Naked and
Unafraid: Part 4.
Delaying Reality.
Based on a post by inestimable.
Listen to the ►Podcast at Steamy Stories.
The afternoon wasn't nearly as idyllic as the morning. Dressed in
the bare minimum (which is to say nothing for Brooke and Bridget and
a pair of boxers for me to keep the junk contained), we did the least
amount of work possible while staying in the shade. The crab traps
were empty. The stream was running lower than usual, raising concerns
about the implications of it running dry. We argued about whether to
search the far side of the island again for footprints or conserve
energy in the blazing heat. Bridget wanted to go. Brooke wanted to
wait. The discussion between them grew heated and neither was
interested in my attempts at mediation. When Brooke told me to "fuck
off," she sounded a lot like her old self.
"If there are people, we need to know," Bridget said.
"And if there aren't?" Brooke asked.
"Then at least we looked."
Brooke spat in the sand. "Footprints don't mean shit. It's
chasing ghosts. We need to start thinking that maybe rescue isn't
coming." There were tears in her voice when she spoke aloud our
biggest fear; that our time on this island might last forever and
this paradise might turn into a purgatory. That looking for
footprints was just another path to disappointment.
Brooke grabbed a water bottle and stalked toward the stream.
Bridget went the opposite direction, toward the rocks. I stayed where
I was, trying to decide what to do. After ten minutes, I opted for
She was sitting by the crab inlet, throwing pebbles into a tide
"You here to play peacemaker?" she asked.
She threw another pebble. "I feel something for Brooke.
Attraction; love; I dunno. But there's still something angry there
too. And, as much as she has changed, that can't just wipe out our
history. So it's easy for me to fall back into a confrontational
"I know. But if we're going to live together, especially if
it's for a long time, we're going to have to let go of the past."
"Easy for you to say. You got to fuck your long-time crush."
The bitterness of the words was belied by a lightness of tone.
She smiled faintly, then it faded. "But what if she's right?
What if no one is coming?"
I sat beside her. "We can't give up hope. But, at the same
time, we have to embrace what we have here. This island; it's a small
miracle. None of this would have been possible back in the 'real'
world. If we had made it to New Zealand, we'd be back home by now.
You and I would still be 'just friends' and Brooke would be somewhere
else, probably permanently out of our lives."
She nodded. "Thinking about that scares me. And, as much as I
want to be rescued and see my parents and go back to a place where
the technology is more advanced than a penknife and a lighter, I
don't want this; what we have between us; to end. And I know if
someone finds us, it will. Our relationships won't survive a rescue."
I felt the same conflict because I knew she was right. Bridget and
I might have a chance. But adding Brooke to the dynamic? Only here.
Only on the island. And I didn't want to give up what we'd found with
her so soon after discovering it.
Bridget got to her feet. "I need to find her."
She shoved my shoulder, then we went to find Brooke.
Brooke was at the stream, bare feet in the water, not crying
anymore. She looked lost. I wondered if she had been thinking some of
the same things that Bridget and I had been saying out loud.
Brooke spoke before we had a chance. "Sorry about that, Ben,"
she said, referencing the "fuck off." She continued, "I'm
scared. But it's not about being here. Sure, I worry about what
happens if one of us gets hurt or sick, but those things seem like
normal worries. It's more that if we leave, everything we found here
was a mirage. And that makes me almost not want to be rescued. I know
that sounds selfish but I can't think about going back to my old life
and not having you two be a part of it." So Bridget and I hadn't
been the only ones thinking those thoughts. It was unanimous. What to
Bridget sat beside Brooke and dipped her feet into the stream. I
sat on Brooke's other side. Bridget appeared ready to say something,
then changed her mind. Instead, she cupped Brooke's face and kissed
her. Brooke didn't hesitate to return the embrace, arms snaking
around Bridget's neck, tits rubbing against each other. I watched
them for a second before joining, leaning in to kiss the side of
Brooke's neck while my hand reached out to cup her tit. She let out a
noise that sounded suspiciously like a purr.
Bridget pushed Brooke onto her back on the edge of the stream. She
immediately went down on her, kneeling in the water to get the right
angle. Things moved fast from that point. Brooke's back arched as she
came, having apparently been on a hair trigger. I knelt beside them,
shucked my boxers, and slid my hardening cock into Brooke's open
mouth. She sucked me without finesse as Bridget returned to dry
ground and sat on her haunches, her face shiny with Brooke's juices.
