When I awoke the next morning I was alone. I rose up from my bed amidst the ruins of the villa and peered around cautiously. There was no sign of her. Carefully I tip-toed out from the ruins and conducted a quick scan of the surroundings. The little olive grove was quite deserted other than the small creatures with which I shared the island. These seemed busy at this early hour. There was a little dark grey bird singing from the scrub at the edge of the olive grove. It had a musical voice I found quite soothing. I was to become familiar with that little bird and the mate he found to build his nest with over the coming weeks. He became a friend of mine and I would wake each morning to his singing. An ornithologist friend of mine told me, from my description, that it was probably a Sardinian Warbler, a common species throughout the Mediterranean.
There were butterflies on the wing as well as other insects and, hunting them presumably, was a gecko clinging to the side of a half collapsed wall of the villa. These geckos by the way had an eerie, mournful mewing cry you often heard at night, which frightened me until I discovered that the source of the cry was just a harmless little lizard. There were other lizards too; tiny little, quicksilver wall lizards that skittered around in the rubble of the villa and the dry stone walls that surrounded the olive grove. Much later I was able to put a name to these wall lizards but I shall withhold that identification here. Apparently different species of wall lizards have very marked distribution patterns within the Aegean Islands and an expert herpetologist (which is someone who studies amphibians and reptiles) would be able to locate my island within a geographical range on the basis of my identification of those lizards.
One life form was conspicuously absent however. Of my saviour and tormentor of the day before there was not a sign to be seen. With great caution I began to explore the rest of the island looking for her. After scouring all over for her for the next hour I finally came to the conclusion that she was nowhere on the island. I was completely alone.
I climbed to the top of the rocky knoll, which was the highest point on the island, to take stock of my situation. As I did so I came upon a remarkable bird perched on the side of a small cliff. It was a beautiful slender falcon, dark grey on the mantle and wings but a lovely russet red chest and belly and a strikingly marked face of white with a black mask. It really was a most handsome creature and, as it took to the air in alarm at my approach, it was incredibly sleek in flight with long pointed wings. A pair of these falcons nested on that cliff and once again my ornithologist friend was able to identify them from my description. They have a fittingly beautiful name to go by since they are named after Eleanor of Arborea, a 14th century warrior regent and a legendary heroine of Sardinia. Apparently Eleanora’s Falcons breed on Mediterranean islands in the spring to take advantage of the vast hordes of swallows and swifts that migrate through the region at that time of year since they are one of the few birds of prey fast and agile enough to catch these birds in flight. I’m told that around two thirds of the world’s entire population of these falcons breed around the Greek islands. There are possibly only about six and a half thousand of them left in the world. Let us hope that they hold out long in these last refuges.
I perched on a rock at the top of the knoll and considered my situation glumly. Now that I had the leisure to look at it properly, the view from the knoll offered few grounds for optimism. The Aegean Sea is pretty crowded with islands but I seemed to have fetched up on one of the more remote ones. Apart from some islets, just promontories of bare rock really, close by, the only other discernible land visible was a tiny sliver right out on the horizon. It was so distant in fact that it was invisible from down at sea level and you could only see it from the elevated location atop the knoll. It might as well have been on Mars for all the chance I had of reaching it and there were not the slightest grounds for assuming it was inhabited in any case.
Doubtless had I been the heroine in an 18th century castaway romance I would have already been planning to build a boat from bits of driftwood and olive trees. But I was a hippy girl from Iowa not Robinson Crusoe and I wouldn’t have had a clue how to start. What would I have even used as tools? The only tool I had seen so far had been on the belt of that person now conspicuous by her absence.
By this time I was beginning to be in two minds about the disappearance of my companion of the day before. On the one side I was sort of relieved that she’d apparently had her wicked way with me and then upped and gone ,which made her not a lot different from a bunch of guys I’d known. She had, after all, abused me pretty badly and I was still scared to Hell of her. I could even still smell her scent on me and I shuddered at the thought of her rapacious sexual appetite. On the other hand however, even on short acquaintance, it was obvious that she was a sight more capable of surviving on this island than I was. She might have saved me from the sea but if she’d now just abandoned me then the prognosis for my survival for any length of time looked fairly gloomy.
This was an inescapable conclusion brought sharply into focus by the hollow rumbling in my belly. I was hungry... damn hungry and I had not the faintest idea as to how I was going to feed myself. All I’d eaten the day before were a few oysters which didn’t exactly amount to a healthy balanced diet. There was, as far as I could see, damn all in the way of food on this island. Doubtless there were shellfish and crabs around the rocks and in the pools but I’d no idea which sorts were edible even if I figured out a way of opening them or, in the case of crabs, making them palatable. I could hardly live on a diet of wall lizards either. For one thing they were too small and in any case the thought of raw lizard wasn’t too appetising even if I could manage to catch them. I didn’t know if any of the bushes had berries on them that could be eaten and the olive trees were of no use. Olives don’t bear fruit until the fall and it was springtime now. I was going to get hungrier yet.
Unable to either escape or survive on my own my attention focussed on the possibilities of rescue and this was the one area in which I thought I ought to be doing something active. The clear blue sea around me was devoid of any sign of human activity for the moment but surely, in a sea so heavily used by shipping as the Aegean, some boat had to happen along sooner or later. Also, by now, my disappearance should have been reported hopefully and there would be people looking for me. I had this rosy image of air sea rescue boats and helicopters scouring the sea for me.
Fat chance! I discovered much later that the discovery and subsequent investigation of my disappearance had reached levels of bungling incompetence that were farcical even by the spectacularly high standards set by Greek officialdom. It turns out that nobody had even noticed my disappearance from the ship and never would have until some steward or other discovered my belongings and passport after the ship had docked and most of the passengers had disembarked at its destination. He handed my things into the purser who seemed to regard the affair as more a case of lost property than anything else, as if I’d just gone up and left the ship, abandoning all my possessions and passport in a fit of absent-mindedness! The purser had dutifully handed in my possessions to the port authorities which in this case consisted of some fat and somnolent man in a run-down quayside office who promptly sat on them for the next three days waiting for somebody to claim them! In the meantime the ship’s captain, in an uncharacteristic concern for his timetable, had turned the ship around and sailed away. After nobody came to claim my possessions it slowly occurred to the dockside official that he ought to raise himself from his customary stupor and hand them in to the local police.
Police f***es in the Aegean islands are not noted for their penetrating intuition and investigatory zeal. The duty sergeant at the police station followed the same erroneous deduction that I’d inexplicably left the ship without my possessions and conducted a few days of desultory inquiries among the local population to determine if anybody had come upon this American girl anywhere. Well it wasn’t the biggest island in the Aegean and it seems incredible in hindsight that it took the police nearly four days to finally conclude that I was nowhere on the place. Only then, given that I had clearly boarded the ship at its starting point and equally as clearly not disembarked at its destination, did it occur to anyone that I must have vanished somewhere en route. But when and where?
