The sunsets on this island don’t just fade—they transform, spreading their colors slow and deliberate across the sky. Magenta melting into lavender, lavender bleeding into gold, all of it mirrored in the steady glass of the sea.
During the day, that sea is blue. Not just blue—endlessly blue, stretching unbroken from horizon to horizon, so vast and untouched it feels more like a painting than something real. And for all the time you’ve spent marooned on this forgotten patch of earth, it’s never been disrupted. Not a single ship. Not even the silhouette of a distant vessel. No buzzing of propellers, no engines, no lights on the horizon. Just that infinite blue, hiding whatever lay beyond its curve.
It’s hard to say how long it’s been since the plane crash. Here the sun never strays from its path, and on the equator the days bleed into each other without seasons to break them. Could be a year. Could be two. The calendar doesn’t mean much when you’re living off coconuts and catching fish with sharpened sticks.
Still, survival’s been easier than it should’ve been. The island provides. Freshwater flows from the hills in a winding stream that threads through the green interior. You followed it once and found something close to paradise: a shallow natural pool nestled in the roots of the mangroves, fed by a soft-falling waterfall. It’s not large—only waist-deep in the center—but it’s clear and still, surrounded by smooth stone and vines that droop low enough to brush your shoulders. The canopy lets the light in like a stained-glass window, turning everything golden near dusk.
Now, standing there again, hands on your hips, toes curled in the cool sand beneath the water, eyes resting for a moment on the sunset, you almost forget the world outside ever existed. This place has a way of settling into you. You know the rhythm of the birdsong, the pulse of the breeze, the smell of salt and hibiscus thick in the air...
“No—God—DON’T STOP!!”
…The pleasure of pussy sliding wild and soaked, grinding up and down your cock with the manic desperation of something starved.
She’s bent before you like a drawn bow—arms stretched, hands braced on a slick, algae-dark rock in the shallows—hips tilted high, thighs trembling, back a lithe arch that curves into something obscene. You stare down, frozen, as she writhes below you—panicked, grinding, chasing that vanishing friction you denied her with a single breathless pause. Her blonde hair’s floating like a halo in the water, golden strands drifting while the rest of her moves with a singular, unrelenting rhythm—using her grip on the rock to piston back and forth your cock like she’s trying to stuff you deeper than you even exist.
She reaches—blind, feral—her hand whipping back to slap your thigh with a meaty pop that sends a jolt up your leg. She doesn’t even look. Doesn’t need to. “Keep going,” she begs, voice cracked and soaked with salt and want. “Fuck me—please—please—”
Your awe isn’t in the filth alone—it’s in her history, her arc, her ruin. You remember the plane, the stale pressurized air, the mechanical hum, and then her. Slipping into the seat beside you with her knees pressed tight, arms hugging a frayed little backpack to her chest like armor. Her face was so fresh—doe-eyed and bare, cheeks flushed, mouth small and uncertain, like every expression was her first.
She hadn't looked at you—couldn't look at you. Just nodded once when you said hello, cheeks going pink. You gave your name first, and after a pause, she said hers—Elizabeth—soft enough that the engine noise nearly swallowed it. Eighteen then, if that. Perhaps only for your forty-five-year-old conscious. Soft-voiced. Skittish. So obviously innocent it ached to look at her too long.
And now?
Now her reflection shivers across the pool—body still soft in that barely-ripe way, like she hasn't been hardened by time or touch. Her tits, high and tight, jiggle like they're confused, like they were still built for jump rope and locker room mirrors, not to be doing this, not to be bouncing savagely without rhythm, without shame, like virgin flesh learning its first language—and it’s fucking.
It’s the beauty of her wreckage, the desperation in every thrust, that pulls your hand up before you even realize it and—CRACK—brings it down across her ass so hard your fingers go numb. She shrieks at the impact, her voice cracked and raw—not in protest, never in protest—but in something that sounds like deliverance:
“Fuck! Yes! Again! Oh God—again!”
“Tell me what you want,” you demand, voice low, hand hovering just behind her again, warm and ready.
She jerks back harder against you, desperate, barely breathing. “You! I want your cock—don’t stop—!!”
You reach down and gather her hair—floating strands twisted into a thick, wet rope—and you hold it, not tight, not yet. Just enough to remind her who owns the moment. Her neck arches back, eyes blind with pleasure, mouth open and panting.
“Say it again,” you growl against her ear.
“I want your cock,” she moans, throat tight, voice unraveling. “I fucking want it so bad—please—please—keep going!”
You yank.
Hard.
Her scream cracks the air as you tear her upright by her hair, spine bending to your grip, her body dragged into a trembling bow, her fingertips still clinging to the edge of the rock, barely, knuckles white, balance teetering. Her legs spread wider as she adjusts, still grinding, still tight around you, still needing.
“You like getting fucked?”
“YES!!” she screams, full-body shaking, voice nothing but raw-nerve affirmation.
