Chapter 1: Prologue
The Smoke Monster prowls the Island.
Contrary to popular opinion, he does not always roar and crackle when on the move. He can be stealthy when he chooses to be and that’s rather more often than you might think. How can he judge people without observing them first? All across the Island he flows, peeping in on the new arrivals on the beach, in the jungle and in the caves, weaving in and out of the clapboard homes of the people the new ones call “the Others” when the sonar fence is down. He sneaks through the trees and wanders the tunnels beneath the Temple. He observes not only their actions but their thoughts. Oh yes – that’s something not many people know. Smokey sees your dreams – your ideas, your fears, your fantasies. Little surprises him. And that’s a very good job considering the erotic phantasmagoria he observes on pretty much a daily basis…
Chapter 2: Jack and Kate and Sawyer
Every night, Kate finds herself with the same dilemma – which of them to think of while she jills herself off.
There’s Jack, of course – sensitive hands, hairy chest, large naïve eyes that roam eternally as if desperate for something to cling to (cling to me, Jack, cling to me!) And there’s Sawyer – floppy hair, dimples. A teasing boy-next-door whose face sometimes crumples with boyish hurt (let me kiss that wounded past away, Sawyer-baby!) It’s a quandary for a lusty girl.
Then she hits upon it, the perfect fantasy. It’s obvious, really – why didn’t she dream it up earlier? Kate reclines in her hut, grinning, as her hand slips into her jeans and she begins to run a lazy finger around her clitoris.
“Both of you. At the same time.”
Sawyer flicks an eyebrow then smirks. “So that’s why you brought us out for a camping trip in the depths of the jungle? Well, I’m up for it. What about you, Doc?”
Jack studying her face to make sure she understands what she’s getting herself into then gracing her with one of his rare smiles. “Okay.”
Kissing them, one after the other. Stubble, lip and spit followed by stubble, lip and spit – but different. Jack’s kisses are romantic, slow, holding her face in both hands, working her lips like a virtuoso, wanting everything to be perfect. Sawyer’s are also slow but deeper, more sensuous, like he’s trying to reach into her core. He finishes with a teasing flick across her lips from his long tongue.
They’re kneeling on either side of her, both looking down on her, blue eyes and green. It is she who will dictate the next voluptuous move.
It’s been raining all day; one of the Island’s torrential downpours. Her blue t-shirt is stuck to her skin, delineating every bump and curve. Still, they’re being gentlemen, not staring. It’s only when her lips curl in a devilish smile and she runs her hands down from her neck to her chest that they realise they’re permitted to look. Look while she plays with her nipples, running the pads of her fingers over them, awakening sensation, making them jut and stretch the fabric. It’s a taunt to the men. Could you? Would you? Do you know how to please a woman? Show me, then – show me what you can do!
Jack seems hypnotised, his face slack, lips parted slightly, as he reaches forward to supplement the touch of her fingers with that of his own. She takes his hand and places it where it belongs. Scientist’s fingers – they circle, they pinch and roll. He rests the palm of his hand on her breast and massages to feel the hardness of her nipple pressing into his palm. The rubbing over the wet cloth of her t-shirt makes the sensation more diffuse but the activity more sordid. Feels like being felt up by some horny teenage cousin on a sweaty summer’s day, she thought.
She craves more intensity. Jack notices the way she bites her bottom lip and grabs the hem of her t-shirt, helping her peel it off.
As her dark hair falls down over her shoulders like a demure veil, Kate leans back on her elbows and pushes her chest up towards them, daring their hands to maul her. She knows she should feel vulnerable, seeing as she’s partially-naked and alone with two brawny men who could easily pin her and do what they want with her. And she does – a little. The thought of them using her as a fuck toy while she screams thrills her but that’s a fantasy for another day.
His face is in profile, one eye looking up at her from beneath a fall of soft blond hair. Kate has always liked blue eyes but there is no doubt they often seem a little cold. Beautiful but unfathomable. Not so with Sawyer – his baby blues were as welcoming as a tropical lagoon and the warmth of his smile always reached them. “Sooo,” he began, “you want me to lick them titties, huh, Freckles? Do you want me to lick them little titties?”
Sweet, oral Sawyer, never happier than when licking or kissing or talking dirty! She lowers her head and looks up at him with his own wicked glower. “Yeah.” She runs her tongue over her bottom lip.
“You got it.” He leans forward, his tongue snaking out of his smiling mouth and slow-laps across a rubbery nodule. With a flatter, softer tongue, he circles her areola leaving a silvery gleam in his wake then begins to flick rapidly across the nipple itself, turning the tingles she’s been feeling into an intense glow. She gasps. He meets her eyes as his tongue laps at her, a dirty little look that says, This is how I’m gonna lick your clit. She can hear him as he laves her – wet, slapping sounds that make her feel deliciously sleazy. That make her want to probe the flesh of his clever, pleasuring mouth.
Leaning on his left elbow now, Jack continues to stimulate her nipple with his fingers, increasing the pressure as he sees her face flush, her breathing become heavy. His eyes flick from her face to her chest and back again. When a particularly cruel twist and pull elicits a whimper, he stops and meets her eyes. The hot look she returns tells him it was a cry of a little pain and a lot of pleasure. So he does it again. Her gaze reminds him of the upturned eyes of a supplicant and that makes him happy. That just about makes him a god! Her hand suddenly reaches under his t-shirt, and begins to run up and down his hairy chest, delighting in the beauty of his form, while he and Sawyer lead her slowly to orgasm.
“Ow!” Kate’s head, which had fallen back, jerks up. “Don’t you dare – don’t you dare bite it!”
Sawyer is grinning, white teeth gripping her nipple lightly.
“Sawyer, no. Sawyer!”
He starts laughing and running her erect nipple through his teeth, his eyes full of mischief. He lets go but instantly lunges forward and replaces the grating of his teeth with a deep suckling that takes in not just her nipple but a large part of her breast, too.
Hearing Kate’s deep-seated groan, Jack is not slow to join in, clamping his lips on her right nipple, using his tongue to push on it with every suck.
The feeling goes deep, right down her spine to her loins. It’s different, so much more than when one nipple is suckled in isolation. When they draw on her together, it’s as though her chest is rising up to the ceiling; a buzzing, throbbing thing with its own entity, almost nullifying the need for sex organs. Almost.
It’s at this point that Kate gets to work in real life, stripping off her jeans and panties, and bringing both hands to bear upon her pussy. Her right hand frigs her clit while the left probes the entrance, tickling and wiggling. She’s so wet. She takes the slick fingers of that left hand and brings them to her mouth, smearing her own juices on her lips then licking them off. She imagines she’s Jack or Sawyer tasting her for the first time. When her fingers go back south, they plunge into her with a fucking motion and she pushes her hips up to meet them. Completely naked now from the waist down, she spreads her slender legs as far as they will go, exposing as much of her pussy as she can. It’s something she loves about sex, that spreading of the legs, that throwing out of the window of niceness and decorum. Here’s my cunt for you to play with. In the raw. I’m not hiding anymore.