Faced at last with a serious missing person inquiry, the police now rounded up all the passengers that had disembarked from the ship and interrogated them with a view to determining when exactly I had last been seen. Well if you wanted to amass a dossier of confusing and conflicting reports then you’d do worse than call upon a collection of excitable, eager to please Greeks to provide it. By the time this baffling body of testimony had been examined it was clear that nobody had the faintest idea when or where I’d vanished from the ship.
Compounding the problem was the fact that the very course of the ship was somewhat vague. Some of the shipping in the Aegean was wont to follow what might be charitably described as haphazard routing. There was nothing for it but to run the ship in question down somewhere on the far side of the Aegean and interview the crew. This naturally took more time and even then was not conclusive. Even the ship’s captain could not retrace his course with any certainty. Somebody later suggested that the captain might in fact have been somewhat reluctant to furnish exact details about his course. Smuggling was rife in the Aegean and many ship’s masters were not above availing themselves of this welcome supplement to their income.
By this time of course it was vanishingly unlikely that I could be still alive at all and when a search mission was finally mounted it was done in a rather half-hearted sort of way and in completely the wrong place before the authorities sadly called it off and forwarded my possessions, via the American embassy, to my parents regrettably informing them that I was missing, presumed drowned. Mom and Pa, bless them, refused to believe it and flew straight out to Greece where they spent weeks thumping on desks demanding that the authorities conduct a proper and though search for their missing daughter. Spurred on by my indignant parents and the goading of the American embassy the search was resumed but again in the wrong area and with predictably futile results. My Pa even hired a motor launch and spent some time searching the islands himself. In the end though even my parents bowed to the inevitable and returned home to Iowa to grieve and conduct a ceremony of remembrance in our church.
Not many people ever get to read their own obituary but I did. I also got the gist of the parson’s sermon at my remembrance ceremony. at our branch of the Episcopalian Church of Iowa, from my s****r. He described me as a lost soul of Christ wandering the world in search of meaning. He prayed that in the end I had found what I was looking for and was now come to grace and sat at the side of my Lord in heaven. He might have felt less confident about the well-being of my immortal soul had he known that I was alive and well and currently being fucked up to a dozen times a day by a sexually besotted siren!
But all this knowledge lay in the future and, as I sat on the knoll, gloomily contemplating my options, the thought that there was an active hunt out for me sustained my morale. All I had to do it seemed was to find some way of indicating my presence on the island. Now in every castaway story I had ever read the hero always lights a fire to alert passing ships of his whereabouts. The recommended strategy was to put green wood or vegetation onto the fire to raise a good column of visible smoke. So light a fire... simple huh?
Great! How? I’d done enough camping around at festivals and so on to know that you can start a fire by rubbing two sticks together as long as one of them happens to be a match! Other than that I hadn’t a clue about how to achieve combustion. I guess I wasn’t cut out for this survivalist stuff. So I had to think of something else.
I noticed the contrails of a jet airliner high overhead and that got me thinking in another direction. The other thing that stranded castaways always did was spell out a message in rocks on the beach of their desert island. Well surely I could manage that. With renewed purpose I set off for the little beach I had first landed on the island on. I spent the next hour or so collecting rocks and laying them out in a pattern I fondly imagined would spell out the word HELP from the air. I had nearly finished this labour when it suddenly occurred to me, for some reason, that a Greek pilot might not be able to understand the English word “help”. Thus I spent an extra half an hour or so rearranging the rocks to spell out the international call sign SOS instead.
When I stood back to observe the result I had to admit that it wasn’t very convincing. The beach was so tiny and space so limited that a helicopter pilot would just about have to be hovering about a hundred feet overhead to make head or tail out of my message. I climbed back up the knoll to observe it from the vantage point of elevation and it looked like a fairly random collection of rocks to be frank. It was hardly an unmistakeable distress signal.
One thing I did do on that beach was recover my sari that her ladyship had torn off me and so negligently tossed aside the previous day before making her intentions upon my exposed body so abundantly clear. Although it was good to have some sort of covering again, my dismal attempts at a distress signal made me realise that I was going to have to sacrifice it once more. The next thing that occurred to me, you see, was to raise some sort of flag. Well the only piece of material that would suit that purpose on the entire island was my sari. Having said that, my sari would be eminently suitable. It was a light but highly colourful square of fabric that should be easily visible.
With renewed purpose I set out to find a flagpole. Here the plan came unstuck. Scour that island as I might, the longest piece of wood I could find was an old, twisted tree branch washed up on the shoreline about six feet long. Perhaps some of the branches on the olive trees might have been longer had someone thoughtfully provided an axe or, better still, a chainsaw for obtaining them. Still I had to use what I had. I lugged that branch up on to the top of the knoll and, resigning myself to nudity once more, tied the corners of my sari onto the branch before jamming the end into a crevice in the rocks and raising my flag. It was hardly the most dramatic flag raising since the marines on Iwo Jima and, when I stood back to take a look, the results were sadly disappointing. A helpful feature of putting up a flag is a breeze for it to fly in. There wasn’t a breath of wind and my sari hung limply to the ground like a piece of garbage caught on a twig. You could just about discern that it was a human artifice if you squinted at it carefully from no more than about ten feet away.
I scratched my head despondently. Being a castaway on a deserted island was proving to be more difficult than I had thought. Then it occurred to me that if I could find another piece of wood of a similar length I could stretch my sari between them and at least increase its visibility. It wasn’t a brilliantly innovative idea but it was the best I could do and, in any case, better than doing nothing at all. Wearily I started back down toward the beach. I was just wending my way through the scrub close to the beach when I saw her emerge from the sea and begin to wade ashore.
Hastily I cowered down and hid behind a bush regarding her fearfully. She shook her head and spat a gush of water from her mouth. I saw the flaps on her shoulder blades flex and a stream of water expelled from beneath them. I think she did this to rid her throat and gills of water before opening the respiratory tract to her lungs. She took a deep breath and strode purposefully ashore. She had been busy it seemed and her morning’s toil looked somewhat more fruitful than mine had been. In one hand she carried a short harpoon with a wicked looking barbed point to it. It had evidently been used to some effect for in the same hand she carried four largish fish on length of cord passed through their gills. In her other hand she had one of the sacks she fashioned from old fishing nets. In it were two sizeable lobsters still alive. She’d been out shopping it seemed. Breakfast had arrived.
She seemed to notice the sign I’d laid out on the beach. She looked at it for a few seconds as I held my breath and then gave a little snort, which was the closest she came to a shrug, and walked on ignoring it. She probably thought I’d just been amusing myself playing with stones. She never seemed to attach any significance to it and never removed it. It’s probably still there to this day. She paused again and sniffed the air before letting out a loud ululating cry. Instinctively I knew that that cry was directed at me. In fact, from then on, that was the cry she invariably used to summon me when I was any distance away or when she was newly returned to the island. I never quite decided whether it was simply a call of command or whether it was her name for me or maybe a little of both. Whatever it was I quickly learned to recognise it and nearly as quickly learned to obey the summons.
I obeyed it now. I’d learned yesterday that there was no place to run or hide from her on this tiny island and any attempt to do so would be futile. In any case there were other imperatives demanding my obedience. I was starving and the burdens in her hand were food! Nervously then I stepped out from behind the bushes and out onto the beach to stand in front of her, shuffling my feet for all the world like a naughty schoolgirl summonsed before the head teacher for some misdemeanour.
