Who needs a man?

One of the good things about being alone on a dessert island is that you can be as loud as you you like when you pleasure yourself. Over the past years you've become better at pushing the right buttons to get the release you need, but usually it is with a t-shirt clenched between your teeth to keep from screaming out loud. Shipboard etiquette would normally protect your privacy but you've become used to being the only female on the Ducky and made it a point not to add to the rumors about you and Jake. No need to suppress you orgasmic cries here, the squawking wildlife won't care if you join the cacophony and the closest man is almost a mile away.

Remembering how the broad-shouldered Englishman looks at you sends a familiar wave of pleasure from your clit straight to the tips of your erect nipples. From the edge of the cascading waterfall you let the water drum on your tits as the pace of your fingers starts to increase. Even though you know John is nowhere near this secluded little bit of Paradise, you wonder what he would do if he saw you like this. You picture him peering through the branches with his hand jerking away on his thick cock ... the young man watching you ... fantasizing about fucking you ... but knowing that he has to wait ... has to - aaiiigh! Oh Fuck! Ooohhhh fuck ... that feels good.

One more quick swim to wash away any juices from your legs and you climb carefully back into your underwear, torn dress and sandals. Feeling better than any time since the night when you were woken by the sickening sound of the Ducky's keel grinding against the coral reef and saw Kyle urging you towards the ship's boat as the schooner lurched to its side. You had shaken off the navigator's grip around your upper arm and scrambled up the ladder to find Jake.

Making your way down the fast flowing stream back to the coastline you try to remember everything you could from the stormy night. The Captain had been slumped against the wheel, and John was on the foredeck struggling with the foremast rigging. He looked a little like an ancient storm-god battling the elements. As you reached your spasming husband an unexpected wave swept both you and Jake off the slanted deck of the missing stern. Not much is clear in your mind after that until you were washed up on the surf, still stubbornly clinging to Jake's collar even though you knew in your heart that there was no point.

As you process the painful memories again and again trying to make sense of the confusion of the night you see the jungle canopy open up before you and hear the sounds of seagulls fighting over something on the sandy beach. There must have been forty of the squawking birds fighting over the dark lump on the beach and you knew instantly that this was one of the two shady gentlemen that had been under your care.

It was Mr. Fats (not his real name, but what you called him in your private thoughts), well roughly half of the pudgy man because both his legs and part of his arm had been torn off undoubtedly by sharks. With a sigh, you decide that as close as you are to the other graves, you may as well bury the man next to the others. It took forty minutes to braid together the palms into shoulder straps and two cords. You haven't done this in over a dozen years and are pleasantly surprised at how easily the old skill comes back. Two flat planks, almost certainly from the Ducky too made the skids for a sled and an hour after finding the bloody corpse you are moving once again along the smooth sand almost instantly regretting your decision not to leave Mr. Fats to the birds.