Back in fantasy land, Sawyer and Jack are still suckling like men dying of thirst, their hands now reaching between her legs and rubbing her over her jeans. Their mouths are soft; their unshaven jaws, scratchy. Oh, men – eternally wrong-footing and delighting women with that procession of rough to smooth, soft to hard!
While they’ve been at work on her breasts, their hands have had other business. Kate surfaces for a moment to find the men have freed their cocks from their jeans and two hard-ons now loom over her, one cut, one not. Jack’s circumcised prick (yes, he would be the one to be cut, she could imagine his father pressing for it on medical grounds) faces her, the swollen head looking fierce and leaking pre-cum. As she watches, Sawyer’s cock rises to full erection, the head pushing out from its covering, the whole thing bouncing like some wild animal with a will of its own.
Jack releases her nipple and moves up, bringing his mouth close to her ear. “Is this what you want, Kate?” he asks. “Do you want us to fuck you? Do you want us to make you come – hard? ‘Cause we can do that, Kate. But we have to know – do you really want it?”
“Say it.” Sawyer has come up for air but there’s none of Jack’s earnestness in his tone. His expressive face is flushed with arousal, his busy lips swollen now, those twinkling eyes turned to laser beams.
“I want it!” she says, the words a cri de coeur. “I want you both to fuck me. I don’t care if you hurt me. I want to be filled with your cocks over and over. I need to come so bad!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so before, Freckles?” laughs the big blond guy.
Jack smiles and strokes her face.
Her hand reaches up and musses Sawyer’s hair, so unbelievably soft. “Will you, Sawyer? Be a good southern boy? Go where you’re supposed to go?” Her hand applies pressure.
With a growl and the widest of wide grins, Sawyer ventures south, taking her jeans and panties down with him. He kisses her stomach – full-bodied kisses that draw on her flesh and show off his dimples – then runs his tongue down to the verge of her pubic hair, circumscribing it, nuzzling at her inner thigh.
Jack smiles and there’s an unusually playful gleam in his deep-set eyes. “Labia majora,” he states.
Kate looks up at him with a small frown – until she feels Sawyer’s tongue lick along that very slice of her anatomy and she lets out a happy groan.
“Labia minora.” Jack’s enjoying this, teasing the pair of them.
She feels a pair of hands part her outer lips and looks down to see Sawyer enjoying a long, hard look. She knows she’s got a cute pussy, the sort with puffy outer lips that hide the treasures inside. Now he’s holding her open, every secret of her dark pink folds is visible to him and he seems to like what he sees. Stretching out his tongue to maximum extension, he uses the tip to slide between her inner lips with exquisite slowness, hitting every sensitive spot along the way.
Jack allows the reveal of the next word to hang in the air for a moment or two. “Clitoris.”
Kate chews on her bottom lip.
He can’t resist a chuckle as he closes his knowing lips around her clit and treats her to a series of protracted, kissing sucks.
Jack’s hand follows Kate’s head as it falls back, stroking her throat, his face mirroring the pleasure she’s projecting. His thumb runs over her full lips and her tongue caresses it as if it were a different part of his body. “G-spot”.
A flicker of consternation passes over Sawyer’s face but the game Alabama boy isn’t going to be thrown that easily. He runs his hands under her buttocks and lifts her pelvis to create an easier target then plunges his tongue deep as he can go, mashing his face against her.
The writhing of his tongue deep inside pulls a string of long groans from Kate. She can feel her juices seeping out of her now, surely smothering his face. Jack puts an arm underneath her shoulders, lifting her up so she can watch. She begins to buck against Sawyer, almost face-riding him. It’s a glorious, decadent sight but it’s no good. No matter how long the tongue – and Sawyer’s is longer and more flexible than most – her G-spot simply can’t be reached that way. “Mm, I don’t think so,” she says, giving him the tap on the shoulder.
Sawyer won’t be defeated that easily. He pops up for air then goes down again, little grunts of effort issuing from his throat. Kate can just see the upper part of his face above her mound, brow knotted and plaintive, eyes squeezed tight shut. Even through the ecstasy of a pussy-licking, she has to suppress a giggle. “Sorry, Sawyer, it ain’t gonna happen. Fingers or cocks only for that little target.”
He sits up looking crestfallen.
“Perineum,” pipes up Jack.
He frowns and presses his lips together in a vexed expression. He rubs the area with his thumb for a moment before giving it a tentative lap.
“Curious,” says Kate as she contemplates the sensation.
“Anus,” says Jack.
“Aw, you gotta be kiddin’ me!”
Jack and Kate burst into laughter, looking very much like a pair of black haired, green eyed twins ganging up on him.
“Maybe after you’ve had a wash and brush up down by the sea.”
Kate raises her eyebrows. “Oh, so you like a little salt with your chocolate?”
“Aw, come on!” Sawyer makes a throwing gesture at the pair of them as he turns away in exasperation.
“Shucks, Sawyer, don’t get mad!” laughs Kate.
He looks at them over his shoulder, fixing Jack, in particular, with an accusatory eye. “And what about you, Doc? You gonna give this puss a good tongue-lashing or are you too prissy for that?”
The doctor shrugs his shoulders, unmoved. “I’m not prissy.”
“Oh yeah? Prove it.”
In response, Jack reaches over Kate, grasps Sawyer’s bristly jaws in both hands and makes a lengthy point of licking the pussy juice from the blond man’s face.
Real Kate, in her hut, begins to frig her clit like a madwoman. There’s so much she wants from this fantasy: Jack and Sawyer going down on her together; sucking one cock then the other; being taken in pussy and ass simultaneously as she’s pressed between their heavy, sweating torsos… But when her mind plays in slow motion those two powerful alpha males sharing her pussy juice in their kiss, their glistening tongues out and rolling over each other, it’s too much.
Chapter 3: Sayid and Rousseau
Alone in her shabby shack, Danielle Rousseau lies on her pile of furs and stares at the metal-sprung base of a camp bed. She dreams of Beauty.
Beauty has dark hair and dark eyes and dark skin yet he gleams in the moonlight brighter than anyone of her own complexion. He gleams because he is drenched in sweat and he sweats because he has been tied to that camp bed and tortured. By her. Rousseau’s mouth stretches in a soundless scream. No. Think not of that. Think instead of how Beauty let you touch him at the end, how his eyes bespoke that he understood your pain, your longing.
In her mind’s eye, he rises from the camp bed having nothing to restrain him now and comes to her. Yes – he comes to her. She is a tall woman and Beauty is not much taller but his husky frame and undeniable masculinity make her feel petite. He holds her gently by her upper arms, his hooded eyes full of empathy. He tells her, “Danielle – you are beautiful,” and begins to walk her back to her furs.
