As I hack up saltwater and sand, I'm not sure which is more shocking; still being alive, or the view up my savior's loincloth. My ribs ache where his big, strong hands are pumping my stomach clear of the stinging liquid and I gasp tropical oxygen, a bit close to his pendulum for comfort.

With resurging strength I roll clear to my front, sand clinging to the soaked fabric of my khaki T-shirt and combats like I'm some chicken nugget. Warm water laps my bare toes with the swell of the tide and I ease up onto all fours. Then my haunches, coughing and spitting remnants of ocean.

Fragmented memories zap through my head. The chaos. The G-force of the plane banking out of control. Kicking the emergency door off its hinges. Banging my head on the fuselage as I dove free, above Clare's apologies that she couldn't land it after all.

Clare.

My stomach lurches and I spin. Several hundred feet offshore, the tail of the twin prop disappears into the endless sparkling blue where she'd overshot, just a plume of dark smoke drifting and dispersing on the sea breeze above it.

I scan the vicinity, the horizon, anywhere for signs of life.

“No! Clare! Claaare!”

Nothing. Just the gentle waves lapping my legs like twisted echoes of her kisses before she'd venture north and I'd twine her blonde tresses in my grip, holding her to my bucking hips.

Numbness sets in. I refuse to believe she can be gone. Half expect her to surface with a gasping splash, or to strut along the shoreline with that mischievous sparkle in eyes as blue as the ocean, issuing her playful, “Hey, soldier slut,” for me to reply, “Hey, pilot pussy.”

Nothing. Just the copse of palm trees she'd tried to avoid at the last second, fronds swaying in the stifling heat. Nothing for miles and miles in every direction, except water, this lump of sand I kneel on, and loss. I thump the ground, voice hollow as I sob, “Clare.”

We'd been messing around on base. A sacred off-day together. Someone had left the keys in the old plane and, well, we might have borrowed it.

“Base to tango foxtrot seven three nine, you are not cleared for take-off. Stand down.”

Clare had flicked her eyes to mine, an impish grin spreading as she feathered the comms switch back and forth and jammed the throttle to max. All they probably heard was, “—ngo foxt—ven thr—to base go fu—selves—ving a litt—”

Try living a little.

Her mantra. She was such a bad influence on me. If they found out the shit we got up to in the last few months, it would have earned me a dishonorable discharge at best. And now this. Would they look for us? Had they tracked us? They hadn't scrambled anything. We were out of radar range and Clare hadn't uploaded location data en route, nor engaged the ancient HF radio as the plane sputtered across the cloudless seascape.

We were ghosts. Deserters. Pissed off with the military and its archaic rules and constant gaysniping. Change and progress are slow, it seems. With no way out until our contracts ended, we grabbed our bags when the opportunity arose, tossed them in the plane and roared off in a trail of recklessness. The Thelma and Louise of the skies.

And it had gone to shit.

Now I was alone. A gaping hole in my heart and nothing but sea. Nothing.

His shadow falls upon me and I scrabble up. Spin to face this… savage.

Unkempt beard.

Wild eyes.

Bronzed skin, once well toned but clearly suffering the effects of hunting for scarce food.

And wearing nothing but the loincloth covering that… well, it sounds cliché, but python is probably accurate.

A dangerous combination.

He’s in my personal space, peering intently with… is that hunger, like I'm the best snack ever? I retreat a splashy step. “Back up, Crusoe! Any closer and I'll kick your knob off. Don't test me.” He steps in and I stumble another pace away into the shallows. “Hey! Listen! I'm warning you. Don't get any ideas. I gave up on,” I glance down, “that a long time ago.”

It's then I realise his hand is out between us. I meet his eyes, maybe six inches from mine. He gives a toothy grin. “Bob. Lost me glasses, sorry.”

“Oh. Uhhh. Sarah.” I reach to take his hand, coarse and weathered.

He tips his head one way then the other, like he's weighing each syllable. “Sare-rah. Welcome to my island.”

I blink. “Your island?”

