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Subject: {Bombadil}JDR"Amazonia 1a"( MF+ Mf+ FF fant )[1/4]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
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well.
=====================
Story #5
by Tom Bombadil
(c) Apr 1997
Disclaimer: All the standard rules apply. If you are offended
by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is
illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are
under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you
might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this
text from your computer.
This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions
described by me coming straight out of my imagination. As a work of
fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or
actions described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in
my life, or known to me in the lives of any of my friends or
relatives.
You've been warned.
I give permission for anyone to archive or share this story.
********************************************************************
=====================
Amazonia
by Tom Bombadil
via stbush@iglou.com
Section 1a
********** Late afternoon, one day in October
Tom cursed the storm, cursed the plane, cursed the lunatic who'd
gotten him stuck in this situation, and cursed his ex-wife for
getting him into this line of work in the first place.
Sudden jolts and twists from the winds outside nearly made him
lose his lunch, but he held it inside. He had better things to do
than get sick. Like survive. Running along the edge of the main
cloud deck, trying to avoid the worst of the turbulence, he looked
for somewhere to land, somewhere to ditch. Anywhere. He was
running out of time, out of fuel, and out of luck.
********** Early that morning
Sixteen hours ago, some short while before dawn, he'd just started
securing his small twin prop against the coming storm, one of many
to ravage the small group of islands he serviced. It was, by then,
an almost automatic procedure, requiring little thought. A radio in
the background was giving out details on the typhoon's size, wind
velocity, track, and surge height. That's when a madman showed up
with a big, heavy tote bag.
Like in a script from a 'B' movie, the man pulled out a rather
large pistol and waved it around under Tom's nose for a few
seconds.
"You can fly, no?" Bad English, a terrible accent, and a furtive,
glance-over-the-shoulder type attitude would have had Tom rolling
around with laughter - that is, if one very large-looking handgun
hadn't been occupying most of his attention.
"Ah, <gulp> well, that is, uh ..." A simple yes or no didn't seem
appropriate to him, at the time. No probably would have made him
disposable. Yes would have made him ... something. He didn't
know. In the state his mind was in, that made perfect sense.
"Get in plane. You fly me someplace NOW! Si?" That last word was
punctuated by the man touching the barrel of his pistol to the
bridge of Tom's nose. From that perspective, the pistol looked more
like a small cannon. The terrified man nodded his head - very
slowly, and very carefully.
"Good. We go now. Fast! GO!"
Tall, suave, and debonair he might be, but despite his movie star
looks, Tom was no brave hero. He was an ex commercial pilot who
happened to have been roped into opening his own tiny air service,
on a group of tiny tropical islands, by his then wife. Now
ex-wife. The man with the pistol, looking just as corny as he
sounded, with his dirty fatigues, Hispanic features, and oversized
moustache, followed directly behind the pilot as he prepared his
plane for takeoff.
A few minutes later Tom slipped into the pilot's seat, his
kidnapper taking the passenger seat behind and across from him.
That gun was still there.
"We go now. Get plane moving. We take off, fly north."
Tom started the plane and went through his pre-flight ritual,
possibly working a little faster and less thoroughly than usual
because of the urging of his passenger.
"No call anyone!" The hijacker's screech was in response to Tom
picking up the radio's mike.
"I have to call for permission to take off and for a time slot on
the runway. We can't just toodle over there and whoosh! up into the
sky! It's just too dangerous!"
Apparently the man with the gun disagreed. "You go now, we take off
now, or I keel you and I fly plane!" That won him the argument.
Tom started praying.
There was a lot of cursing and yelling coming over the radio as he
taxied onto the runway and took off upwind. A lot. Tom also
noticed the flashing lights of the local constabulary vehicle beside
the oversized hut that served as passenger area, customs, taxi
stand, and control tower.
"Fly north" was the only instruction immediately forthcoming from
the man in charge. They flew across the island and towards the
the oncoming hurricane.