The truth is she has no idea if she is beautiful or not. She can’t remember the last time she saw her own reflection. Seeking it out hasn’t seemed relevant. And now she never will. Because if she does and she doesn’t like what she sees, she’ll never be able to escape into this dream again. And she needs this.
Just before they reach the bed, Beauty tells her to wrap one leg around his waist. When she does, he places his strong hands beneath her buttocks and lifts her into the air for a moment before tilting her back onto the soft landing of her furs. She’s never felt more cared for.
Scent of male descending, full lips capturing hers, their softness belying the power behind them. Long hair falls around her face like he’s throwing a canopy over their perfumed bed. Beauty lifts his head and meets her eyes. “Do you want me to make love to you, Danielle?” he asks in that exotic accent she can’t quite place.
She’s weeping as she answers, “Yes!”
And so it begins. A kiss on each cheek consumes her tears, kisses are rained on her jaw, her throat, the side of her neck while her thighs part and his hips slide between. He has a crushing weight that excites her almost more than anything else. Her chest struggles to expand making her breathe even more heavily. She knows he can feel every move she makes, every sigh, every twitch, every contraction. He runs his hand down her arm, lacing his fingers with hers, then brings her hand to his mouth for a kiss that lies somewhere between chaste and carnal. She’s stroking his face (again) as he looks down at her and says, “Take off your clothes, Danielle. I want to see your lovely body.”
She immediately does as he requests, tearing off her irrelevant vest and combat pants, and lying back again for Beauty’s appraisal. He strokes her slender white frame, fingers tracing parallel wave forms as they run down from her neck over her breasts, belly and thighs. They flutter through her pubic hair and linger where her deepest desire lies. Rousseau is sobbing again as she admits, “It has been so long since someone touched me there. I’ve been feeling like I’m dying, shrivelling up inside. Please – bring me back to life!”
He smiles as he begins to touch her with more intent. Rousseau’s head rolls back and for a few minutes, all she is aware of is her rising pleasure. Then the vision of him floats back up to the surface and it’s all she can think of – the astonishing loveliness of his physical form. She tilts her head and gazes at him. “Beauty,” she says. “Take off your vest.”
He does, revealing a rounded, muscular torso blessed with chest hair in a tree of life pattern.
She sighs with longing. “Beauty – take off your pants.”
There’s an amused smile flickering around his lips as he does so and Rousseau knows that he’s pleased that she’s enjoying his body. She doesn’t mind – a prince such as he should be allowed to wallow in his own vanity. His prick is a long, graceful rod that curves upwards. Aware she desires a clear line of sight, he rises to his knees and holds it where she can see it in the light from the fire (yes, there’s a fire now, of course there’s a fire, even though her shack has no hearth). He looks at her with a sort of smouldering pride.
Rousseau is on her hands and knees in an instant. When she’s within a few inches of it, she cries out with joy. She flings her arms around his hips and takes him deep into her throat.
In real life, she’d never be able to do this so soon. She’d had so little practice during that short, dreamlike existence she called life before she was shipwrecked on the Island. But this isn’t real life. Beauty’s sweet prick slides down her throat without resistance and she suckles on him, feeling the head swelling at the back of her throat. She clenches muscles she never knew she had, milking his manhood, until it releases trickles of salt she takes down like communion wine. Worship him! Worship him! Her head begins to bob up and down, the friction making the flesh of her throat sing. She cradles his soft sack in her hand, feeling the balls within, feeling them tighten. When she raises her eyes, the sight is almost too much. Beauty’s hard belly is bucking, tremors of pleasure shaking it. Above that, the fur of his chest looms and then his face, tilted down to watch her suck on him. His mouth is open, eyes glazed. As she watches, a spasm passes over his face and he cries out. At the same time, his shaft twitches and there’s a spurt, a joyful spurt. Immediately, she pushes forward, whimpering as she attempts to take him even deeper.
There are arms beneath her shoulders, lifting. “No, not yet, Danielle.” He presses her back onto the furs.
She reaches up her arms and takes his face between her hands, stroking his black beard as he lays himself over her. “Beauty – take me. Please take me.”
He does. His penetration is swift and confident. In one movement, he’s up to the hilt in her warm embrace, kissing the cheek she presents to him as she throws her head to one side in her joy. That rhythm, that ancient rhythm! He’s holding himself up on his elbows, watching her face as he fucks her gently. Rousseau’s hands run down his sides until they reach his buttocks and clasp them, urging him further into her with every thrust.
The scratch of her nails makes him gasp, goads him into harder thrusting. He uses his mouth on her neck: kissing, licking, sucking, taking his lips up to her earlobe and pulling on it.
The climax is coming. Rousseau feels it mounting like a flame burning a hole in paper, spreading wider and wider until her whole pelvis is consumed.
Beauty’s groans grow more high-pitched now – his thrusts, staccato. So, so long since she has witnessed a man in ecstasy. She lifts his head so she can watch his face, can’t resist running a finger around his gasping mouth. Suddenly, a frown ravages his brow. “Danielle – I love you!” His hips jerk and she can feel his seed spilling into her, hitting the neck of her womb, filling her. That alone is enough to make her come.
Their cries ring out across the treetops. They don’t care if they’re overheard by friend or foe.
In the quiet hour that follows, she lies on her side with him nestled against her back. There’s not an inch of the length of her that does not have some part of him pressed against it. His great arms cross her chest and she can feel his breath on the crook of her shoulder. In the night, he tells her everything about himself and wonders at everything she returns. More than anything, she loves the way Beauty speaks to her, what he calls her. Not ‘Rousseau’, that thing from the jungle – that loveless, alien thing.
Chapter 4: Sayid and Shannon and Boone
Just what is it that Iraqi gives her that I can’t? thinks Boone. And then, being a visual boy, he starts to imagine exactly what.
He imagines Shannon and Sayid finding an abandoned hut on the far side of the beach. It’s huge, like a general’s tent on a field of war but adorned not with maps and weaponry but silk cushions and jewelled lamps of many colours. There are brass censers sending sandalwood and frankincense smoke curling about the billowing space, and all manner of other A-rab paraphernalia.
No – I’m not racist! Why am I thinking like this? Boone claps his hands over his head. Why do I think this way about my own step-sister?
She deserves happiness. She isn’t really the bitch everyone thinks she is. She has a heart.
And long legs. And pert young breasts begging to be fondled. And green eyes that turn that look on me that’s ineffably sad…
As soon as they’re inside, Sayid grasps her and strips her. He exposes every inch of her skin to the dappled light and kisses it – kisses her shoulders, her belly, down her spine, kisses her neat ass, palpating its firmness and smiling as he does so, very pleased with her conformation. He kisses her calves, her toes, her mound, her breasts (but so would Boone if he had the chance!) Finally, he arrives at her mouth, sliding his thick tongue between her fresh lips: a juicy union of a fig and an apricot.
