little bit drunk,
and taking tiny sips every so often so you'd stay that way and
not go up or down.  My eyes closed. A kiss, this time right
where his hand was, on my inner thigh. I shivered.

        He took my left hand in both of his and began caressing it.
Then, slowly, up my bare arm, almost to the shirtsleeve, on the
inside. So gentle it almost tickled. But not quite. His mouth on
mine. Light pressure, an opening, a tongue darting in, then
withdrawing. Mouth gone. Tiny kisses on my neck, then around,
following the shirt collar. Stroking my arm. I was melting away.
Nobody can give you an orgasm just by stroking your arm and
giving you little kisses, right? I wouldn't bet on it. I could
feel the electricity build. But if it took all day, I'd wait.
Gladly.

        I opened my eyes, lifted my head a little so I could see what I was 
doing, and lightly placed my hand on his khaki shorts where
they covered his penis, which was quite obviously watching the
proceedings with interest.

        "No, don't," he said. "I want this to take a while, and if you
do that, it won't."

        My, God! This is Saint Francis. I jerked my hand away as if I'd been 
burned. As somebody once said, this was the most fun
anybody could possibly have with her clothes on. Just then, of
course, he began to lift the bottom of the T-shirt.

        "Sit up a minute," he said. I did, and lifted my arms so the
shirt would come off over my head. He reached around me, not
quite touching, and unsnapped my bra. I just wear it for show,
really, so people will see the bra line on the back and think
there's something in front.

        He looked at what he'd uncovered and said, "I've found another
discrepancy. You have tits. Not great big ones, but enough.
Ample.

        "Now lie down again."

        "Yes, sir." I did. Now the stroking was on my stomach.

        "You have tiny blond hairs on your stomach," he said. "Fuzz."

        "True," I said.

        "I like it."

        Anything you like you can have, I thought. The stroking
continued. I wondered what he was thinking. Then the thinking
stopped.

        He lay his head on my chest, gently. He was so gentle. I
couldn't believe it. Believe it, I told myself. One hand came up
under my right breast, stroking, gently. Up a little more. A
touch, just a touch, on my nipple. I shuddered. Inside the
turmoil was getting worse. I mean better. More and more
electricity. Oh! So nice! He moved his head a little, and
flicked my other nipple with his tongue. Bliss! His whole mouth
on my breast, lightly sucking, tongue touching only now and
then, oh, happy nipple! The other hand, still moving around sort
of aimlessly, stroking. My hand on his back, just touching him.

        It all stopped. I opened my eyes. He was taking off his shirt,
then his shorts and his underwear. Naked. He wasn't really
Adonis, kind of a crooked nose, a small but bright scar on one
side of his chest. He was close enough.

        "Slide out of your shorts," he said. I did. "Now relax."

        Easier said than done. Here we were, naked as jaybirds, under a palm 
tree on a tropical island. But not real. Out of time. I lay
back and waited to see what would happen next. He started where
he left off, just gently stroking. I didn't know whether I
wanted to wait all day after all. I has getting very excited.
Tiny little orgasmic feelings, you know, little bolts of
lightning, were shooting through my vagina and up into my
stomach. Could this keep on so long I'd throw up? No. Never. But
my God!

        Then both hands, sliding up my sides, gently holding my
breasts. Thumbs stroking, stroking. Left nipple, a touch,
another. I couldn't help it; I grabbed his arm and bit his hand.
Not too hard. Then I let go. I opened my eyes again.

        "Hey, Sandman?"

        "Yeah?"

        "Can't you please just stop the preliminaries and come inside?
I don't think I can stand this anymore."

        No answer, just a body stretching out, a body looming over me,
my legs opening wide, my hand guiding, my eyes looking directly
into his, a few inches away, his gentle smile, his warm penis
slipping into my oh-so-slippery vagina. A kiss, long and
intimate. A hug. No more movement, just lying there, feeling.
All filled up.

        Slowly he withdrew, almost all the way--not quite. Then back in 
slowly. I heard a bird call. Nothing moved. I breathed. A hand
on my brow, pushing my hair back.