He swings his gaze left and right up the beach. “Don't see anyone else around here, do you?” He has a West Country twang to his voice that would make a passable voice-over for Hagrid. “Thanks'd be nice.” I stare blankly. "For saving your pretty little arse.”

“Oh, thanks. I uhh, sorry. When did… how long have you been here?”

He shrugs. “Time don't mean a lot 'ere. Days and nights are kind of,” he pauses to hunt for the right word, “fluid.”

“If you had to guess?”

He shrugs again. “A few months, maybe? P’raps six?”

“Jesus. Six months? What do you do?”

His grin broadens. “Hope you like fish.” He takes a step back and my alert eases. “I’ll make you a spear. Dinner is whenever you get hungry.”

“I can make my own spear.”

He eyes me, up and down in my dripping clothes. “Suit yerself.” Gives me another sweep. “Who's Clare?”

The pang of the hole reopens. “My gir… my girlfriend.”

Consternation crosses his brow and he strokes his beard, nodding at the sea. “It looks beautiful but it can be cruel.”

I swipe at a tear. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

Turning to the ocean, fists clenched, I relive the moments before the crash. “One of the props packed up. She fought it but couldn't keep the thing in the air. Steered towards this place. Said she could land it on the beach but clipped the wing and abandoned the idea as we spun.” I take a shaky breath. “We were both meant to jump. Together…”

He lets me process it, waves occasionally trickling through my toes. “And of all the gin joints in all the towns, you end up on Bobland.”

I turn to him. “Bobland?! Seriously? You wind up in paradise and that's the best you can do?”

He shrugs yet again. “What would you call it, Miss Fancypants?”

My eyes flit from crystal blue sea to golden sand to waving trees on the sloping hillsides, and the cove up the coastline. He has a point. Nothing could really do its beauty justice.

Apart from maybe one thing.

“Clarewater.”

Bob slowly nods. “Come on. I'll give you a brief guided tour.”

~~--===--~~

It doesn't take long to settle into a haphazard routine. My own spear works fine. For wading and waiting—let’s face it, there's not much else to fill the time—Bob favours the dual-prong model to increase the chances of a hit. But when launching, the single, sleek dart makes compensating for the refraction easier.

My first catch is actually pretty thrilling; we cook it over a fire I started. Funny, being an army mechanic prepared me for a lot of things, but I must have skipped Survival Skills 101 classes. Or been hungover. Luckily, Bob has my back, regaling me with tales at every opportunity. He's a bit weird, but kind of affable and genuine with it. Not creepy, even when he asks incongruous things after a mouthful of chargrilled tuna.

“How’s it work then, being a lesbian?”

I blink. “Not sure I follow.”

“Y’know. Equipment wise. Do you, like, use toys or… your fist?”

“It's not all about penetration, Bob. There's lips and tongue and fingers and an entire body of erogenous zones to explore.”

“S’pose. But if your sort don't like cock, why are there life-like toys for sale?”

“I don't kn… my sort?”

“Y’know, gays ‘n everything. Not that there's anything wrong with it. Just curious.”

I eye him. Cast my gaze up the beach to the small pile of stones marking Clare’s grave. I'd plucked up courage a few days after the crash to dive out to the wreckage and haul her body and our bags to shore. Buried her. Cried. A lot. “You're so… odd.”

He lets out a wry chuckle. “Used to get that a lot.”

I tear a lump of tuna off the skewer with my teeth. Savour it. Catch his eye, the flickering fire reflected in it, and offer a cheeky grin. “Why the sudden interest in my sexual habits? You been looking at me? Hmm? While I'm changing, maybe? Have you?” We use separate areas in the clearing away from the shoreline, but I'm sure his gaze wanders.

He looks away. “Have not.”

“Sure? You not imagined me naked? Playing with myself? Or getting all lesbianed up and thinking I'm wasted on girls when your biiig, hard meat could satisfy me? After all, we're the only two people on this island and we both have… needs. Urges.”

He lifts his attention, cock stirring under the cloth. Takes in my grin. “You messing with me?”