She strips him. Boone’s cheeks grown red as his mind’s eye watches, unwilling to admit why he’s imagining this. Sayid’s body is magnificent, heavier than his own but not unbalanced. The shoulders are particularly well-developed but so are his thighs, which Boone has never seen. There’s fleecy hair there, and a rich spread up the centre of his belly and across his chest. He gleams in the lamplight, a veritable genie of the lamp. He stands before Shannon proud and unashamed, his penis fully hard and ready to please her. She falls upon it, lavishing all the slutty tricks she learned in the backs of boys’ cars on it, her hand rolling on the base while her head bobs, lips curled artfully over her teeth so as not to accidentally nip him and earn a slap around the head. Just the way she’d sucked Boone that one time, thinking she knew what he wanted, what all boys wanted.
A frown passes over Sayid’s face and he tangles his fingers in her blond hair, using it to pull her back for a moment. “Slow down, Shannon,” he says. “Take your time. Enjoy it.”
For a moment, she’s confused then a light dawns across her features. She doesn’t have to perform any more – she’s free! She takes up his prick again except this time, she’s relishing every moment of it herself: kissing it, running her lips up and down the shaft, rubbing its length against her cheek. She even noses beneath its curve to suck on his balls. Sayid’s lips pout – his head falls back with a groan.
Crouched in a corner of his own hut, Boone is rubbing himself through his pants as he watches this fleshly delight unfold. His bright blue eyes are narrowed – he lets out sighing puffs of air at regular intervals. He’s on the cusp of deciding whether to just daydream or to unzip his pants and get his bare cock in his fist.
In his vision, the decision is already made. He’s there with them, crouched in a corner as he is in reality: ignored, inconsequential. He beats himself off and watches.
Sayid screws Shannon as well as stripping her and he’s not always gentle. It’s as if he’s performing for Boone now, throwing his lithe sister into a variety of gymnastic positions. He gets her on all fours so she’s almost facing her brother and pounds her. He licks lips thinned by cruelty as he grasps her by the hair and pulls up her head. Boone can hear Sayid’s hips slapping against her cheerleader ass. Shannon’s mouth is stretched wide and she’s pushed forward by each one of her Iraqi lover’s emphatic thrusts. As her pussy begins to burn, a tear emerges from the corner of one eye…
He has her facing him now. He’s on his knees and he fucks her with her legs flung over his shoulders. He holds her up by a hand around her throat. Her bloodshot green eyes stare up into his impassive face. She can hardly make a sound.
“Yeah,” says Boone to himself, a look of madness upon him, his hand jacking his hard-on almost violently. “Slap her, choke her, fuck her to death!”
But Sayid has other plans. He falls back onto the divan and instructs Shannon to ride him. Like the slut she is, she jumps at his command, kneeling over him and letting his thick member part her pussy lips and slide up into her depths. She croons as she does so, her hands roaming up and over her apple breasts. Then she places one hand on his hard belly to steady herself and starts to gyrate on him.
It’s a steady beat – lingering and hypnotic. Sayid puts his arms behind his head and closes his eyes, a smile of contentment on his lips. They fuck and fuck, bodies gleaming with sweat in the low light. But they’re in profile and Boone lacks the explicit view he needs in order to come.
Sayid’s eyes crack open and look into Boone’s with a mixture of contempt and amusement. “Come here, boy.” He snaps his fingers.
Boone obeys, going and standing beside their richly-apparelled bed.
“You look miserable, boy. Your eyes are downcast, your cheeks are red and yet your prick tells me a different story.”
Boone is breathing heavily. He daren’t look up. He’s very aware that, at his right shoulder, his sister is mewling like a kitten, her hard-nippled breasts bouncing. She ignores him completely.
“Take off your clothes,” says Sayid drowsily.
The humiliation is overwhelming. His whole face is burning as he stands before them with nowhere to hide. Yet his prick juts out before him like a truculent soldier. The hooded eyes fix on it and Boone feels it jerk of its own accord, wet itself with pre-cum.
Sayid chuckles. “You have the body of a man, boy. Do you know how to use it?”
He shrugs one shoulder.
The big dark guy changes tack. “I enjoy fucking your sister. Does that upset you?”
Boone shoots him daggers from beneath his strong brows. “Yes.”
“Oh really?” He rolls the “r” for emphasis. “You could have fooled me. Seems to me you like watching.”
“I’m not lying.”
Sayid jerks his head. “Then leave this place. Now.”
He can’t move. He looks down at the floor, his lips making amorphous movements without producing a sound. He hears Sayid laugh. There’s movement and when he looks up, the Iraqi is now at his shoulder and his sister is lying on the divan with her legs in the air. Sayid takes her ankles and parts her legs so they make a ‘V’. “Come on, boy,” he says, looking at Boone over his shoulder. “Lick what I’ve just fucked. Lick your sister’s pussy.”
While he’s busy staring at the glistening slit before him, Sayid places his hot hand on the back of his head and presses him forward – down, down towards that place, towards heaven.
His lips connect with her softness and a shudder passes through him. The pressure from Sayid’s hand mashes him against her. The smell of sex is overpowering – not only Shannon’s sweet juice but the musky trace of her lover’s cock. He begins to lap almost desperately, as if afraid it might be taken away from him at any moment. His tongue beats a wild, discordant rhythm. He whimpers. And it’s not his fault, no, no, he’s not the one with incestuous desires, he’s being forced to go down on his sister, he’s just a pawn – ‘They made me do it!’
Boone’s eyes are shut tight but every other sense is jacked up to the max. Shannon’s juice is a lingering bouquet in his mouth and throat – he noses against her soft, blond pubic hair, catches the sultry scents that linger there – he can hear her moaning now, her sotto voce phrases, “Oh, yes, Boone,” “There – don’t stop, there!” all against a background of silvery lapping sounds. Large hands are caressing him, running along his flanks, down his spine, up between his thighs.
Suddenly, Shannon sits up and they’re face to face at last. She looks dreamy – she drapes her arms around his neck like a girl about to swoon. She’s staring at his mouth, at the glistening evidence of the pleasure he’s given her painted on his lips. All at once, his sister lunges forward and engages him in a deep kiss.
Again, he’s lost. He pulls Shannon into his lap and wraps his arms around her so she’s entirely his, hands in her short, fair hair. Her giving little pussy is pressed against his prick but not on it. She slides against him in time with her kisses. It’s exquisite and unbearable.