I watched Bridget crouching there nude, thinking that I would
never get tired of looking at her. She caught my eye as Brooke went
down on me and started stroking herself unhurriedly, waiting for her
turn. After a while, concerned that I might blow my load and not
wanting to disappoint Bridget, I pulled out with an audible pop. My
cock jutted awkwardly in front of me, red, throbbing, and coated with
Brooke's saliva. I turned my attention to Bridget. She was on me like
a wildcat, pushing me to the ground so she could hop on the "Ben
ride." When she sank down on my cock, there was so much
lubrication that there was nothing to stop her from bottoming out.
She was in control and wasn't shy about letting me know it. I felt
almost like a flesh-and-blood dildo; not that I was complaining. This
kind of unbridled sex was something we probably all needed. There was
a time for tenderness, but this wasn't it. This was about passion and
athleticism. This was about catharsis.
Both Bridget and I were panting now, our sex turning into a
workout as we drove each other toward our inevitable orgasms. I was
dimly aware of Brooke watching us, sated but still interested. She
wasn't playing with herself; her hands were at her sides. Her
expression was somewhere in between awe and affection. As I felt
Bridget's pussy beginning to clench, my tenuous grip on control
started to break down. Bridget hadn't even finished coming when I
pushed her off; just in time. Not a second after it emerged from
Bridget's pussy, my cock shot thick spurts across her chest.
As we stayed there in the shallow water, tangled up and breathing
hard, Brooke came to join us, hugging us both. The stream kept
flowing around us, its caress gentle and soothing, sluicing away dirt
and sex residue. We kissed whatever skin was closest; shoulders,
necks, collarbones. No one said anything for a long time.
Eventually Bridget whispered against my chest, "Whatever
Brooke nodded, forehead pressed to mine. "Yeah, we're okay."
I held them both tighter.
The next day, we searched the far beach. We found no new
footprints. There was no evidence of a camp or survivors. But we
found something else, something we had inexplicably missed before: a
large sealed emergency container wedged between rocks below the reef
among a cache of plane debris. It was bright orange, scraped and a
little battered but still intact. It took all three of us and more
profanity than was strictly necessary to drag it free before the tide
The contents caused my heart to skip a beat. Inside that
three-foot-by-three foot compartment was an instruction sheet, a
compact emergency tarp, six flares, two ration packs, a flashlight,
water purification tablets, a whistle, first-aid supplies, thermal
blankets, fishing line and hooks, and a small emergency radio with a
cracked casing but intact antenna.
Brooke and Bridget looked stunned while I gingerly examined the
radio. We decided not to fiddle with it until we got back to camp. We
made the return trip in record time, even dragging the heavy
"Do you think it works?" Brooke asked as we settled
It didn't look promising, at least not at first. The battery
compartment had taken some water and the contacts were crusted.
Bridget grabbed a tee shirt and used it to cleaned them. I opened the
casing with the penknife and fiddled with wires I did not fully
understand. Then all at once, miraculously, we heard the crackle of
Brooke whispered, "Oh my God."
Bridget grabbed the instruction sheet, scanning for useful
information. When she found the emergency frequency, we dialed it in.
Nothing but static. So we tried again. More static. Then, faintly,
there came something garbled and indistinct that sounded vaguely like
a human voice. Any words were unintelligible but there definitely
seemed to be someone there.
Bridget took the radio from me with shaking hands. "Mayday,"
she said, speaking into the handset. Then she stopped and looked at
I shrugged. "Probably." I didn't think the actual words
"Mayday, mayday, mayday. We're the;" She looked at me.
"Survivors of Flight;" I stopped. "Do we know the
Bridget repeated it into the radio, then added, "We are three
survivors on an island. We have water. We have injuries but we're
alive. If anyone can hear us;"
Static. She tried again and again with nothing to show for it.
Whoever had been out there for that brief moment was no longer there
or wasn't listening. But, despite the failure of the moment,
everything was now different. Rescue was once again a real
possibility. Yet beneath the renewed hope and relief was an emotion
none of us would have imagined as recently as several days ago:
regret. Because suddenly the potential of being saved wasn't the
greatest thing that could happen.
The radio sat by the fire that night. We left it on, allowing the
static to blend with the island's more familiar night sounds. There
was no way we were going to turn it off.
"What happens if they come?" I started when I realized I
had spoken the thought aloud. But I knew we were all thinking the
Bridget glanced over at the radio. "We go home," she
said. But there was a note of resignation in the words.
Brooke hugged her knees. "And then?"
No one answered until I spoke the inevitable: "I don't want
to lose this, and we don't know if this; us; will work off the
Brooke's voice was quiet. "Do you want to try?"
Brooke's eyes shifted to Bridget, who already had an answer ready.
"I want to want to," she said.
