"At school I once swam two hundred yards," I said morosely. "Since then I'm out of practice."
"We're dead ducks," he gloomed.
"Just when everything looked so rosy," I groaned.
"All we wanted was to be young, and carefree."
"It's my big, fat prick that got me into this mess," I gritted.
"My stiff bastard's fucked me up too," grated Dave. "If we'd known sooner we could have jumped ship in Hawaii."
"Isn't there some way?"
He shook his head. "We're fucked!" Then abruptly he was deep in thought. His head came up and his eyes widened. He'd had inspiration. "Wait a minute, Mike," he yelled. "We do have a chance!"
We were three thousand miles out in the Pacific and it was uncanny when the ship's engines stopped and the screws ceased to thresh. It was suddenly very silent. The ship creamed on under its momentum, its speed slowly diminishing. So many passengers lined the deck on the starboard side that the deck inclined. A loudspeaker addressed the passengers in the tones of a travel commentator.
"We are now approaching the beautiful, unique Island of Fluga-Huga, known to Polynesians as the Island of Eternal Fire. Do not be alarmed the engines have been stopped. Our momentum will carry us some miles before we begin to drift. By then we shall be opposite the entrance to a small lagoon. The ship cannot approach close to the island because of underwater rocks. But on the rare occasions that ships do stop near the island, its inhabitants paddle out to wave a welcome."
I shouldered through the throng at the ship's rail and studied Fluga-Huga. It was a green island with tall palm trees and wide, white-sand beaches. The lagoon was turquoise blue and as still as a mirror. There was a small break in the reef where Pacific rollers thundered and foamed.
"You will see three canoes paddling out," mentioned the loudspeaker. "The natives are a very happy hospitable people. Regrettably, or perhaps luckily, only small craft can approach the island. For this reason it has remained almost untouched by civilization. Passengers may wish to throw gifts into the water that the natives will dive for them. Pen-knives, men's leather belts, ladies' compacts with mirrors and combs are highly prized. These simple, happy people have no use for money or clothing."
The ship was moving very slowly now. We could see spray spurting from paddles as the canoes skimmed through the water on an intercepting course. I had one eye on the bridge. Dave couldn't see me but I saw his signal. I slipped away from the rail, descended to the lower deck and met him at the port rail. "Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
The passengers were watching the approaching canoes and nobody saw us strip off our clothes.
The loudspeaker blared again: "The simple people of Fluga-Huga are completely uninhibited and possess no false modesty. Flowers in their hair, and garlands around their necks are the only adornment they use. It is noteworthy that all the paddlers are female. Fluga-Huga is sometimes called the Women's Island because of its ratio of ten women for every man. The tribe was once very aggressive and warred upon all its neighbors. But the other tribes united and only the women folk escaped and a few males survived the perilous voyage to this island."
I was down to my jockey-shorts. I looked at Dave as he pulled his off. "Completely naked?" I asked.
"You won't need pants where you're going!"
A rope ladder was hanging over the side. We went down it and dropped the last few feet into the water. Dave started swimming away from the ship. "Hurry," he called. "We've got to keep clear of the screws."
We swam away from the ship, turned and swam parallel with it. Dave had timed it nicely. Soon, the great propellers turned and water boiled up behind the ship. It glided forward, steadily increasing speed.
Dave swam with powerful strokes. I followed him. The ship drew away and revealed the canoes. Their occupants were still diving for gifts. We swam towards them.
I was gasping, at my last breath. I'd swum further than I'd, ever swum in my life. A canoe loomed up before me and I grabbed. The delighted girlie shrieks were deafening. Beautiful dusky faces and bobbing tits loomed over me. Many soft brown hands reached down and held me. I was pulled into the canoe like a landed fish. Lovely eyes and flashing teeth swarmed around me. I tried to sit up but I was pressed firmly back. A dozen hands simultaneously held my prick and a dozen girlie voices shrieked in curiously accented English: "Fooky-Fooky!"
The Southern Cross blazed in the velvet sky of a tropical night. The lagoon glittered like a mirror and the palm trees fringing the beach threw proud, stately shadows.
I lay upon a coconut mat with cushions under me. Dave reclined with the same manly grace. Around us thronged beautiful, naked Polynesian girls. On the beach a suckling pig roasted on glowing embers and its aroma wafted to us. In the firelight "Fluga-Huga" girls danced a traditional Polynesian hippie number. Their naked breasts shone with sweat and their bellies and thighs writhed with an ease that made the grind-and-bump shows of Soho look like kindergarten pantomime.
The girl on my right dipped her breast into a coconut shell and withdrew it coated with a pinkish cream. She brought her breast to my mouth and teased my lips with its nipple. I opened my mouth, swallowed the nipple and licked up the cream with relish. It tasted fishy. Probably crabs' eggs. She recharged her breast and the girl on my left fed me a breast tasting of anchovy and olives. I moved to a more convenient position because the girl sucking my knob was obstructing the girl who was licking my scrotum.
Dave asked dreamily: "How do you like the menu, Mike?"
"Delicious! It's the flavour of tit that makes it so piquant!"
"You know what I want served with my roast pork?" he asked. "Pussy sauce! I want them to shove mashed mango up their twats, whip it up into a paste and spread it on slices of roast pork. What do you think?"
"Pussy goes with anything," I told him. "Pussy and pork. Pussy and bacon, pussy and fish and chips."
"Can you tell them apart yet?" he asked.
"The girls? Or their pussies?"
"It's bewildering, Mike. There're so many. That's what makes it great. We'll never get bored."
I snapped my fingers and pointed to my mouth. A girl wearing a garland of lotus blossoms around her neck smiled happily. She stood astride me, bending her knees and poising her pelvis. She tilted a gourd of fermented coco wine until the sweet, amber liquid ran down between her breasts, flowed over her belly, coursed through her hairs, trickled down through her parted love-lips and dripped into my mouth. It was nectar. Pussy juice and alcohol!
"Try these, Mike," recommended Dave. A girl was holding a platter of clams. Another girl took one, rubbed it up within her juicy crotch and then popped it into his mouth. "This is civilization!" he sighed happily. "None of that shit about getting married and working hard. This is living! Us, and two thousand beautiful pussies. You and me, and our pricks worshipped by two thousand lovely cunts."
I gestured to one of the girls that she should dangle her tits on my belly and drag them lightly up and down. "We don't even have to learn the language, Dave. They seem to know by instinct exactly how to please us."
"We may have a problem later," Dave warned. "It's natural that the girls cook, fish, grow vegetables and do everything. But once in a while we may like to fish ourselves. We've got to make them understand we like exercise occasionally." He tapped the head of the girl who was sucking him and gestured. She eagerly squatted astride him with her back towards him. She sank down slowly, guiding his prick into her crotch. Then she flexed her thighs and rode up and down his shaft smoothly.