Warmth encloses his prick. But it’s not the warmth of Shannon’s depths. Boone breaks the kiss and looks down to see a dark hand holding his hard-on. He becomes aware of a presence behind him, of a body as sturdy as the trunk of a tree pressed against his back, thighs on either side of his own, hot breath on his neck. There’s something like an iron bar against the base of his spine – another man’s erection touching him. As he watches, Sayid rubs on his prick, bringing him to full hardness while using his other arm to reach around and cup Shannon’s hips, lifting her towards the waiting shaft of her brother. She’s looking into him with shining eyes as she plunges down. Brother and sister cry out, and Sayid holds them steady in his strong arms. Then Boone’s fucking her, finally fucking her once more but this time, the lights aren’t off and there’ll be no regret after. They lose themselves in familial flesh, crying out in delight simultaneously.
Sayid’s lips lock onto that sweet point where neck merges with shoulder. Boone turns his head a little and meets the black eyes. “I’m not gonna kiss you,” he says.
“I’m not going to ask you to,” says Sayid.
Yet Boone cannot tear his eyes from the full lips in the beautiful face resting its chin on his shoulder. Before he knows it, he’s brought a hand up into the shimmering black curls and he’s kissing a fully-grown man for the first time in his life. Sayid’s mouth feels huge compared to a woman’s – capable of devouring him. His stubble grates against Boone’s own. It’s terrifying and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, to be fucked by a powerful man and his own sister at the same time.
Shannon’s little hand comes up to caress Boone’s jaws, pulling him round to face her. “Yes,” she tells him. “Take it.” Behind him, hands part his cheeks. When he realises what’s about to happen, he shudders and bites his lip. Shannon smiles and works her hips more slowly, squeezing him with every thrust, inciting him to further decadence. She puts a hand beneath one of her breasts and offers him a nipple. He latches onto it, suckling like a needy babe as he feels something round and impossibly large pressing against his anus. He whimpers deep in his throat as Sayid forces him to remain still while that glorious, alien thing punches its way inside him. Transfixed, Boone loses the nipple and flings his head up towards the heavens. Sayid bites on his neck; Shannon licks his jaws; they fuck him, soft and hard, from front and behind, as Boone shouts his ecstasy. Joy! Joy! Joy!
Chapter 5: Richard and Jacob
It wouldn’t be all that wicked, would it, if they kept their clothes on? If Jacob just came and lay beside him at the end of a hard day and cradled him in his arms the way he had always cradled him with his words?
It had been many years since Richard had spoken to or seen Jacob. But he remembered their years together so vividly that sometimes, just upon wakening, he believed it possible that he would open his eyes and find himself back there in Jacob’s camp, in ragged clothes, with a wild man’s hair. Perhaps one day, Jacob would walk into the Barracks and seek him out. He would take his hand and lead him into his own genteel room, and lie on the bed with him. Two grown-up boys, one dark, one fair, lying on a soft quilt while warm sunshine angles down from the tall windows with their white voile drapes. The drapes gently stir and so do they, curling their arms around each other, eyes moving over each other’s faces with great curiosity and affection. Each feels the strength and warmth of the other through their cotton shirts – Richard’s white; Jacob’s Wedgwood blue. Richard feels Jacob’s heart beating against his own chest. Then the horror of saying the wrong thing comes upon him and Jacob, sensing it, whispers, “You don’t have to speak. You never have to speak with me.” And then he would kiss him.
Would kissing this man who had rescued him and nurtured him, and given him his gift of eternal youth really be so wrong? Kissing had evolved, he had once read, from the passing of masticated food from mother to baby. Wasn’t that what Jacob had done, pass the nourishment of his love to Richard? In the fantasy, Jacob takes the initiative, his lovely face with its drowsy eyes descending, capturing and relishing his mouth. Richard accepts all, his lips parted for the welcome intrusion of his spiritual father’s tongue. They hold onto each other so tightly. It had never happened. It will never happen. Jacob is above such things. A tear rolls down Richard’s face.
Sometimes, his fantasy changes tone, and then there is thrusting and sweating and ecstasy…and the terrible cloud of shame hanging over him for hours after. But if they keep their clothes on, the shame remains in the shadows while in the light, Richard at least has this.
Chapter 6: Ben and Juliet
It always begins the same way. Picture Sylvia Kristel in that classic pose from ‘Emmanuelle’ seated in a large wicker chair, almost wearing a white cotton sundress, legs parted wantonly, drenched in pearls. Except when it’s Juliet in the chair rather than Sylvia, the light behind her streams through her hair, making his blond goddess luminous.
“Oh Ben,” she croons. “Show it to me. Let me see that beautiful prick of yours.”
He comes to her. He’s wearing a white shirt striped with a darker colour and his favourite chinos. He looks down on her, watching her reaction, as he slowly unzips his pants.
Her lips curl in that ambivalent, one-sided smile; her eyes are impossibly blue. There’s no need for him to reach inside his pants – her hands anticipate the move. In moments, she has him in full view and the sight makes her gasp. “I never guessed you’d be so big, so hard!” He stands motionless as her mouth reaches for him, tongue wetting her lips in readiness. Her dress has fallen entirely from her shoulders now and her large, soft breasts swing free.
That’s how it begins but that’s not how it ends. Like many domineering individuals, Ben’s deepest, darkest fantasy goes down a very different road. To his chagrin, Ben finds himself imagining Juliet throwing him to the floor and ravishing him.
“You’ve always wanted me, haven’t you?” she asks, sitting back on her heels, her tone seductive and just a little mocking.
“Always. You’re mine.”
“No, Ben. You’re mine.” She lunges forward and kisses him, one hand in his hair, the other beneath his chin. Her tongue forces its way into his mouth, pillaging it, while he whimpers. The honey and salt of her lips taste like the honey and salt of her pussy (of course, she has used him that way a thousand, thousand times before) and he doesn’t care which of them she presses down upon him. He will mouth and suck and lick at any part of her she presents to him – any at all.
When she is done with his mouth, she pulls open his shirt, sending buttons flying, exposing his chest with its thatch of hair. Running an appreciative hand through its wiry strands, she braces herself against him and lowers her naked pussy so it’s not on but against his erection. With Ben’s prick now sandwiched between his own belly and her wet softness, she begins to slide up and down, masturbating herself against him. As she does so, she laughs tinkling, selfish laughs.
Pleasure courses through him. Ben gazes up at his cruel goddess. The features of her joyful face are almost blotted out by the illumination streaming through her loose hair, lending her a golden halo. Aphrodite! Oh, to be raped by Aphrodite – raped by Love itself! Looking along his body, he can see the tip of his prick and her pubic mound covering and uncovering it. He is slick with her juice. Then there’s the curve of her belly, the mounds of her luscious breasts. She has large areole and the nipples aren’t always erect but they are now. And they’re tantalisingly close.
Noticing the fixation of his pale blue eyes, Juliet seems to take pity on him, sitting up and lifting him up with her. She lifts one of her breasts and presses it to his mouth. He encloses it with his hungry lips, suckling hard. He makes piteous sounds in his throat as he does so, rolling his head from side to side. The feeling of a rosy nipple in his mouth somehow completes him. But completion is not enough. He abandons the first breast to the mouldings of his hand while he seeks out the other. Gaining it, he groans with satisfaction, eyes clenched shut, hips grinding against her.