I laugh and take another bite. “Don't fret, Man Friday. Your junk’s safe from my clutches.”

Bob tries to disguise his disappointment. Looks away again and says nothing.

“Aww. Sorry I don't swing that way. I used to. It must seem like cruel fate to have me wash up at your feet and bat for the other team.”

“No, no. It's fine. I just, y'know… what made you change?”

I chuckle. Poke the fire with a stick to stir the embers. Tropical days and no cloud cover means nights can get chilly. “Don't think I ever changed. I conformed because that's what I thought people wanted. Had a boyfriend. Had sex. And it was good. Necessary. Filled a void, so to speak. But it didn't fill this.” I pat my chest.

“Your tits?”

My laughter rings out to sea. “Heart, dummy.”

“I knew that.”

I breathe in. The novelty of the unending fresh scent rolling in on the waves still hasn't faded. The sun dips lower, a magenta hue spreading from the orange blush at its epicentre. “Sunsets are pretty spectacular here aren't they?”

“Always.”

We finish the meal in silence, contemplating the magnificence of nature. Well, Bob probably contemplates how he can get in my knickers. A fact borne out by his next statement:

“I'd make an excellent lesbian.”

“Hahaha. How so?”

“I've often thought about how much I appreciate women. The female form I mean.” He flicks his attention up and down me. “What if I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body?”

My smile spreads. “I hope you don't use that as a chat-up line.”

It's his turn to smile. “Not yet.”

“Keep it that way. Listen, I'll do the dishes tonight, yeah?”

It's our running joke. I push myself up, dust off the sand, take his skewer off him, pace to the water’s edge, rinse my hands and both sticks, then return.

“Sarah?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“Can't we just, like, pretend?”

The forlorn puppy look is adorable. “Like, pretend… we're a couple?”

“No! Well… yeah. A bit.”

The sunset glow deepens.

“I don't think so.”

“Oh. Okay. What about watching?”

Gotta give him credit for trying. I raise my eyebrows. Stare until he elaborates.

“Like, I watch you playing, and maybe… maybe you watch me?”

I purse my lips. Blow out and stride up the beach to our sleeping area, calling out, “We’ll see.”

The homemade toothpaste isn't the tastiest, fashioned from mint Bob harvested from the north side of the island, but it works. At least I have a brush that survived the saltwater bath, unlike my phone. I rinse and spit using the previously boiled water then peel off my T-shirt and bra. Bob is across the yard behind me and I admit there's a flutter in my belly at the knowledge he’s watching me. Desiring me.

I take my time popping the buttons on my denim shorts. Then bend to guide them to the floor, giving him a show of my panty-clad bum. The CMO didn't have any issues with my health or fitness and I kept good gym regimen on base.

Standing, I reach for the sky in the classic Tai Chi opening. Stretch and return. I grab my nightdress—really just an oversize Snoopy tee—and pull it over my head, shaking out the onyx locks in its wake. “Goodnight, Bob,” I call over my shoulder.

His reply is slightly delayed. “Night, Sarah.”

I settle onto the mattress of ferns and drag a taro plant leaf over me. They're not colloquially called elephant’s ear for nothing. It takes some getting used to sleeping outdoors with all the unfamiliar critter chirps around me, but so far I've managed it with a little help from my fingers. And tonight is no exception, besides being less quiet than usual. 

A thrill zips through me as I stroke my way down to the thick, dark thatch between my legs, and tease myself with fluttering touches. Knowing full well that Bob is listening has me unexpectedly wet in no time.

As my fingertips wander, I let out a low moan that carries across the clearing. Pretty sure there's rustling from Bob's quarters too, and I imagine his hand wrapped around his girth, stroking the firming length. It's weird: I don't fancy him or his mammoth tool, but the idea of masturbating together like this, both of us aware of the other person, is intensely arousing.

It brings back memories of when Clare and I used to sit on one of our dorm beds facing one another, propped against pillows, legs splayed and soles touching. We turned masturbation into a game of who would fall first, urging each other on with whispered promises, trying to tease the opponent into losing control. I usually lost, my toes curling against hers as I tipped my head back and moaned softly, dripping to the sheets under her watchful gaze.