She gave a little purr of satisfaction but then stared more closely at me and voiced what I can only describe as a short growl of exasperation. I suppose I didn’t look a pretty sight. My morning’s labours had left me dirty and dishevelled. She dropped her burdens on a flat rock and stalked up to me. She sniffed at me carefully and suspiciously. I suppose she may have thought that somebody might have been around taking advantage of her absence to violate her property while she was out at the shops! Seemingly satisfied that I had nobody’s scent on me but her own, she then picked me up and, turning on her heel, strode down to the water’s edge. I do mean she picked me up as well. She just grabbed me without warning, tucked me under one arm and walked straight into the sea with me squirming and protesting loudly in her grip. “Hey! What are you doing? Put me down damn you!”
She ignored my feeble remonstrance and waded up to her waist upon which she unceremoniously dumped me into the sea. I came spluttering to the surface still protesting and she grabbed a hold of me and began to wash me! I swear I’m not making this up. She held me in one hand and scrubbed me with her free hand, removing all the dirt I’d accumulated during my morning’s travails. If this indignity alone was not enough, after she’d cleaned my body to her satisfaction she then dunked my head under the water three or four times, wringing out my hair and wiping the dirt from my face. Once she was satisfied that I was fit to be seen in her company she carried me back to the shore and planted me firmly on a flat ledge of rock, growled at me and made a flat downward motion with her the palm of her hand. I got the gist. “Stay where you are!” She’d put me out to dry!
I sat on the rock watching her sullenly as she squatted down on another rock and attended to her own grooming. She had a sort of comb that looked as if it was fashioned out of a fish bone or something and she used it to tease out the tangles in her long silver hair. Once she had completed this task she walked over to me and subjected my hair to the same treatment. My hair hadn’t seen a brush in three days and it was a tangled mess but she persevered at it although none too gently at times as she worked the knots out of it. My temper was not improved by this tugging at my locks and I cussed her in no uncertain terms although I knew she couldn’t understand a word. Finally she had my hair into some semblance of order and she stroked it, purring to herself contentedly.
She might have been contented but I certainly wasn’t. The assaults on my dignity had left me in a deeply rebellious mood and I was sulking pretty badly by then. To my horror she then decided that my appearance required just one last little touch to make it perfect. She gave that low little growling sound in the back of her throat that was becoming all too familiar and her penis quivered into life, growing enormously erect even as I watched. It was the last straw. I backed away shaking my head firmly. “No way! Out of the fucking question!” I told her decisively.
I might as well have been quoting Shakespeare or reeling off the chemical formula for formaldehyde for all the good it did. She gave me a commanding growl that I was coming to recognise as the command to assume a position for her to pleasure herself on me. I clamped my legs shut rigidly and glared at her. “I said no! Go away! Leave me alone!” Seeing that I was being uncooperative she grabbed hold of me. I then did something damn foolish. I was so resentful by this time I flung my hand out and slapped her face.
I knew immediately that it was a very bad idea. Her eyes were like poisonous green daggers as she stared at me and she drew back her lips from her terrifying teeth and hissed at me. I cowered back, deeply alarmed and well aware that I was really in trouble now. She pushed me aside and jumped up to walk back down the beach to the water’s edge. For a second I thought she was just walking away in disgust but she stopped by the water and rummaged about in the flotsam along what you’d call the tide line had the Aegean had any tides worth talking about. As I watched her fearfully she picked something up, hefted it in her hands and turned back to walk towards me purposefully. When I saw what she was carrying in her hand I jumped to my feet in alarm. It was a short piece of old planking washed up on the beach, maybe a foot long, four inches wide and perhaps a half an inch thick. I didn’t know what she intended to do with it but I was pretty certain it wasn’t something I was going to enjoy. I turned and bolted.
I don’t suppose I got twenty feet before she caught me, grabbing me by my hair and dragging me back to the rock ledge. I was squealing in pain and fear and pleading piteously. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me! I’m sorry.” My pathetic entreaties were like the seed that fell on barren ground. She planted herself on the rock ledge and hauled me over her knee face down. I squirmed furiously but she took a firm grip, lifted that plank above my wriggling backside and proceeded to spank me. I think I’ve mentioned her uncanny strength before. Well writhing about over her knee and squealing my head off as that plank fell time and time again across my burning buttocks I could testify feelingly to that strength. With a firm hand she did a thorough job on my stinging backside and the backs of my thighs. I struggled mightily but to no avail in her grip. This was a woman, after all, that I know for a fact could catch moray eels in her bare hands! A little wriggling hippy girl wasn’t going to slow her down for an instance. Had I had any thoughts other than the blazing agony in my rear portions, I might have reflected that my previous attempts to advertise my presence on the island to passing shipping were put to shame because, had there been any ship within five miles, they must have surely heard my howling as she paddled my rump for me! Finally she pushed me off her knee and I dropped to the sand clutching my backside and blubbering pathetically. She growled at me and treated me to a diatribe in her baffling tongue whilst waving that plank under my nose. I didn’t understand the words but the meaning was clear enough. “Behave yourself or expect more of the same!”
She dropped to her knees on the sand in front of me and grunted at me meaningfully as she grasped her erection in her hand. Wisely this time I didn’t argue but turned resignedly on my knees, parted my legs and presented myself for her. She grasped my hips and impaled me, pounding me like a piston, her hips slapping away painfully at my smarting rear. I gritted my teeth, snivelled feebly and endured it. It was one of the occasions when she didn’t allow herself to come inside me but withdrew at the moment of her ejaculation and spurted that enormous flood of semen all over me. She then meticulously smeared it all over the parts of my body she had missed, to mark me thoroughly with her scent, and, just to prove a point it seemed to me, she f***ed my mouth open and made me lick her fingers clean.
Finally she sniffed at me critically and, satisfied, released me and I hunched up on the sand in abject humiliation and glowered at her. “Well I hope I smell nice enough for you now!” I told her bitterly. My sarcasm was wasted. She just sat back on her haunches purring softly and looking mighty pleased with herself. Finally she rose with a little wheeze that might have been a sigh as if she was thinking, “Well that’s enough fun and games for the moment. Back to work!” She walked over and recovered the efforts of her morning’s fishing and came back to me holding out her hand.
“Now what?” I demanded fractiously. She growled at me and so I hastily put my hand out. “Alright! Alright! I’m coming damn you!” She gripped me by the wrist and I allowed myself to be led away sulkily but obediently. She took me back to the olive grove and sat me down on the ruins of the stone wall. She disappeared for a couple of minutes before reappearing carrying an old rusted tin box she must have had concealed somewhere. She had caches of these treasures of hers hidden all over the island I discovered later. From this she pulled a wicked looking curved knife. With this knife she started to clean the fish she’d caught.
Even in my seditious mood I started to take an interest in proceedings. I was very hungry and it seemed as if at least there might be something to eat in the offing. The fish looked quite substantial and my stomach was beginning to nibble at the back of my throat. I think the fish were some kind of sea bream. I’m no ichthyologist but a marine biologist, I described them to later, said he thought they were most probably Common Dentex or possibly the closely related Pink Dentex. I do know that they must have been common in the sea around the island for they often figured on our menu. The lobsters in the bag were, I think, Spiny Lobsters; a common species in the Mediterranean and fished for commercially.