The purity of her honesty hits you like blood to the teeth. No filter, no mask—just want, shrieking raw from the throat of something young and hungry and past the point of care. You pull your hips back, feel her walls tighten in resistance, then pound them forward in a single savage thrust.
Too savage.
Her hands slip. Her balance breaks.
With a yelp—half terror, half confusion—her fingers skitter off the rock and she lurches forward, stumbling through the pool, water spraying in arcs around her flailing limbs. She shrieks but gravity's already got her, legs kicking wildly to stay upright as her torso pitches downward toward the water.
Only your grip—fist twisted tight in her soaked blonde hair—keeps her face from slamming into the shallows. She’s still left stumbling, flailing, legs kicking up water as she careens ahead, half falling with each staggering step. But you don’t stop. You don’t even steady her. You move with her, cock still buried deep, matching her wild stagger stride for stride, still driving into her with every chaotic jolt. Each wet slap rings out through the jungle as her body reels, barely upright, yet still yours. Still owned. Still used. She gasps and shrieks, limbs fighting for balance—but you never break rhythm, letting her flail through the shallows with your cock inside her like even collapse wouldn’t interrupt your claim.
Finally, you plant your feet in the sand and seize her hips like handles, holding her firm—right there—the way you need her, the way she’s begged you to be had. Her upper body collapses downward limp with no resistance, dragged forward by momentum and locked in that fall. Her spine folds into a trembling curve, her arms flail low and useless, and her head hangs upside down, hair plastered to the surface, trembling with every brutal impact.
Because you’re snarling through your teeth and thrusting harder, deeper, chasing the feral heat building at the base of your spine. Each thrust sends another violent tremor through her—a sharp quake that makes her twitch like something broken, jerking forward on your cock only to be yanked back by your hands like a toy caught in tension. The upper half dangles like a ragdoll, helpless to stop it, bobbing and shaking beside her own legs, her soaked hair flinging beads of water, her face rocking violently at her knees, mouth open and gasping above the water as your cock slams into her again and again.
“Fuhhh—uhhh—nnnghhh—uhh—uhh—uhhhhhh!!” she howls, mouth inches above the water, eyes wide and unseeing as your cock drills her forward and up with every ruthless slam, her cunt squeezing like it’s fighting you and begging at once.
She's coming apart—completely and without defense—no words now, just shrieking, moaning, babbling that suddenly snaps into a heavy silence so absolute it’s like the world goes mute. It’s just your bodies now. Just the wet, meaty clap clap clap of hips to ass, your rhythm steady as ruin.
Then it starts. The tremble.
First in her knees. Then her thighs quake, and suddenly it spreads, the wave of it ripping up her spine and out her mouth in a single, piercing shriek of orgasm so violent her legs give.
She drops.
Her knees buckle, her body collapses all at once, and her face is the first to slam into the water with a sharp splash, head vanishing beneath the surface. She's there at your feet collapsed in a heap, shoulders limp, spine bowed, arms slack and drifting. Her hair fans out like a dark bloom, her head submerged, unmoving, lost beneath the rippling surface while her hips still twitch above the water—each spasm raw and uncoordinated, jerking as if jolted by live wire, twitching and trembling like something still being electrocuted.
You reach down, find her by the hair, and wrench her face from the water.
Her head breaks the surface with a gasp that never comes, her hair clinging to her cheeks in heavy, sopping ropes, water coursing down her jaw, her neck, rolling between her breasts in thin streams. You hold her there—that once virgin face suspended, slack with submission and shock.
Breath stutters from her nose.
And you keep her right there like the fucking trophy she is—head lolling, doe-eyes barely open, small mouth parted and wet, brain still short-circuited. She’s not blinking. Not moving. Just hanging there while you jerk yourself off inches from that wrecked face, her skin already glistening with water and sweat.
You stroke faster, harder—tight grip, rough rhythm, hips twitching with every grunt as the pressure coils tight, unbearable, savage. Toes digging into the sand, spine arched, your hand racing, milking every last drop from the heat boiling slowly up your length.
Then it erupts.
“Fffuckkk—” you growl through clenched teeth as the first shot lands—hot and thick, slapping across her cheekbone. Another ropes across her nose, the bridge, half an eye. The next blasts her lips, hangs there like spit before sliding down her chin. You keep pumping, watching her face disappear beneath streaks and strands, painting her throat, her collarbone, the tops of her tits in thick, obscene drips. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up, barely seeing, drenched in it.
Baptized in it.
You pant, chest heaving, the water around your ankles barely noticed. Your hand lets go of her hair. You step back.
There she is. Elizabeth.
That shy young woman from the plane.
Covered. Dripping.
My God, what a sex fiend you turned out to be.
