RP: JANEY'S TRIP (FM rom)
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From: "Jane Urquhart"
Subject: RP: JANEY'S TRIP (FM rom)
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WARNINGS: This story includes explicit descriptions of
sexual acts. If reading this might involve you or another
person in an illegal act, or you are offended by the
exploration of adult themes in literature or on the Internet,
do not read further.
Copyright 1998, 1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a
member of the Net Authors and Creators Union (NACU),
which defends the rights of Internet authors and creators.
NACU intends to bring suit against any person or
corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the
newsgroups Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated
and for archiving by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive
and DejaNews. All other rights are reserved. Do not repost
or distribute by any other means without express permission
from the author.
ANNIVERSARY EDITION: This story was first posted on
ASSM on March 24, 1998. What a difference a year makes!
Many of the ASS authors mentioned in this tale have left for
what we all hope are greener pastures, so if you are new to
these newsgroups they won't mean anything to you. That
shouldn't interfere with your enjoyment of the story, but it
matters to me--I miss them! Nothing important has been
changed in this story, but some of the typos have been fixed.
I hope you like it.
NOTE: Lord Malinov chartered the wrong ship for his
Erotica Writers Cruise; as a result, the regular writers of
ASS/ASSM/ASSD were washed up on Malinov's own
Pacific island. The author DG, who has a wonderful
imagination, wrote the story of our traveling to the island.
You can find his story, and those all the other authors wrote,
at Lord Malinov's web site at
http://www.gslink.com/~dcain/xanadu/erotica/island/. After
an introduction, this story starts when we'd been there for a
day or two. This story is the third in a series about my
adventures. The first two are "Janey'sJanuary" and "Janey's
February."
JANEY'S TRIP (FM rom)
by Janey
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 ASSM, 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 thirty-five 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
shirt sleeve, 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 blonde 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.
-------THE END------
Please write to Janey at .
My web sites are at:
/~Jane_Urquhart
http://members.Tripod.com/~janey98
http://annejet.pair.com/story
Copyright 1998, 1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a
member of the Net Authors and Creators Union (NACU),
which defends the rights of Internet authors and creators.
NACU intends to bring suit against any person or
corporation infringing copyright. Specific permission is
granted for publication in the newsgroups Alt.Sex.Stories
and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving by the
Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and DejaNews. All other
rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other
means without express permission from the author.
--
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