My hopes of lunch took a severe blow however. As she cleaned the fish she removed the innards and popped them into her mouth and chewed them in evident satisfaction. This bit was pretty disgusting actually. She even lopped the heads off the fish and crunched them between her teeth with something approaching relish. I stared at her in horror. Surely she didn’t expect me to do the same! She did however filet the fish and lay the filets out along a stone. I was still horrified however. I couldn’t possibly eat raw fish! I knew that some cultures ate raw fish but small town Iowa wasn’t one of them. This was in ’72 remember, before sushi bars sprang up all over the place.
She didn’t make any attempt to offer me the fish however. Instead she started to gather stones and arranged them in a circle. Within this circle she piled some dried grass and twigs and overlaid them with pieces of scrub wood, dead branches and old driftwood (I noticed bitterly incidentally that the plank of wood she’d spanked me with was conspicuously absent from the materials. Presumably she had other purposes for that!) In astonishment I realised she was building a fire. Remembering my earlier confusion regarding the mysteries of attaining combustion I leaned forward to watch carefully how she was going to light it. By this time I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d pulled a Zippo out of her box of tricks! She didn’t do that but what she did do was almost as astonishing. She extracted a tiny little magnifying lens and with this focussed the beams of the sun into a bright spot on the dried grass. The spot glowed red hot and began to smoulder. She bent forward to blow on it gently and, in no time at all, she had a fire burning. It took her literally seconds! I was outclassed in the backwoods frontier man category.
She skewered the filets on lengths of green wood and grilled them carefully in the flames. I could smell the fish cooking and my stomach jumped in renewed hope. My earlier resentment was forgotten and soon as was crouching by the fire beside her, eagerly watching the fish brown in the flames. She purred deeply and reached a hand out to pet me affectionately. Then blowing on the filets to cool them she began to feed me the fish with her fingers. I don’t know exactly what those fish were but I can tell you they were absolutely delicious. They weren’t seasoned bar the flavour of the wood smoke and they were perhaps a little charred on the outsides in places but I was so hungry they tasted like ambrosia. The flesh was firm and white and just heavenly. I wasn’t much of a fish eater. I wasn’t much of any kind of flesh eater in fact despite my origins in a red meat county in Iowa. During my hippy wanderings I’d been a brown rice and noodles kind of girl. That fell by the wayside. My mistress and provider was essentially a predator. Vegetarianism wasn’t an option. I wolfed that fish down. I didn’t let her feed me completely. I greedily plucked off pieces myself as well to eat. She seemed to think it was very clever of me... like a puppy learning a new trick!
After she’d fed me I drank water from the pool and laid back against the old stone wall in the sunshine, feeling replete and content for the first time since my arrival on the island while she meticulously cleared away all the detritus of my meal. I was feeling kind of sl**py but even so I retained enough sense to realise that what I had just witnessed was incredible. It was easy to think of this woman who walked (and swam!) the length of her days completely naked was somehow primitive and backwards. Yet she had just displayed a level of sophistication and know-how that was quite simply breathtaking. It wasn’t just her easy familiarity with fire although that in itself was remarkable enough.
I was already, you see, slowly coming to the conclusion that this woman was not human. No, that’s not right. She was human right enough... she was just a different species of human! She was not Homo sapiens. Call her for the sake of argument Homo aquaticus although I’m sure any taxonomist would howl in derision at that choice of Latin name. She was a hominid, closely related to us if you like but no more than, say, the extinct species of Home erectus or Home neanderthalensis that we know from the fossil record. She was a completely separate species of human being from me; a semi aquatic or amphibious human evolved for a life in and around the ocean edges. I’ll discuss this later in this story but suffice it to say for the moment that, if this was true then it raised a number of very interesting questions.
Take her use of fire. Why would a species that lived a semi-aquatic life in warm oceans ever need to develop the technology of fire? She didn’t need it to cook her prey for instance. She didn’t eat any of that cooked fish. She gave it all to me. For her part she was quite happy to consume her fish raw. A species evolved for life in the sea didn’t need fire for warmth or protection either.
Yet she not only was familiar with fire but also used a very sophisticated, advanced technology to produce it. Using a lens to produce fire was a hell of a lot more technologically advanced than rubbing two boy scouts together. Even primitive Homo sapiens never picked that trick up. Perhaps significantly the earliest records we have of the use of burning lenses come from the writings of Ancient Greece. Aristophanes for instance mentions it in his play “The Clouds”. The Olympic torches of ancient Greece were supposed to be ignited directly by the Gods, unsullied by human hands and so were lit with burning lenses. So did this woman or her kind pick up the idea from contact with Homo sapiens? It was hard to believe that she could make her own glass or grind lenses.
Yet the most incredible thing of all was not that she could make fire in such a sophisticated way or even that she could use it to cook food that she didn’t need to cook. The astonishing thing was that she knew that I had to have my food cooked! That bespoke of a level of intelligence and understanding that was frankly amazing. How could she have known so much about my kind to know that certain foods I could not eat without their first being treated with fire? It shows a level of knowledge far beyond what anybody might know of her kind. Perhaps though she didn’t.
I have one theory which might or might not hold water. I found out later that there were indeed foods which she would cook and eat. Certain tough meats for instance she would roast before devouring which proved to my satisfaction that she occasionally preyed on the land as well as in the sea. It still beggars the question of why she should feed cooked fish to me. My theory is that perhaps the very young of her species needed their food tenderised in such a way before they could eat it in much the same way as very young c***dren of our species need to have their food specially prepared to make it possible to eat. In defence of this theory it has to be noted that she seemed to treat me like a small c***d, washing me, feeding me by hand and so forth.
This may sound crazy. Surely you would think that she must have realised that I was an adult. Yet much of her behaviour towards me was that of parent towards a c***d. Is that how she really saw me? Perhaps the closest parallel is the relationship between a person and a dog. We don’t treat our pet dogs as equal partners after all do we? We treat them in much the same way we’d treat a precocious c***d. Petting them when they’re good, smacking them when they do something we disapprove of and generally not trusting them to do anything without our supervision. a****l psychologists have long noted that, as a result, dogs retain juvenile behavioural traits throughout their lives and never attain the mature characteristics that wolves, for example will come to in the wild. I think she treated me as a pet; or at least as a pet sometimes, a plaything at others, a c***d occasionally and never as an equal.
One of the few people I have ever trusted with this story had another theory that related to this. He suggested that she was herself juvenile by the standards of her species; perhaps an unmated individual that was literally using me as practice; a sort of surrogate for the c***dren she had never had in the same way that young girls of our species play with dolls or play at being mothers. He also raised the uncomfortable question that it might have been pathological behaviour; the desperate yearnings of an unmated person who, as a result of the dramatic decline of her own species, had little chance of mating, and therefore no offspring, who had captured a human being and used them as a substitute for c***dren she could never have; an irrational last attempt at survival of a dying species. That is a thought that has haunted me for years.