And to think—it was only last week that she finally gave in, trembling in the dark, whispering that she couldn’t fight it anymore. You suppose a year stripped from society, from order, from rules, will do that to a girl. Standards rot in isolation. Modesty turns to myth. And what’s left? Just biology—raw, desperate, unshackled. The need to fuck bubbling up like swamp heat under her skin, pushed higher by hormones that scream this is the time in your life to be stuffed, to ache for cock like it’s written into your bones.
And the only outlet?
You.
The only cock within a thousand square miles. The only release shaped like survival.
So when the sudden splashing erupts behind you, you don’t turn—you brace.
The footsteps, frantic and shallow, slice the water like thrown stones—and before you can even look, a blur of tangled brunette hair and a second young body comes crashing in from your right. She’s naked already, all legs and wet shine, boobs bouncing in kinetic confusion, too frenzied to stop herself as her bare feet slip from beneath her.
Down she goes with a splash, legs kicked up, hair flying.
But she’s fast—desire makes her ravenous—and she’s already scrambling back up to her knees, water streaming off her skin in rivulets, brown hair plastered to her face as she shakes it off and scans for her prize.
And there it is.
Your cock in the mouth of Elizabeth, her lips wrapped slow and tender around the tip, tongue circling lazily, cleaning the last dribbles like she’s savoring a final bite of something sweet. She moans faintly, lost to the taste.
Smack.
The brunette’s palm hits your thigh, sharp and indignant.
“I told you to tell me before you came!” Jessica yells, eyes narrowed with fury and need.
Elizabeth giggles, a soft wet hum with your cock still resting heavy on her tongue—but it dies the moment those jealous hands seize her. Jessica grabs the back of her head with both palms, fingers sinking into the wet blonde mess of hair, and yanks her off you with a wet pop.
Then she lunges in.
Jessica’s mouth wraps around your tip before it can cool, lips tight, tongue urgent—searching for any last drop to claim. You twitch hard from the contact, oversensitive, cock softening against her tongue as she sucks, slurps, tries to salvage something. Anything. You wince as she works you too long, too rough, until finally—with a frustrated grunt—she pulls off.
Still seething, she turns on Elizabeth.
One fist still in her hair, Jessica yanks the girl’s head back, neck exposed, face lifted, shining. She stares into Elizabeth’s wide, dazed eyes—then spits, hard and messy, straight into her open mouth. “You selfish slut,” she hisses, voice thick with venom and arousal alike—and then she’s diving in, tongue-first, crashing into those parted lips to taste what lingers inside. Their mouths mash together, wet and furious, the brunette devouring what remains of you in Elizabeth’s mouth, then dragging her tongue up and over the blonde’s cheek, cleaning trails with animal hunger.
Behind you, laughter rings like a chime struck off stone.
“Is Elizabeth being greedy cum whore again?” The voice dances across the pool, low and mocking. Sophie—red-haired, sun-kissed, with that ever-scheming glint in her eyes. She’s waist-deep beneath the waterfall, dark auburn hair slicked against her shoulders, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lip.
But the smirk dies.
Because draped over her back is Jasmine, her chin resting on Sophie’s shoulder, breath feathering across flushed skin. The dark princess is motionless except for her hands—one groping Sophie’s breast, the other buried between her thighs, fingers moving in tight, relentless circles. Sophie’s eyes flutter, jaw slackening, every ounce of amusement washing from her face as pleasure coils sharp in her belly and floods upward.
And a foot from them, under the pounding silver veil of falling water, stands Alexis, the fifth and final member of the girls' under-19 gymnastics team who had joined him on that fateful flight. Raven-haired, sculpted, serene. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t react. She simply lifts her arms, lathers her scalp, and tilts her head back beneath the cascade, water sluicing down her bare form like any other evening.
And so, the six sole survivors of your plane crash were gathered in one spot, half-submerged in the warmth of that jungle spring, bound not just by circumstance but by something far more primal—your shared evening ritual of bathing and casual, tangled fucking.
Six humans. Six bodies. Six insistent, irreducible forces of nature. No gods to watch you, no cities to bind you, no stigma to hold back the tides of hunger, lust, and savagery. Just you and them, clinging to the only thing left that made you still feel human.
And by God, if you had lost everything when you washed up on that island—your life, your world, your name—you were not going to lose your humanity.
Jessica smacks your thigh again—louder, harder—leaving a print that fades slow. “The moment that cock even starts to get hard, It’s mine first. No teasing. No waiting. Then whatever it is that’s left—whatever hasn’t been drained—it’s mine. Mine. Deep and leaking.” Her pussy gleams in the dying light, thighs parted, tongue tracing her lower lip like she’s starving. Around you, the others begin to slowly approach—dripping, flushed, silent—waiting too for that first twitch like worshippers before an altar.
And then it came—a pulse, a lift, blood crawling back into heat.
And you remained human—each thrust a vow, each spill a prayer, every choke and shudder a promise written in sweat and cum, a reminder that life doesn’t end when the world dies—it spreads its legs and begs like a whore.
The End