********** Late afternoon again
Tom spotted a tiny swatch of non-ocean at about the same time the
needle of his plane's fuel gauge touched 'E'. Shock, relief, and a
sudden rush of adrenaline flowed through his tired body at the
sight. He knew it would be a battle to get there, fighting across
the face of the storm, but it was his only hope.
Another prayer, far from the first that day and definitely not the
last, escaped unnoticed. He had one eye on his target and the
other on the fuel gauge, watching the needle for his reserve tank.
His main tank was long since empty.
Trying to stay as high as possible, just in case, he aimed for a
spot many miles upwind of the island. His wind gauge showed the
outside air moving at about 160 knots. The only bit of modern gear
he had, the satellite positioning thing he'd won off a sailor in a
craps game, told him he was travelling at forty knots. He didn't
even try to do the math. The answer was obvious.
Abandoning his attempt to stay high, he started a long, slow, fuel-
saving descent. Another mumble, half prayer and half curse, lost
itself in all the rest of the noise in the cabin. There was a
chance to survive - he believed - if the plane stayed in one piece,
if the wind didn't get worse, if the fuel held out, and if he
didn't crack. Focusing his attention back on that tiny bump of
green, he flew on.
********** Back to the morning
"Carlos." That was what the man called himself. Carlos. Tom
almost burst out laughing. The situation seemed so unreal to him.
He'd seen every bad action movie ever made, and he'd rate the plot
and character development on this one a solid 'B-'. Not even worth
watching twice, since the story line was so linear and the
characters so one-dimensional.
Carlos pulled a map from the bag which, Tom noticed, was
otherwise filled with cash. He began to feel trapped inside some
mad director's nightmare.
Spreading the map out in front of Tom, Carlos pointed at a small
island, circled in red. It was well away from any normal air or
water traffic, and was supposed to be uninhabited.
"We go there. I have many friends there."
"Totally predictable," Tom thought to himself. He set his course,
checked his instruments, and prayed they beat the storm.
********** Late afternoon, once more
Tom looked carefully, fighting the rays of the setting sun. "Yes",
he thought to himself, "it's getting closer!" That tiny bit of land
did appear to be getting bigger. A small piece of his mind noticed
that the island had three big mountains, two large lakes or lagoons,
and was surrounded by a lot of reef, if the circle of white foam he
saw was any indication.
With more skill than he thought he had, or possibly more luck than
he thought he deserved, he kept the plane flying. The typhoon was
getting worse, the turbulence was getting worse, the light was
getting worse, and his stomach was getting worse. A beach came
into view, wide and silvery white. That beach was the only
flattish bit he'd seen that didn't have trees growing on it, so
that's where he aimed the plane.
It was then that both engines, one right after the other, coughed
and died.
He swore some more.
********** Earlier that afternoon
The island Carlos wanted eventually showed up. The moustachioed
man smiled, finally happy about something. He still looked nervous
to Tom, and that gun still looked very large when he waved it
around.
"You fly over island, I jump out. I take parachute! Ha ha ha!"
Tom had some 'chutes in the back. They'd been left there by a
skydiving club that sometimes hired him, and he'd been waiting
for one of the women to pick them up. That was another reason he'd
been with the plane. According to what he'd heard, the 'chutes had
been packed by rookies, just for practice. None of the members
took the chance of using those specific ones, with good reason.
Not that he was going to say anything to Carlos.
A short while later they were flying directly over the island at
about 6000 feet. That's when Carlos decided to jump. His last
words were not pleasant ones.
"You no land here. You do, I keel you. If I no keel you, my
friends, they keel you. They no like snoopy pilots! Ha ha ha!"
With that parting comment, he jumped.
Tom circled the plane around once, just to check. He saw that the
'chute had actually opened. That's when he finally cracked a big
smile and started chuckling to himself. "The bastard deserves
exactly what he's gonna get. The fuckin' idiot."