There is much in this theory but I still always felt that it didn’t answer all the questions. It is true that it is impossible to judge the behaviour of an entire species on the actions of a single individual. She might have indeed been insane. But somehow I don’t think so. She exhibited too many examples of rational and complex behaviour that demonstrated high intelligence, creative thinking and purposeful logic. She was frighteningly capable in so many ways. If anything I was the one who felt inadequate and incapable beside her. She may not have had the benefit of a Cambridge Doctorate to her name but I have the feeling that she was far more brilliant than me. Perhaps in hindsight I was just a little lost c***d compared with her. I think also we should be wary of attributing behaviour and morality to an entirely different species for which such things are meaningless. God knows we have a hard enough time understanding the motives and thought processes of different cultures within our own species let alone those of a completely different, intelligent creature.
The one thing that may seem baffling is her continual use of me as a sexual plaything. It would seem to contradict the theory that she viewed me as a c***d. After all the sexual abuse of c***dren is not morally acceptable behaviour for Homo sapiens but then again I may be attempting to impose the morality of my species upon her. Then again I think she did indeed view me in adult terms when she used me for her pleasure. I think in fact that she may have even thought that she had the moral right to do so. Certainly her other actions to me were, within the context of the situation, extremely moral by any standards. She did after all save my life. Further than that, throughout that summer, she went to extraordinary lengths to keep me well and protected. I think there was more than just her desire to keep her toy girl healthy for her own base purposes in that. I believe she had a genuine compassion and affection for me which she showed in a myriad of ways and not least in the manner of our parting. She might have considered that the sexual pleasure she derived from me was but due payment for what I owed her. She may have been right. Because of her I have lived a good and fulfilled life. I think sacrificing a paltry six months of that life to be the sex toy of a fascinating and mysterious creature was a small price to pay for that gift... don’t you?
I think that may come close to the truth. She saved my life. I think that by her own moral standards that meant that she owned me. I was her possession. I might have been her dearest possession and one for whom she had the greatest affection but her possession nevertheless. I was her pet and I think she loved me. That didn’t make us equals. I have a Red Setter called Rufus. I love him to bits but I still won’t let him sit on the sofa.
In many ways the events of that day shaped our relationship to come. I certainly learned to do more as I was told although I did still transgress on occasion. Minor misdemeanours would earn me a slap, more serious offences a spanking. That plank of wood became an essential item among our domestic appliances you might say, along with a length of insulated electric cable for when she was really pissed with me. She soon licked me into shape. Within days she had me following her around like a meek little puppy dog and if I ever wandered away she only had to call and I’d come running. I wish Rufus was as well behaved!
Oddly I settled into this relationship quite quickly. For one thing I had no choice. I was completely dependent on her for my survival after all. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on my own on that island and, as the days passed by, the chances of my being rescued faded away to vanishing point. There were no coast guard rescue boats and helicopters swarming about after all. I think in the first fortnight I spent on the island I saw one sad little smoky steamer passing on the horizon. My mistress happened to be out at sea fishing at the time and I remember jumping up and down and waving my hands frantically on top of the knoll. God knows what I thought I was going to achieve. In the infinitesimally small chance that there was somebody on the bridge of that decrepit old rust bucket who was taking their duties seriously enough to be scanning the horizon with binoculars and sighting me, God only knows what they would have thought at the sight of me hopping up and down like a demented idiot. “Damn tourists get everywhere! Why don’t they put some clothes on? Have they no shame?” The steamer vanished over the horizon without the vaguest hint that anybody might have noticed me. By the way I never resorted to putting a message in a bottle. I did occasionally find bottles washed up on the shoreline but I was a bit short on writing materials!
So yes I needed her. She was keeping me alive. Having said that, I must say, that she took her responsibility for me very seriously. They call this a Chinese Obligation. In China apparently if you saved somebody’s life then you had taken responsibility for that person away from the Gods. Therefore they were your problem now and you had to take care of them. She did this, considering the means at her disposal, very well indeed.
The sea around our island teemed with marine life and she was truly expert at harvesting it. Fish featured heavily in our diet as you would expect. Those sea bream became one of our staples but by no means the only fish we ate. There was a sort of flatfish with very widely spaced eyes that we sometimes dined on and one day she returned from her morning’s fishing carrying a substantial turbot which was delicious. One bounty that we often exploited were the shoals of pilchards and mackerel that often visited the vicinity. These would frequently betray their presence by the flocks of birds wheeling overhead feeding on them or the bait fish they were chasing. I got very good at spotting these and if she was busy doing other things I would spend my time scouring the sea around the island for flocks of birds. If I saw one I would rush to tell her. By this time she was more indulgent of me and I was able to take liberties with her such as take her arm to and gesture excitedly to convey the message that there was something I wanted her to see. She’d follow me and if she thought the school of fish looked promising she would drop what she was doing and race into the sea to catch them.
She had an interesting way of catching these more pelagic species and it might be useful to describe some of the fishing techniques she employed. For many of the rock fishes around the shores her preferred method was spear fishing or even catching fish in her bare hands. She was by no means limited to this method however. To my astonishment she was equally at home with baited hooks on lines. She had a lot of nylon monofilament line stashed on fashioned spools around the island. I think she mostly pirated this line from the long lines used by fishermen in the Aegean. She must have been a scourge of Greek fishermen because she also used to steal their lobster pots as well and use them herself when she was too busy to go dig out lobsters from their lairs. The lines however she used in a number of ways.
One lazy way was to arm them with hooks baited with shellfish and lay out lines from the shore. This was one of the few fishing techniques I was actually able to help her with. I’d stand on the shore letting out the line as she swam out and placed the lines carefully along the bottom in places she knew that fish would frequent. She weighted these lines with old iron bolts or other pieces of scrap metal she salvaged from the old wrecked fishing boat. Once in place the lines caught us a surprising amount of fish; flatfish, bream, drums, gurnards, dogfish, small wrasse, mullet and jacks. We even occasionally caught small morays which was a bonus because moray eels are very tasty. The real prize however was when we managed to catch a grouper for these were the best tasting fish of all in my opinion. The deep water among the rocks at the north end of the island had a lot of grouper in it but it could be a real tussle trying to extract a good sized grouper from his hole on a hook.
Checking the baited lines was a task that eventually devolved on me and it was a task I loved. For one thing it made me actually feel useful other than as a means of my mistress’s sexual gratification and furthermore it demonstrated the growing trust that she had in me in that she permitted me to perform this function. Mostly however I just loved the thrill of it. You never knew what you were going to catch and it was the thrill of the hunt that excited me. The bane of my life were the small fish and crabs that would rob the hooks and there were times when the line became tangled in the rocks and I’d have to solicit my mistress’s assistance to swim out and free it for me. Other times some predator would get to the fish before I’d pulled the line in and you’d find the disembodied head of your catch hanging sadly on the hook. Some of these may have been sharks although we saw them rarely around the island. It wasn’t the whole story however for one day I was pulling in a small bream and close to the rocks from where I was standing a darn great Barracuda exploded from nowhere and snatched my catch straight off the line. It scared the hell out of me! Some fish I needed her help with too. I was scared to death of moray eels for example and one day, after much tugging and sweating, I managed to haul a good sized ray to the side. I thought it was a stingray and wouldn’t go near it. It wasn’t. It was just an ordinary Thornback Ray and she seemed quite amused by my cries for help when she came to deal with it for me. That night we feasted on ray wings.