The gusset of my panties becomes sticky and I pause to roll them down. Resume playing. I explore the wet folds, pinching and stroking tufts, dipping fingers inside for lubrication, then retrieving them to circle my needy clit. Bob is definitely touching himself too. Rhythmic shuffling, laced with the occasional huffed exhalation, drifts above the tropical backdrop.

I pick up speed, widening the circles to lengthen the inevitable. Dig a pair of digits into my slippery heat and grind my palm, before plucking them free and scissoring them either side of my nub. Capturing the little jewel between her lips and rocking her face was one of Clare's favourite acts. It drove me wild and I simulate it by squeezing my fingers together and tilting my hand from side to side.

It's close. But not Clare.

My mouth drops open and I gasp, spreading my knees for greater access, one foot peeping from beneath the leaf duvet into the cooler atmosphere. Wetness clicks and I'm past caring about keeping quiet. Soft moans rise from my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut, head rocking against the makeshift pillow of clothes stuffed inside a knotted T-shirt.

Thoughts tumble and I tease myself closer to orgasm, occasionally backing off to heighten the sensations. I'm so lost in my pleasure I don't register that Bob’s actions have ceased. My foot brushing his thigh startles me.

“Jesus, Bob, what the…”

“Don't stop. Please.”

I track down from his face beneath the moonlight and draw breath as it glints off his fist encasing that mammoth rod. I don't exactly have much comparison, having only been with two guys, so he may well be average. But he's certainly bigger than both of them. The prominent veins add to the raw masculinity.

He wanks his shaft, the moon reflecting droplets of pre-cum that he smears with his thumb. His breath hitches and I sense he's about to blow.

“Wait.”

He emits a pained squawk and pinches the tip, watching me as I slither my leaf aside. His gasp is worth it, moonlight glinting off the dappled wetness that clings to my springy bush, either side of the fingers slipping around my sensitive pearl.

“God you're beautiful, Sarah.”

I smile. “Wouldn't go that far. But thanks.” I rub my pussy fully, unashamedly. Drive two fingers inside and gasp, retrieving them to draw tighter circles around my clit. “And don't get any ideas that just because you're packing,” I wave my free hand, “Mjölnir there, you'll be able to bang me straight.”

He nods, though he'd have probably agreed to open an Amish tech store if it meant he could cum soon.

Watching his pleasure mount as he slides his meat back and forth inside his fist has a direct effect on my wetness. I moan and writhe, biting my lip and edging my own excitement that drips and squishes between my insistent fingering. My free hand snakes to clutch a breast beneath my top. Then I switch to the other, and arch.

His sharp inhalation takes me by surprise, almost as much as the hot spunk that splatters my belly and fires onto my already matted bush. My need is so far gone, I don't even stop, massaging his thick cream with my own juices as I stiffen and cry out into the twilight.

“Oh fu..ohhh god yes.”

My pussy spasms and I let myself ride the waves like those that lap the shoreline a short distance away, as Bob’s orgasm continues to pepper my skin in diminishing blasts. There's so much of it, I suspect he hasn't cum in a while.

We share the moment, breath slowing, bodies alert, basking in the glow of release, before he awkwardly shuffles back to his side of the clearing and I slither the leaf back in place to luxuriate in his cum bath and shut my eyes, drifting towards blissful sleep.

Morning is a little tense after I wash in the sea, but he broaches the topic over some grilled mushrooms we foraged. “Thank you for last night. I've missed the… human connection since crashing here.”

I wave his concerns away. “No no, it's good. Enjoyed it. Just don't get any funny ideas about putting that beast where it's not welcome.”

He salutes with a grin. “Yes, captain. Can we, umm, y’know...”

I laugh and shake my head. “Incorrigible. But yeah, I don't see wh… wait. You crash landed here too?” He nods. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

Under my breath, I mumble a reprimand. Never assume… “Where?” he points up the hill. I follow his fingertip. “Take me.”