        "I like your messy hair."

        I hugged him down on me. He was heavy, pinning me to the
ground. No midget this one. I smiled.

        "What are you laughing at?" he said.

        "I was thinking that you're not a midget, then I remembered
it's not politically correct to call the others, you know, the
short ones, midgets. My best friend is really short, and I
wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world. But I think midget all
the time--sometimes runt--because I started thinking that way in
junior high when they asked me how the weather was up there.
Fucking midgets, I thought."

        "Bad girl. I might have to squash you for thinking evil
thoughts."

        "You already are. Squash me some more."

        "My pleasure." But instead he lifted himself on his elbows and
gradually withdrew again. Then back in, slowly. Again. And
again, and again, slowly. I was going, no, coming, gone,
a-a-a-ah!

        "Sandman. Stop fucking around! More. Now!"

        "Yes, ma'am," he said. In. Out. In, out. In, out. Faster.
Harder. Me, coming again. Not so loudly. More like a groan. In,
out. In, out. "Ugh. U--ugh." Collapse. Silence. I held him,
tight. My life preserver.

        He lifted his head and looked at me. Big grin, not gentle at
all.

        "Thank you for rescuing me," he said.

        I looked up, puzzled. "From what? It was the other way around,
you rescued me!"

        "Never mind, maybe we rescued each other."

        He rolled off and lay beside me.

        "Think we'll get chiggers?" I said.

        He looked alarmed. "God, I hope not." Then he relaxed. "Naw,
this is paradise, remember? No chiggers here. Now if this were
Texas. . . ."

        "We have ticks in Massachusetts, and mosquitoes," I said
helpfully.

        "But no tarantulas, no rattlesnakes, no cotton-mouths. And no
chiggers. Hey, let's eat, then go back to the mob. I feel
better."


        We put on our clothes, ate his sausage and crackers, drank the
last of the water, and walked across the field, hand in hand. We
had to let go during the last few minutes to make it down the
steep path. But he was holding my hand again when we walked into
the camp or whatever it was.

                          --------

Until the people came to get us Sandman and I hung out nearly
all the time together. I caught him watching once when one of
the cuties walked by swinging her butt, but I took him off
behind some bushes and got that right out of his mind. Can't be
too careful.

        Sometimes we separated for a while. I got a lot more social,
for some reason. Playing around down on the beach I talked to
Kim a while about this and that and then I taught her how to put
the shot with a coconut. Given her reputation as a loose cannon,
maybe that was not the best thing to do, since you're not
supposed to put the shot actually *at* anybody, but what the hell,
it was fun.

        I even talked to the little guy with the braid. He's OK if  you 
ignore some of his quaint notions. He said pinching butts is
just a sideline with him. Actually, he likes big women who dress
up like little girls. He said he'd love to get me some little
girl clothes that would fit me and then we could have a hell of
a time. I declined.

        It was even more fun, however, just to hang around, holding
Sandman's hand. We did that a lot and people kidded us. Supposed
to be an orgy, they said, and what the hell was wrong with us?
Sandman would just smile and say everything was fine. I really
love that guy.

        Then the big boat came for us. We knew it would, sooner or
later. Sandman and I clung together on the beach watching it
come in, slowly.

        "I'm not going to wait for them," I said.

        "What do you mean?

        "I'm leaving now. This is not real, we're out of time,
remember?"

        "I love you," he said.

        "And I love you."

        We hugged each other hard, nothing gentle about it. We kissed
once more. Then I turned and walked down the beach away from the
others, went behind a palm tree, and snapped my fingers.

        My mother is a little bit of a witch. She's Irish, but she
doesn't make much of it except now and then. I don't know why
she thought I'd ever need it, but she once told me, "If you're
ever in a place that's not real, that's out of time, and you
want to come back home, just get off by yourself and snap your
fingers." So I did.

                                -----------------

        And now I'm sitting at the computer in frozen old Boston,
writing this up for Beth, and for my husband Bob--he'll
understand, just the way Sandman's fiancee will--and for anybody
else who cares to take a look.