The one fish that really gave me a scare though was when I came to pull the line in and there was something so strong on the end that it nearly pulled me clean off the rocks into the water. I sat on my backside and dug my heels against the rocks holding on for dear life, with the line cutting into my hands, and screamed for help. She came running in visible agitation and took over my burden. That fish was so strong even she had trouble pulling him in and we had the devil of a job getting it up onto the rocks. It was a rare catch so close inshore for it was a big Amberjack; so big that we couldn’t eat all of it and we used the leftovers to bait our hooks with for the next two days.
For mackerel, pilchards and other surface to mid water pelagic species however she used a different method. She’d swim out to where the shoal was with a length of line on a spool with six or more hooks baited with gull feathers and with a small weight on it. She’d literally swim into the middle of the shoal and drop this line down and jig the feathers up and down. It was deadly. The fish used to commit suicide on those feathered hooks and sometimes she’d return to shore after just a few minutes with a dozen or more fish threaded onto a length of cord hung around her shoulders. To cook them she’d prized an old piece of metal grating from the wrecked fishing boat and we propped this up on rocks over the fire to act as a griddle. They were delicious. This technique brought us bigger game too for one day she struggled ashore under the weight of a pair of big bonito she’d managed to snare.
We didn’t just eat fish however. There were also shellfish and most of these I got to like especially the mussels she harvested from the rocks and the clams and oysters she fetched ashore. We ate crabs too and I developed a taste for lobster that I still have to this day. She caught squid as well and although I would eat it I was never that fond of it. She occasionally speared an octopus too and it was another item on our diet I had mixed feelings about. She caught prawns and crayfish which I had no problems with but I didn’t much care for the sea weed she sometimes brought in. She boiled this in an old tin can she had and insisted on me eating it. She seemed to think it was good for me and she’d threaten me with the paddle if I didn’t eat it all up obediently. I’d sit there chewing away sullenly for all the world like a little girl who’s been told she can’t have any dessert unless she eats all her broccoli!
Sea food was by no means my only source of sustenance. Occasionally we dined on birds. Seagulls I was never very fond of but just once in a while she managed to catch a duck and that was a rare treat. We’d roast it over the fire and even she would eat the cooked meat. I think she would have taken more variety of a****ls had they been available. I know she hunted turtles and seals for instance because she had artefacts made from their shells and skins respectively. I’m also convinced that she was perfectly capable of hunting terrestrial a****ls. She fashioned knife handles from bone and I found among her possessions the horns of a Mouflon; a sort of wild sheep that has been introduced to some Mediterranean islands. She was a true apex predator and feared little in the sea. She had a necklace made of sharks’ teeth around her neck.
One sort of a****l that definitely was not on the menu however were dolphins. We had a pod of them that used to visit the island quite often. She was always delighted to see them and she’d rush into the water to play with them; swimming around with them or holding onto their backs. They used to click and chatter with her and she used to respond in the same way. It might be fanciful but she seemed to be able to talk with them. Oh I don’t mean that she could discuss the finer points of geo-politics with them or even ask after their grandmothers but there was still some sort of communication between them. There seemed to be some genuine friendship between them and, if anything, she respected them more as her equals than she did me. There was certainly no question of animosity in their relationship and she wouldn’t have dreamed of hunting them I think. She rather respected them as fellow intelligent creatures with whom she shared her environment and the feeling appeared to be reciprocated.
I may be reading too much into this but I think this mutual respect and affection between the two species had deep roots. I have wondered about this a lot. We Homo sapiens kill dolphins in our fishing nets, plunder their food on industrial scales, pollute the seas and rivers they swim in, hunt them occasionally or capture them and teach them to play tricks for our entertainment in zoos. You would have thought that they’d have little time for us therefore. Yet dolphins are one of the very few wild a****ls on the planet that are naturally friendly to humans. Perhaps... just perhaps... that friendship has its origins in a truly non competitive relationship... that between a semi aquatic species of hominid and a fully aquatic cetacean. Do these intelligent marine a****ls really see us therefore as friends because of our close relationship to this other hominid? As they say...Go figure!
Whenever we had the dolphins to visit to begin with I used to sit on the shore and watch her jealously. I’d always had a bit of a thing about dolphins and I would have loved to be able to swim out and play with them. Finally though, one day she took me out, helping me swim to meet them. I felt I’d been formally introduced. It was one of the best days of my life. They let me stroke them and one even permitted me to cling onto its dorsal fin while it swam around. I’d never been happier.
Bu these were just interludes in what quickly settled down into a routine existence. Hunting and fishing were by no means the only tasks she had. She spent hours fashioning tools and hunting equipment for instance. I think I’ve mentioned that she was something of a genius in recycling the debris of human society for her own ends; any old bits of metal, tin cans, wood, bits of floating plastic, old bottles, discarded fishing nets, old corks you name it. The nest she made for me to sl**p in amidst the ruins of the villa was a piece of inspired improvisation constructed out of rubble, old bits of planking, a piece of old plastic sheeting and some old sacking. She would scour the shore line and the sea around for anything that might turn out to be useful. The amount of trash that floats around in the oceans has to be seen to be believed. What an incredibly wasteful species we are. Years later I would have this impression reinf***ed on a journey through Africa. I saw there how the poorer people reused everything. Old tins cans and coke bottles were valuable household commodities. They never threw anything away. It made me ashamed of the profligate wastage of my own society. This girl though took recycling to a whole new dimension.
I’ve mentioned before her caches of hidden treasure. I got to see the inside of some of these and it was astonishing the sort of things she’d pick up. Some of them were a bit unsavoury. She’d pick over old carcasses for one thing because bone was a useful material which she used in all sorts of ways. Some material was plainly recovered from wrecked ships and she had bits of fabric, old brass fittings, old utensils and even some bits of crockery. Lengths of rope or twine she always salvaged as well as discarded electrical wire and, as we’ve seen, fishing line. She had a surprising amount of plastic in her collection since it’s a material that floats readily. There was all kinds of stuff. She even had an old baseball glove that she’d found floating somewhere that she’d picked up in case it might come in useful one day. It did! I used it after my adventure with that Amberjack so that I wouldn’t cut my hand on the fishing line when pulling it in, in future. Once I’d learned how from her I used to collect mussels and shrimps from the shallow water around the island. I used an old plastic lunch box to carry them in!
As you might discern I was beginning to work to earn my keep more and more. There was not the slightest hint of compulsion about this though. Other than for sexual purposes there was no sense that she ever used me as a slave. In fact I had to work diligently to convince her that I could be of some use. I think it was almost a surprise to her to learn that I actually could be useful and relieve her of some chores. I certainly didn’t mind. On the contrary I revelled in it. I think that my earlier realisation of just how useless I really was in such a survival situation had made me feel inadequate. Doing my bit for our mutual survival restored my confidence and my dignity.