Without warning, he is thrust back down. Juliet’s hips rise, then she sinks onto him with a shout of joy. Ben feels his cock engulfed by heat, tight but giving when he pushes up into her. Even though he knows she won’t like that.
She’s looming over him again, teeth bared, eyes narrowed this time. “Don’t you move,” she growls. Then slowly, deliberately, she begins to fuck him.
It’s torture. He’s a man. When he loses control – and only with Juliet could he ever lose control – the desire to thrust is overwhelming. He has to endure, to watch while her pretty pussy uses him, knowing how swollen, how close to coming he is. Juliet forces his arms up over his head, pinning his wrists with one hand. Her string of pearls dangles in his gaping mouth, almost choking him – a violent substitute for the sweetness of her nipple yet stimulating him in some masochistic way. He takes them between his teeth. With her other hand, she frigs her clit, making sure he can see exactly what she’s doing. Her expression veers from savage to angelic from moment to moment. When she leans forward, her breasts brush over his chest, nipples occasionally grazing his own.
It seems every part of him is being stimulated, even the muscles of his torso, made to stretch in this prone position. Tears squeeze from the corners of his eyes. As his goddess sits up, throwing back her head in her pleasure and his mouth is relieved of her pearls, he cries out, “Take me, Juliet, fuck me, do what you want with me, destroy me!” It can’t get better than this.
It can. She looks back down at him, sticks a pussy-wet finger in her mouth to wet it even more, then reaches behind herself, feeling, probing.
He lifts his knees and spreads them to help her. A white-gold rod penetrates his rectum, pleasure like he’s never known pleasure before (except on those lonely nights, when he’s especially bored) shooting lightning out to all his other pleasure centres and boosting them to maximum. Ben’s eyes roll back – his cock seems to explode. He’s being penetrated by Juliet – penetrated by a woman!
She laughs; he cries. Their bodies are convulsed in mutual orgasm in the mind of this surprisingly passionate man.
Chapter 7: Desmond and Desmond (with Daniel and Miles)
Desmond can’t pinpoint exactly when he became autoerotic.
During his first two years of tenure in the Swan station, his fantasies had all been of Penny. He’d indulged himself in the pleasures of his own flesh only when Kelvin was out on environmental analysis duty, lying in his bunk and imagining himself and Penny curled up by the fire in a stone cottage back in the motherland. He replayed their lovemaking, recalled all the little things that Penny enjoyed. She loved to be on top and he liked it, too, watching her move on him, looking down into his eyes with a loving expression or throwing back her head, selfishly lost in her own pleasure. He found that endearing. How he loved to play with those soft breasts of hers. They really were one of her best features. After, when they’d both come (he was an attentive lover, always concerned for the pleasure of his partner), he would wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her bosom. That was what sex was all about for him – comfort and connection.
Then, one day, Penny was not waiting for him in some idyll but was there, in the Swan. It was as if he could no longer envision a life beyond the Island. Her voluptuous body made a striking contrast to the hard lines of mid-twentieth century computer banks and consoles. Lit by the gloomy mosaic light of the Swan’s dome, she looked like a nymph come to drag him to another world. His fantasies began to take on a darker tone, more specifically erotic than romantic wish fulfilment. He saw Penny stripped and bent over while he took her from behind. The severe edges of the console made cruel dents in belly and breasts. Her cries were chthonian.
He stopped waiting for Kelvin to leave, began sneaking one off the wrist when the big guy was in a different part of the station, one ear cocked for his return like some furtive teenager in his parents’ home.
It became such an obsession that the inevitable happened. Desmond forgot to lock the bathroom door and Kelvin walked in to find him standing over the toilet bowl, eyes closed, lips smiling as he pulled on his stiff rod. His partner’s inconsiderate bark of laughter had him yanking up his trousers in a hurry, cheeks burning.
“Hey,” chipped Kelvin. “If you’re lacking inspiration, you can have access to my secret stash.” He dropped the stack of magazines in his hand onto the washbasket lid. “Help yourself.” Still grinning, he left the bathroom.
Well, no prizes for guessing that Kelvin had not been planning on taking a shit.
The cover of the porn mags was inauspicious – even detumefying. Their white covers were adorned only with the Dharma Initiative logo in the centre of which lived a yin-yang symbol. Desmond climbed into his bunk, got his pillows comfortable behind his head and slid a hand into his briefs.
Page One didn’t help. It was titled, ‘A Message from Pierre Chang” and there was a picture of the Chinese guy from the Swan station orientation film. Underneath, in italics and quotation marks, was the Dharma Initiative’s porn mission statement:
“We at the Dharma Initiative believe in social cohesion and personal liberty. A part of that is sexual expression. We appreciate that not every member of the Initiative has a partner or partners but that we all have the need to express ourselves sexually. In response to this, we produce home-grown erotica on a bi-monthly basis – no pun intended! – starring different members of the Dharma Initiative. Participation is voluntary but recommended! We hope you enjoy our June 1975 issue which focuses on the peregrinations of our own Victoria Asprin, Sally Rosenthal, Miles Straume and Daniel Faraday. Namaste.”
Desmond’s cock was limp in his hand. Okay – don’t start at the beginning. He flicked a few pages on.
Seventies porn. He’d forgotten how different it was! This was the porn he’d picked up in hedgerows on his way home from school, the treasured pages his best friend had shown him then scrumpled up as he stuffed them under his mattress in a panic, afraid his mum would catch them. The lighting was flat and the colours rich, almost textured – not far from technicolour. The women were slender, girl-next-door types, long-legged and freckly. And they had pubic hair! Desmond was used to seeing women’s pubic hair in real life – it was not as if he’d only dated models or actresses – but it had been a long time since he’d seen it in porn. Sally’s bush was relatively neat, a dark triangle over her mound, trimmed short. Victoria’s, on the other hand, was rather more luxuriant, long strands of silky blond hair spreading down either side of her pussy lips. Des was thrown for a moment until he came across the first of a sequence of photos called ‘Miles and Daniel Investigate’. Miles was a slim Chinese guy with wispy facial hair. He looked young and fresh-faced, and had a pouty top lip. Daniel was another slim guy with straggling dark hair and glittering, kindly eyes. They stood on either side of Victoria – dear, sweet Victoria with her thick blond pigtails and innocent green eyes. She was looking at the camera and biting her bottom lip as Daniel and Miles worked in tandem to strip her, Daniel unzipping her beige Dharma Initiative overalls from neck to crotch while Miles pulled it open at the top, exposing one of her pink-nippled breasts. Where the zipper stopped, a tan-line and a glimpse of gleaming pubic hair appeared, tantalising the reader with thoughts of further treasures.