It didn't take much math for him to figure out where Carlos would
land. They were directly above the island, a mile up. The island
was only a mile across. The actual outside air speed he calculated
at about 85 knots at his altitude - reasonable, he thought, with the
storm bearing down on them. He estimated the guy would splash down
about half a mile out to sea, down wind and down current. It made
him feel a little better, in a sick sort of way.
Tom thought through his options. Returning to home base was out of
the question - not enough fuel. Landing on the island under him,
where he thought his life expectancy would probably be measured in
hours, was ruled out. Ditching in the ocean was out of the
question. He had a sea survival suit, but it was army surplus,
and he trusted it about as far as he could throw his plane. Besides
which, nobody knew where he'd gone, so nobody knew where to look,
and with the storm, it would be at least twenty four hours before
anyone else could even get airborne. He thought his best bet would
be to try and race the typhoon to another island somewhere.
Studying the chart, he saw there was one, perhaps three hour's
flight away to the northwest. It was by far the closest, and it was
marked with an airstrip. He thought it well within range of his
remaining fuel. Turning the plane, he flew off in that direction.
The island he was headed for was about an hour's flying time too far
away. The storm came in too fast, and Tom ended up running in front
of it, just trying to keep the bucket of bolts he was riding in from
being torn apart. He didn't have much hope left because, according
to the charts, he was in open water with no land for at least three
thousand miles in the only direction the storm was letting him
travel in. That's why the sight of the tiny island had come as such
a welcome shock.
********** Early evening
There was nothing much he could do. Fighting the stick, he muscled
the plane into a shallow dive, pulling up and coasting into a stall
just above the waves. A quick flash of whitecaps went by before he
splashed down, creating another tiny surge of hope. He'd cleared
the reef. After that, everything was a blur of water and waves and
sky as he struggled to stay afloat and alive.
********** The next day, and so on
The sound of giggling, along with something prodding him in the
ribs, woke him up. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on
him, and he felt terrible. After a few seconds of hazy thought he
remembered why he should feel terrible. Tom decided to be happy he
was feeling at all. It took a good pinch <self-administered> before
he admitted to himself that he was both alive and not dreaming.
There was another prodding on his ribs. That slight movement sent
out small tendrils of pain and sickness which proceeded to explode
in his head and gut.
A few minutes later, after losing his last dozen or so meals (by
his estimate, anyway), he looked around. The prodders were
children. He shook his head to try and clear his vision, and that,
he realized almost immediately, was a mistake. It was another
moment or two before the pain behind his eyes died down enough for
him to look around again.
They were still there. Maybe two dozen or so young girls, all
vaguely the same size, and looking like they were all about the
same age. He thought perhaps nine or ten years old. None much
older, none much younger, and all quite naked.
A couple of the girls broke away from the group and began running
down the beach, leaving the rest pointing and giggling and gabbing
away in some sort of native gibberish he didn't recognize. At first
glance he thought they were all Polynesians of some sort, since they
were all dark skinned, but then he took a closer look.
The girls were all darkly tanned, though some were definitely
naturally darker than others. The majority had black hair and dark
brown eyes. He saw, though, that some had brown hair, a couple were
blonde, and one was a redhead. Looking closer, he noticed the same
variety of eye colours, with a few pairs of hazel eyes and a few
pairs of blue eyes mixed in with the brown, and all of them were
focused on him. One girl even had hair blonder and eyes bluer than
his own.
"Thank god", he thought to himself. "White folk. Civilization."
He knew of a number of islands where the natives were very
unfriendly to visitors. With some obviously Caucasian children
running around, despite their dress code, he believed that civilized
people had to be near. Life was slowly returning to his body, so
he decided to crawl up off the beach and into the shade of some
nearby trees. He made it, but his strength gave out just as he
leaned back against the trunk of a palm. The last thing he saw
before he passed out again was another group of young girls running
up the beach in his direction.
**********
The next time he woke up it was dark. He was on some sort of
mat or low bed with several palm-frond blankets keeping him warm.