“No point. It's broken.”

“How broken?”

“Busted up.”

“Does the radio work?”

“No decent stations.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then no.”

I start off in the direction he indicated. He follows.

At the crash site, a good few mile hike, he's not wrong. It's a wreck but not as bad as I feared. As I survey the engines and fuselage I start to flutter. “This might be fixable. There's a toolkit on board and maybe with parts from the other plane, we could Frankenstein our way off this rock. The beach is long enough for a runway.”

“How will we get it down there?”

“It's downhill. We'll figure it out.”

So with renewed energy, that becomes our focus. By day, I strip the engine, salvage and dry parts from the offshore wreckage, and cobble together something that resembles a plane, while Bob mainly sources food. We even construct makeshift glasses for him from ground down bits of windscreen and twisted wire.

By night, well, things escalate. At the next mutual masturbation session, I strip completely and he jerks off over my tits that I squeeze and offer up to him. A few days later during a repeat playtime, some stray spots land on my neck and chin, which I scoop up with a fingertip and lick clean. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the taste of creamy spunk.

During an uncharacteristic storm the day after, we try openly masturbating at the water's edge. Even though there's nobody else around, the thrill of stripping completely, padding naked to the shoreline and sitting next to him as the warm, torrential rain lashes our bodies is incredible. I cry out and cum hard; almost as violently as the next day when we both sit naked in the shallows with our soles pressed together and observe one another.

It's fascinating to watch how his expression and body responds to the varying touches and how he hardens when his hungry gaze roves my imperfections as if they didn't exist. I especially love how his cock thickens when I slide my fingers inside myself, eyes glazing over and mouth falling open. We drive each other higher, toes curling against toes as our climaxes crest and spill into the ocean.

A week or so later, he hikes up to help me lash some supports onto the fuselage. It's typically humid and, as we work, my top becomes soaked with the effort.

When we break, I strip off the T-shirt and chuck it at him. He catches it and stares at my tits. Maybe at my underarm hair; razors are in short supply and neither of us have figured how to make a decent one yet. He lifts the garment to his face and nuzzles it, breathing deeply, sighing at my raw scent. The act is somehow primal, alluring and befits our remote setting: two very different souls thrown together through circumstance, lost and seeking a connection despite their conflicting outlooks on sex.

Toying with the waistband of my equally damp panties, I catch his eye and ease them down. He stares at my messy bush and I ball up and chuck the garment his way for him to lift and nuzzle. His loincloth shifts, cock rising, crown peeping.

It's so arousing. Him. Me. The remoteness. I bite my lip. “How about you, uhh, show me how good a lesbian you are?”

He's on me in an instant, pinning me to the dented fuselage, his big hands swamping my modest chest as he squeezes and pinches and leans in to bite my firming nipples. I groan and clutch the back of his head. From there, he kisses down my toned, slick abdomen to kneel at my feet, lifting each thigh onto a broad shoulder and caressing the inner surfaces with desperate kisses.

I slam my palms against the aeroplane for support and claw at the metal as he buries his face in my equally slick snatch, his beard tickling. I've no idea where he learned to eat pussy, but I'm rendered immobile when his tongue explores my soaked folds and electrified clit. I drip onto his face.

His nose, his lips, his teeth seem to know exactly where I need them next, and I cross my calves behind his head, clamping him to me as he feasts.

My orgasm is swift and all-encompassing, a second close behind it when he tenderly peppers my bush with kisses and gradually ramps the intensity until I shake again and smoosh juices into his beard. I'm not quiet, but then, there's no need, probably the only woman for a few hundred square miles.

Plucking his face free, he gazes up and asks if I want another. I laugh and wriggle off his shoulders to shakily stand, finger combing my hair into some sort of shape. “Maybe later.”

We stand there, panting in the clearing formed by the crash and I grin, body awash with happy hormones.

“Jesus, Bob. Thank you. It'll almost be a shame when we fix this bird and you fly us out of here.”

He blinks. “Oh, I can't fly a plane. That was the other guy and he died on impact. I assumed you could.”