This was important and in many ways I think it was the making of me. I’d been a hippy on the road for those years and I’d fancied myself to be free. My freedom had been an illusion and one propped up by my father’s long suffering generosity. I’d actually lived a pampered life under the security net of the society I fancied I’d rejected for some nebulous notion of hippy freedom. Now on that island I learned what freedom really was. In the words of that old song “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” I was naked and I had to learn to struggle with my bare hands just to stay alive and I could not have done it without her. The truth I learned is that freedom is a lonely place to be, how quickly you will abandon it in slavery to the people who will help you stay alive and how important it is that you in turn accept their slavery to you and take responsibility for their survival as well. These are lessons I have never forgotten. I found I could do things I never thought I could. I’ve never accepted anything as beyond my abilities ever since. I lost my fear on that island. You get a whole heap of time to think when you’re stranded miles from anywhere.
One of the jobs for which I took responsibility was in collecting driftwood for the fire. This turned into a bit of a crisis after a couple of months. The problem was that this was one natural resource that we were using beyond its sustainability. We were burning the stuff faster than it could accumulate on the shoreline. We were being frugal with our fires; only using fire to prepare food as much as possible. Had it been winter and I’d required fire for warmth the problem would have been more acute. As it was, on cooler nights, I had to rely on her body warmth under the sacking in our nest to keep me warm. Nevertheless it was getting harder and harder to find driftwood.
We did have one resource however that we were able to call upon. One of the olive trees in the grove was dead. I don’t know what killed this tree. Olive trees are nearly impossible to kill. Some of them can live to be two thousand years old. Nevertheless this tree was dead or at least apparently dead because olive trees can sometimes regenerate from their roots even when the whole top of the tree is destroyed. Reluctantly my mistress came to the conclusion that this tree would have to be sacrificed for firewood.
It turned out to be a hell of a job! Olive wood is dense and compact and even a small tree takes a hellacious amount of felling and chopping up with a crude axe. It took us three days to reduce that one tree to useable firewood. We didn’t use it all for firewood of course. Olive wood is wonderful for carving and she used a good deal of it to fashion implements with, including knife handles, platters, wooden tools and a whole assortment of other things. In case you’re wondering, olive wood makes a good fuel for fires. It takes a devil of an amount of time to get it burning because the wood is so dense but once you have got it alight it burns for a long, long time and emits a lovely aromatic smoke.
So she was busy with one thing and another on the island. But she was nevertheless a great believer in the old adage that all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl and, topping all, among her favourite leisure activities, was me. There were few jobs she didn’t feel could be made infinitely more pleasant and tolerable by taking a time out to give her pet toy girl a damn good screwing! I guess she used me about eight to ten times a day on average and often more when she was feeling particularly amorous. Most of these couplings were pretty brief affairs. We’d be doing something and she’d just give that characteristic little growl in her throat and I’d sigh, drop whatever it was I was doing and just assume the position. She’d leap aboard as it were, hammer away for a couple of minutes and leave me dripping with her copious seminal fluid, of which there seemed to be an almost endless source. Then we’d just carry on with the job in hand.
It might seem that I was badly used and, in the beginning I suppose, I felt pretty resentful of her continual abuse of me. Gradually though I just came to accept it and got on with it. It was just a part of life. I can remember once squatting on a rock, jutting out into the sea and baiting up some hooks on one of our long lines when she came up behind me with obvious intentions in mind. I just knelt forward, opened my legs and presented myself and carried on baiting my hooks while she satisfied herself and it didn’t seem at all bizarre at the time. If some fisherman had sailed around the headland at that moment God only knows what he would have made of the spectacle!
By this above do not assume that I was completely indifferent to her sexual assaults on me. Here I’m afraid I must blush with shame. It wasn’t too big a step from accepting her sexual advances as an inevitable consequence of life to coming to actively enjoy it. There’s an old saying that goes something along the lines of if it’s going to happen anyway you might as well lie back and enjoy it. Well I wouldn’t go that far but certainly her sexual predation on me became less and less unwelcome and crossed a Rubicon beyond which it actually became a source of pleasure. Even in her earliest violations of me my body had responded to her. Now as I took a more relaxed attitude to the whole business it responded even more and I’d end up excited and often climax.
The only trouble for me was that, to begin with at least, our couplings tended to be rather short, sharp affairs. I don’t know if there was a word for foreplay in her language but if there was she didn’t seem to have come across it. I actually think she was quite unsophisticated when it came to sex and it reinf***ed the feeling I got occasionally that she was not quite mature in some ways. Given the obvious absence of her own kind I might well have been the first person with whom she had enjoyed sex. I remembered how ecstatic she’d been that first day on the beach. Maybe I’d taken her virginity damn it! Since then she hadn’t been able to have enough of me but, through her lack of sexual experience, it was a pretty crude affair.
Well a quick “whim, wham, thank’ee ma-am” might have been alright for her but I liked to be wooed a bit more. If I’d learned anything from my dissolute days since the summer of love in ’67 it was a few of the arts of the bedroom or the tent or the back of a Volkswagen bus or the back stage of rock concert or the... well you get the picture. So I might not have had much clue about survival on a barren ocean island but I did know a bit about fucking and so, in a spirit of “if you’re going to do it at least do it properly” I set out to educate her in my one useful area of expertise... sex!
By this don’t for a moment imagine that this placed me on an equal footing with her. She was still top dog on the island I wasn’t about to start getting above my station. Nevertheless even the most obsequious Girl Friday can learn how to manipulate her mistress after a time. She used to like to lick me and I encouraged her to do it more often because after I got used to it I used to like it. I used to especially like it if she licked my breasts and sex Of course I had no words that she could understand to tell her that I enjoyed it but I got kind of clever and I learned to imitate the purring sound she made when she was experiencing pleasure and I used it to show what I liked her to do.
Another thing I used to do was run away. I overplayed my hand on this one a couple of times and it earned me a spanking but I learned how to show her that I was just being a tease and not deliberately disobedient. She’d approach me with obvious amorous intent and I’d look at her erection and perhaps reach out and touch it coquettishly before jumping up, running away and pretending to hide. We’d play for a little while as I dodged behind rocks and bushes before letting her catch me. It always used to make her wildly excited and she’d be like a big pussy cat after I finally surrendered to her.
One thing she never learned to do was kiss properly and I don’t think that kissing was part of her cultural forms of body contact. I didn’t much mind this to be honest. Kissing somebody on the mouth that possesses the formidable dental equipment that she had is a bit intimidating to say the least. I did however lick her face and other parts of her to show her that she had made me happy. More problematical was using oral sex on her.
She was quite happy to lick and fondle me in those places but, to begin with, she was very wary of letting me near her sex organs with my mouth. In fact she was even cautious about letting me touch her there with my hands for the first few weeks. Slowly however she learned to trust me not to hurt her and she’d let me take her penis and stroke it. From there she’d let me stroke her female organs as well and I could often bring her to orgasm like that. It amused me that I could make her not only gush from her vagina but also ejaculate from her penis just by stroking her there.