His clothes had disappeared, and he wasn't alone. After a few
seconds just taking note of what he could in the dark, he knew
that his bed partner was a woman. Even he couldn't mistake the
warmth and softness of the breasts on his arm. A chill, the
tightness of his skin, and the vague pain in his chest, told him he
had a fever. His slight stirrings woke his companion.
She whispered at him in that unfamiliar tongue, and when he didn't
respond, she got up. Tom lay there wondering what had happened to
him until she returned with a container of some sort. She made him
drink down all of the sweet, refreshing contents, and then forced
him back down. After a few minutes, since he was unable to do much
but blink his eyes, he fell back to sleep.
**********
More girlish giggling and laughing woke him. It was daytime, but
the sun wasn't shining in his eyes. The insides of a hut was what
he saw immediately. A single room hut made from bamboo and palm
leaves. One door. Two windows. Both windows were filled with the
heads of young girls peering in at him. When he sat up, they all
shrieked and ran. He wondered if they were the same girls he'd
seen on the beach. They looked to be about the same age, from what
little he'd been able to see of them through the windows.
A few minutes later, the door opened and a young woman walked in.
She looked like a native, with the classic strong face, dark hair
and eyes, and solid body. Tom could see little fat on her frame,
and admired her decidedly nice figure, legs, and breasts. Her only
clothing was a grass skirt, and as she moved, he could see she wore
nothing underneath. Her face, he realized rather belatedly, was
also quite nice.
The woman brought him another container of that sweet tasting drink
he remembered having before. "Or was it twice?" he thought aloud.
Despite his long sleep, he still felt sluggish and rather cottony.
The world seemed just a bit too sharp, a bit too bright, to be
real. He wondered if he really was caught up in an old movie plot.
After finishing the drink, he was pushed flat by the woman. He sat
back up. She pushed him down again. He sat back up again. She
spoke sharply and quickly at him, and pushed him down once more, but
left her hand hovering just above his chest. She stared hard at
him, almost daring him to try and get up again.
"Just like nurses everywhere," he chuckled to himself, as he
drifted off to sleep.
**********
It was very early morning when he woke up again. He knew the time
only because a few faint red rays of sunlight could be seen outside
the windows, and it wasn't hot enough to be evening. His fever had
broken, he knew, and he believed himself to be on the road to
recovery. He was hungry, he was thirsty, and he had to relieve
himself. That last item was probably the most urgent just then.
When he sat up, the woman lying beside him, the same one he'd seen
before, also woke up. Tom tried to make his needs known while
looking around for his clothes.
The only thing of his that he saw were his were his pants, and they
were hanging on a peg on the far side of the hut. The woman got
up, seemingly unconcerned with her nudity, fastened a grass skirt
around her middle, and beckoned him to the door. Despite his
gesturing and his exclamations of embarrassment, she simply stood
there and waited.
Feeling weak, run down, and rather silly, he went over and pulled on
his jeans. They were a little tattered, a little worn, and still
had salt crusted on them, but they were his, and they provided some
much needed psychological comfort. He certainly didn't need them
to keep warm.
Before he ended up embarrassing himself, she showed him the communal
latrine. Afterwards, he looked around to see what he could of his
surroundings. They were standing at the edge of a grass hut
village, containing maybe fifteen or twenty small shacks about the
same size as the one he'd woken up in, along with two or three
larger structures. The only other person he saw in that faint
morning light was another woman, one considerably older than his
nurse. Aside from some birds, himself, and the two ladies, the
place appeared deserted.
The first woman walked him back to the hut he'd woken in and made
him strip and get back into bed - or rather, back onto the mat and
under the palm blankets. She busied herself for a few minutes,
ignoring him, before bringing over some sliced fruits and more of
the sweet liquid he'd been getting.
After he finished, despite the fact that he didn't think he was
tired, he fell back to sleep.
**********
=====================
Amazonia
by Tom Bombadil
Section 1a
-30-
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