For the first time, blood jolted into Desmond’s cock. He gave it a couple of lazy strokes then turned the page.
Daniel was a scientist. The scene was set in his lab and titled, ‘Daniel and Miles take a break from saving Mankind’. They were all wearing lab coats – just. The guys both had their pants unzipped and were leaning back against the counters while the girls sucked them off. This was no coy soft core imagery – their hard cocks in all their veiny, shiny-headed glory could clearly be seen penetrating the mouths of their playmates. Miles held the back of Victoria’s head and looked down, open-mouthed, at the soft lips sliding over him while Daniel had his head thrown back and was gripping the edge of the counter for dear life. The slight frown on Sally’s face told that her lover’s cock was surging in her mouth and he was about to come.
Des whipped through to the next page.
‘The boys discover something new every day.’
They’d swapped partners. On the right of the picture, Miles had Sally up against a wall. Her arms were above her head and she was holding on to the light fixtures as Miles pulled open the top half of her lab coat and suckled on one of her very round breasts. Her lipglossed lips gasped.
Over on the left, Daniel had Victoria up on the counter. She was completely naked now and spreading her legs, two fingers holding her pussy open for the young scientist. Daniel crouched between her legs, pressing some ocular apparatus to his left eye. It sent out a beam of white light that illuminated her swelling clitoris and the moisture that framed her slit.
Desmond’s tongue moved over his lips as his mind filled in the blanks – the scientist’s tongue lapping; the scent of woman’s musk; her gentle, pleading moans; the jerking of muscles inside and out as the pretty thing came in his face. He turned to the centrefold.
NOT what he wanted to see! A tall blond man lay across the centre pages, naked and grinning, with a large yellow flower gripped between his teeth in a clear homage to Burt Reynold’s famous ‘Playgirl’ pose. ‘Jim LaFleur wants to water your flower,’ said the caption.
“Yeush!” cried Des. “See ya, Dimples.” He ripped to the next page.
‘Nothing like a spot of fresh air.’ And he was back to the adventures of the guys and girls who were showcasing the Island’s bucolic splendour with a little outdoor fucking. In a serene glade, a picnic blanket was spread on the ground and in a series of vignettes, Sally was feeding pineapple chunks to Daniel while Miles watched Victoria get herself off with a banana. Miles licked cream off Victoria’s taut, skinny girl’s ass while Daniel was being ridden by the black-haired force of nature that was Sally. It was clear from the smile on his face and the way he was looking up into her eyes that Faraday, the brainy one, enjoyed relinquishing control. Lastly, all were completely naked. The girls faced the camera side by side and on all fours while the guys took them from behind. It was Seventies porn and they were all thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Looked like the Island was a fun place to be before the infection set in, thought Des.
Holding the magazine very close to his face now, he began to jack himself off in earnest, stopping every now and then to thrust his cock up into his hand.
‘“Mah Jong?” asks Daniel. “We’d rather play with you,” say Sally and Victoria.’
Daniel’s Dharma Initiative home was a picture of Seventies chic. Scandinavian furniture abounded and burning joss sticks added a smoky atmosphere. The threesome reclined on a sofa covered with a handmade, crotched squares throw. Desmond’s eyes traced a wavy line across the most intriguing aspects of the scene: Victoria and Daniel’s open mouths pressed together, soft tongues touching; the erection sticking out of his casual pants, both girls’ hands grasping it; Sally’s narrowed eyes staring down at the head of the hard prick while Daniel’s hand reaches inside her knickers, fingers clearly already inside her. A smaller picture was inset bottom right and titled, ‘Caught on camera.’ It was almost the same image except all three of them were now staring at Daniel’s prick as if in astonishment as it spurted out its joy juice, as a Seventies lad might say.
That was enough for Desmond. He shook his ejaculating cock, spattering the front of his briefs. Judders passed through him of an intensity he hadn’t experienced for a long time. It was a long time before he came-to, got out of bed and threw his sticky briefs in the washbasket.
It was about then that it must’ve happened – that he became autoerotic. He realised one day that he’d spent over an hour fantasising and Penny hadn’t crossed his mind once. Then there was the time when he was sitting in front of the computer, bored and masturbating idly, when he became aware he could see part of his own reflection in a dingy triangle of dome glass. Suddenly, it was all he could think about. The dim, segmented nature of the reflection made it seem it wasn’t him he was looking at. The flickering of the LEDs added to the eeriness of the scene. He tilted his pelvis so his cock loomed large and began to stroke it purposefully. He pulled on it, stretching it to maximum length (not that the Scotsman lacked length to begin with – he was a brawny Celt in every aspect of his conformation) and squeezing it to make the head swell. He played his favourite game, holding his fist still while he pumped into it. The sight of a cock – any cock – making fucking motions sent a dark, urgent thrill running through him. Realising he could see a little of his belly, too, he unbuttoned his shirt at the bottom to watch his stomach muscles clench as he neared orgasm. Quickly spitting into his hand, he smeared the lubricant on his cock and enjoyed the increased smoothness of the jacking, the glistening of a fierce-looking beast. With a few rapid passes and a cry of, “Oh, yeah, Brother. Come on. Come on!” he climaxed, sending several pulses of nasty into the air.
He slept so well that night.
So that was the beginning. In the following days, he began to lock himself in the bathroom and explore his own body in a way he hadn’t since he was teenager. It was his custom to wear his shirts open at the neck for ventilation but now he took note of what he was exposing. In the bathroom mirror, his wild brown eyes travelled down the gap and focused on the powerful chest muscles, smooth and sheened with sweat. A hand crept into his shirt, fingers spread wide to feel the bulge of muscle, then delicately traced a nipple. Silvery tingles ran through him. He opened his shirt further. The fixed mirror only showed his reflection from his head to his breastbone but that was intriguing enough. Desmond lifted a handful of cool water to his throat and splashed it against his flushed skin. It spilled down over his chest in rivulets and soaked his blue shirt, making it stick to him. He watched his sturdy chest heave in excitement, every movement visible through his drenched clothing. He looked back up at himself, at that long, quirky face he was always surprised women found appealing. His brow gathered. “Penny, what am I doing?” he asked. He pulled his shirt across his bare chest and left the room.
But that was not the end of it. He was on a roll.
“It’s uncanny,” remarked Kelvin, “how quickly we get through the soap these days.” He cast a suspicious eye across the table at Desmond as they sat eating breakfast in the Swan’s diner-style snug.
“Some of us actually want to be clean, Brother, rather than seeing washing as a chore.” He cast an equally droll eye over his increasingly irritating partner.
Following that exchange, it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t spend so long in the shower these days but he quickly dismissed that idea. It was an addiction now.