The first time I tried to use my mouth however she freaked on me a bit. I’d more or less come to the point of her letting me lick her penis but when I opened my mouth and took it inside, she grabbed my hair and hissed at me. For once I wasn’t intimidated though and I just looked at her submissively and imitated her purr to tell her that I wanted to do it. I opened my mouth and put my tongue out and let the tip of her penis rest on my tongue. With extreme caution and never letting go of my hair she allowed me to take her penis in my mouth and I gave her what was undoubtedly the first blow job she had ever had. To be honest I’m not surprised that fellatio was not a common means of sexual intimacy among her kind. If you possessed a penis you wouldn’t want to stick it in a mouth full of those sort of teeth either! But, once she had learned it was safe, she came to love it when I did this. It was a bit rough to do to be frank because she’d get so excited, grab my hair and pound away at my face frenziedly and nearly choke me on occasions. Also, of course, the huge quantities she ejaculated could just about drown you if you took it in the mouth. I used to have to try and time it so that I pulled away just as she came. That way I just got my face and hair drenched instead.
Another thing she came to like was being penetrated by my fingers in her vagina. I tried to encourage her more to take me in a missionary position rather than her favourite doggy style. This way I could reach behind her and wriggle my fingers inside her as she thrust away at me and it used to drive her crazy. This showed me one very interesting thing about her. I couldn’t penetrate her too far without causing her discomfort. Why? Because she had at least a partially intact hymen! She might have been screwing her brains out ten times a day with her male organs but as a female she was still a virgin!
One thing I hated were the very rare times she penetrated me in the anus. She was far too big for me there and it hurt like hell. Actually I think she only used this as a sort of punishment for me; frequently after she’d given me a hard spanking. I guess she knew that it hurt and I hated it so she’d only do it to show her extreme displeasure.
Other than that I became pretty cooperative with just about anything she wanted me to do. In fact I even initiated sex between us more and more frequently; not that she needed much encouragement! Still there were times when I used sex to manipulate her mood. I remember, for instance, when she came back from fishing out among the rocks while I was gathering shellfish. She was glum and despondent. Her ears were drooping and she sat down on a rock making the odd little whining noises that she made when she was distressed. She didn’t have tear ducts to the best of my knowledge. This was her way of crying. The reason for her distress was evident. In her hand she was holding the broken shaft of her favourite harpoon. Presumably she’d broken the end off on some fish and it had gone away carrying the barbed tip with it. This was a blow. Harpoons were labour intensive, highly difficult things to manufacture.
I sidled up to her and put my arms around her. I thought for a second she was going to push me away but she endured my petting. I reached out and took hold of the broken shaft and stroked it meaningfully. She grunted curiously so I transferred my hand to her penis and stroked that it the same way. It instantly sprang to attention and I purred to her softly before dropping to my knees and presenting myself for her. She gave a satisfied growl, flung the broken shaft aside and concentrated on the business to hand. Afterwards, with her morale thoroughly restored, she set about to make a new harpoon, purring to herself, and I went back to gathering shellfish, content that I’d performed my domestic duty.
In the end I could more or less get away with doing anything with her. There were only two places I had to be careful about touching her. One place was her gills which I had to try and avoid. The other place was the ridge that ran down her spine. I could only stroke this with the utmost tenderness and care for she was incredibly sensitive there. I have a theory, which I’ve never been able to prove, that this ridge was actually some sort of extended sensory organ. I believe that she used it to detect vibrations and possibly subtle changes in pressure while under water; that it was in fact equivalent in function to the lateral line on a fish. As I say though I have no proof for this and it may just be a hunch.
One thing never happened throughout our sexual intercourse. I never became pregnant. I have often wondered about that. I was certainly not infertile for I had c***dren some years later. Throughout my time on the island I menstruated regularly and presumably ovulated too. Certainly it wasn’t for lack of trying! She must have doused my womb with gallons and gallons of sperm throughout our acquaintance. Yet there was never any result to show for it. Was she then infertile? Was her hermaphrodite condition an aberration that left her infertile. I don’t think it was. I have reasons to believe that hermaphroditism was normal among her kind and certainly no barrier to fertility.
So the other possibility is, that as too different species, we were simply not inter-fertile with each other; or, at least, hybridisation between our species was unlikely and rare. I suppose I should feel grateful. God knows how I would have explained it if I’d returned home after that summer with a hybrid c***d in my womb. Nevertheless there still remains in me just a tiny pang of regret there. If I could have hybridised with her what an extraordinary thing that would have been! What kind of person would a cross between our species have become? Imagine if you like the incredible implications that would have meant for both her species and ours. It would have been a c***d that would quite literally have changed our view of ourselves forever. It would have changed the world. But it never happened.
Her indulgence in me was not confined to her frequent mating with me. She enjoyed me in other ways too. Even when she was working at something on the island she just liked to have me nearby and would often stop to pet me affectionately. Even after she had learned that I was quite capable of feeding and bathing myself she still would often do these things for me. She just liked doing it. She enjoyed just sitting and stroking me or tasting me with her tongue and brushing out my hair gave her immense satisfaction. She liked to plait it as well and she wound ornaments into my hair to decorate it. At such times I felt like her doll but I endured it for it gave her the most enormous satisfaction.
She liked to decorate me in other ways as well. For instance she liked to paint me sometimes. She used to make these pastes out of mud which she coloured with dyes she made from marine a****ls. (She used octopus ink in one of them I think) and would paint my body with curious designs and symbols. She would attend to this task most solemnly and studiously and I often had the eerie feeling that her designs had greater significance to her than mere abstract patterns.
This feeling was reinf***ed by an amulet she carved for me. She often made bangles or necklaces for me from bits of old fishing line hung with shells or other objects but this amulet was more important. For one thing she carved it from a piece of ivory in her possessions. For years it baffled me how she had come to own a piece of ivory. The mystery was partially solved when I showed it to an expert much later. It was, he informed me, walrus ivory, taken from the tusks of an adult walrus. That only told half the story. It blew a hole in a pet theory of mine for instance. I had at that point been coming to the opinion that her species was one of warm or tropical marine environments. Walrus, of course, live in the Arctic.
But it was not just the origin of the amulet’s material that held significance. The carving itself was of highly symbolic content. It showed a clearly sexual symbolism for it had an oval loop penetrated by an obvious phallus. Also the ivory was very carefully etched with numerous tiny symbols. I say symbols quite deliberately for I am convinced that is what they were. They had significance. They meant something. On the island I saw enough similar symbols she made to convince me of this. They were more than patterns. They were language... written language!
Although I write this in the past tense, I still have that amulet and, in fact, it is around my neck even as I type these words. The old thong it was originally hung on dropped to pieces long ago and I now have it on a silver chain. I can sit look at it now and remember, as if it was yesterday, the day she hung it about my neck in great solemnity. It was a moment charged with significance and thereafter she would never let me take it off. I think it was her way of expressly taking me for her own. The meaning of those curious symbols etched on its surface, elude me yet with their message. It is a reminder that as the days flowed into weeks and they in turn into months I was only just beginning to come to know this remarkable woman.
(Part three of this story to follow shortly)