Even lathering up the soap between his hands was part of the ritual. Thinking about pounding off was enough to get him hard. He smothered himself in thick, creamy lather – chest, belly, thighs, up the crack of his behind. His cock most of all. Once his cock and balls were a morass of foam, he took hold of the edge of the glass shower door and rubbed himself against it, sliding his slick cock up and down. There was something about the coolness of the glass that thrilled him – so ungiving, so asexual to the touch that it made the activity seem even more debauched. He didn’t come this way, though. This was just foreplay. After he’d finished fondling himself all over, he would take down the shower hose and unscrew the head so instead of spray he got a stream of water. He’d get on all fours, legs spread wide and start to jack his soapy cock while reaching behind himself to direct the stream of water at his exposed anus. It was an awkward position but worth it for that extraordinary sensation, the perpetual five-thuds-a-second feeling of a strong jet pounding at his hole. He hung his head, water pouring from his long dark hair on all sides, mouth stretched in a soundless cry lest Kelvin overhear. Over and over, he clenched his anus, letting the pleasure there guide the experience until finally, a crashing sensation came over it, shuddering along the length of his rectum as his ready cock splashed its cum on the tiles.
He’d always enjoyed getting his cock sucked. What man didn’t? He never just expected a partner to indulge him, though, never forced it upon them. As a result, his poor cock had been given far less attention in his life than he would have liked.
Not so now. He lavished touch upon it, teasing it, tickling it, exploring it. He liked to see it from every angle: from behind, hanging down between his spread thighs; from above, its one eye appearing and disappearing as his foreskin came up over it; best of all, from below, the cocksucker’s angle. Seeing it so large, dominating his figure, made him feel dominant. Feverish dirty talk spilled from his lips as he watched it magnify. “You want some of this Scottish boy, eh? You want this chunk o’muscle in your mouth? Oh, aye, I’ll give it to ya. Come on and take a taste.”
He needed no convincing himself. Much as it was fun to try to catch his own cum in his mouth, he soon became obsessed with the thought of sucking himself. Several times, he came tantalisingly close, especially when he lay on his back and swung his legs over his head but he was no yoga expert. Sure, he was a little double-jointed in his hips but it wasn’t enough.
He became a yoga expert. After three weeks of dedication, he gave it another try, putting a couple of pillows behind his head, and swinging up and over. He didn’t reach for it immediately. He let himself enjoy the wank, watching his cock swell framed by his own hairy thighs. He cupped and warmed his balls, traced his throbbing veins, swooshed a spit-wet palm around and around the head. Each time a bead of pre-cum oozed its way out, he licked his lips in his craving but he tried nothing yet. Only once his spine had warmed up and his body settled into the gentle rocking did he dare reach a tongue towards it.
The tip touched the engorged flesh – tickled it lightly. He gasped. Then more – the flat of his tongue was against it and if he pouted, he could just plant his lips on it in a kind of kiss. Desmond cried out again – a sound that combined a groan of pleasure with a whoop of triumph. He could taste his own salty, sour flavour, he was jamming his cock in his own face. It made him want to swoon in submission. He dedicated himself to the sucking, drooling over it, wanking the shaft at the same time. And even though his back was already beginning to ache, he took it at a steady pace. Slow and sordid. Only when orgasm approached did he increase the speed, jerking his hips in an attempt to fuck his own mouth. He voiced a series of long, whimpering groans as his motions became wild, cockhead dancing a jig across his lips. Then suddenly, he was coming, semen shooting along the shaft. Desmond opened wide, tongue flat and passive, and his cum jetted into him, painting the roof of his mouth white. It seemed endless – the quivering, the aching, the warm salt, the feeling of filthiness. He swallowed and as he allowed his hips to fall back onto the mattress, semen and saliva hung between his lips and his cock, giving him his first ever pearl necklace.
He could hardly believe he’d never tried this shit before!
So this is how Smokey finds him – a man divorced from all desire to communicate sexually. Kelvin is long gone and the entire Swan station is now Desmond’s erotic playground. Smokey doesn’t judge – not on this matter, anyway. He remembers what it was like to have a body, to be a man. There are plenty of kinky skeletons in his closet. Still, he’s amused by the Scotsman’s new game. There’s nothing like a little adrenaline rush to titillate the erotic receptors, he muses.
It’s just an ordinary wank. Desmond sits in the chair in front of the computer, beating himself off. Except this time, he’s not looking at his own reflection. His eyes are fixed on the countdown. He attempts complete chronological control of his climax. His movements are steady and unhurried, timed to the pip-pip-pip of the timer, until it reaches one minute before execution and the alarm goes off. Nah-nah-nah – harsh, stentorian. It goads him into frantic action, pulling at his hard-on until the sap begins to rise and he has to hold it just below the plateau, throttling it. It’s a strange place he finds himself in, squirming in his seat, forced to furnish his tyrannical prick with the occasional perfunctory stroke while attempting to stave off the orgasm that gathers like a muttering host in his loins. He grits his teeth, hissing between them. Holding his cock in one hand now, he inputs the numbers with the other and waits – waits – his chest heaves and gleams – his brown eyes are bloodshot, riveted by the flicking of the timer. 10-9-8-7-6- Desmond jacks himself with abandon, crying out over and over now there’s no-one to hear, filling the dome with the sounds of his uninhibited self-pleasuring. 5-4-3-2- he hits execute, clenches every muscle in his body and flings back his head – 1. The numbers flick back to 108 and he comes and comes, ejaculate splashing everywhere, and he’s particularly happy if he catches that fucking monitor.
Smokey appreciates his inventiveness and thinks it’s a shame there’s no-one in the Pearl these days to enjoy the floorshow.
He visits them all in his wanderings, delighted when they surprise him. Who would have thought that Libby, the gentle-faced Tailie, would harbour such violent fantasies about being dominated by her comrade, Ana Lucia? Or that Mikhail dreamed of satin sheets and the tender caresses of innumerable soft-bodied, flowing-haired women?
Sometimes, Smokey feels jealous, and he goes and finds himself a body to play with. There’s one particular body he’s got his eye on these days…
Chapter 8: Locke and The Island
The trail is still warm. The enigmatic man picks up detritus from the jungle floor and sniffs it – hawks back that delicious scent of rot and new growth. He examines the broken fern as he passes, rubbing a calloused thumb over the break, gentle and exploratory. He reaches the glade where the people he calls the Others made their camp only an hour or so before and finds the clues he’s been looking for. He knew he would. The jungle rises around him forming a natural amphitheatre.
John Locke raises his arms to the heavens, and they open and drench him, making him laugh. Did his vibrant blue eyes penetrate the clouds? The downpour seems never-ending, sticking his clothes to his robust frame. He feels everything, every warm droplet from above. Oh, to be as alive as John Locke, as in love with this mysterious place! As naïve, too – he’s still unaware of what a treacherous bitch this Island can be. Smokey watches him turn and laugh and feel, and he vows that, someday, he’ll be just the same.