"No. Listen. I do want it. I'm just scared that wanting isn't
enough. But I want to try."
At some point, I dozed off. One moment, I was lying on my side,
gazing into the fire. The next, I realized something was happening
just off to the side, toward the other side of our not-so-palatial
shelter. It was Bridget and Brooke, making out like teenagers.
Bridget was the first to notice I was back with them.
She used a stage whisper to tell Brooke, "I think we have an
audience." Then with a laugh, she turned to me. "Feel free
I just nodded. I was hard just at the thought of what I was about
to witness. I slipped off my boxers, the only item of clothing I was
wearing and started to stroke even before they were doing much of
anything. Watching them kiss, lips touching and tongues dancing, was
enough to start my engine.
At the start, there was a performative element to what they were
doing, but they quickly forgot about any exhibitionist tendencies as
things became more intense. Their tits brushed against one another,
nipples tickling nipples into hardness. The kissing continued for a
long time, spit swapping and breathing becoming deeper. In its own
way, this was more arousing than it had been to actually experience
sex with them. The act of watching gave me a deeper understanding of
how they felt about one another and how things had evolved,
They paused for the briefest of moments to remove their minimal
remaining clothing. Then Brooke laid Bridget down and kissed her way
down her lover's body. Bridget lay back and allowed herself to
receive, extending her arms above her head like a cat stretching.
Brooke was in no hurry, investing time on Bridget's nipples, sucking
and teasing, saliva moistening them. I'm pretty sure; at least based
on her breathing and the jerking of her pelvis; that Bridget had a
small orgasm during this treatment. Then Brooke continued her journey
downward, first to Bridget's belly button, which earned a chuckle,
then between her legs. I could hear how wet Bridget was as Brooke's
fingers joined her tongue lavishing attention on Bridget's pussy.
Brooke maintained a leisurely pace; a lone finger fucking her slowly
while her mouth played a staccato rhythm on her clit. Bridget's
second orgasm wasn't nearly as restrained as her first one; she came
violently, her body seizing as she shouted Brooke's name. Bridget's
climax triggered my own and a warm stream of cum dribbled out of my
cock to coat my left hand.
After taking a moment to recover, Bridget set about returning the
favor, but her style as a giver was much different than it had been
as a receiver. Brooke seemed to enjoy being dominated and that's how
Bridget approached her. Instead of loving attention to her nipples or
playful nips on her belly button, Bridget went straight for Brooke's
pussy and almost attacked it, using three fingers and slurping up the
juices that leaked out. Brooke played with her own tits as she moaned
louder and louder. It didn't take long; Brooke had aroused herself
giving Bridget her orgasm. She climaxed with a cry that sounded
halfway between a sob and a laugh, and bucked so hard that Bridget
lifted her face to avoid damage to her teeth.
When they were finally done, both flushed and sweaty, they turned
their heads in my direction. Bridget finally voiced the question.
"That was so hot," I said. Not exactly poetic but I was
having trouble finding words. "Much as I like fucking you two,
They moved apart to make room between them and I took them up on
the offer. This wasn't for sex. I knew that immediately. This was for
intimacy. They curled into me immediately ; Bridget on my left,
Brooke on my right. They were still breathing hard and the smell of
their bodies mixed with the salt tang of the sea air. The fire burned
low outside and the low hum of static continued from the radio
against the backdrop of waves breaking against the shore and animals
calling out in the jungle.
The next day dawned like any other. After doing our usual morning
chores, I tinkered with the radio and played with the frequencies.
"Is it working?" asked Bridget.
"I think so. It's got power. I guess no one is listening."
Around mid-afternoon, that was no longer the case. The words, when
they broke through the static, were faint and fractured, but
discernible: "survivors; repeat; location;"
As Bridget grabbed the radio, I snatched up the flares and we ran
for the ridge, climbing as fast as we could, heedless of the danger
we put ourselves in by tossing away caution. I was in the lead with
Brooke behind me and Bridget bringing up the rear, the radio hissing
and spitting in her hands.
As soon as we reached the top, Bridget pressed the button. "This
is Flight 557. We're three survivors marooned on an island. We don't
know the coordinates. We have flares. We are alive."
A minute passed. Then two. There was nothing but static. It felt
like a lifetime. Had we been heard?
We had. "Signal received; continue transmissions; search
I lit the signal fire with shaking hands. Brooke stood with a
flare ready to set off as soon as we saw something, anything. Bridget
kept transmitting the same message over and over until her voice went
hoarse: "This is Flight 557. We're three survivors marooned on
an island. We are alive."
A plane came just before sunset; small and white, almost looking
like a bird at first. It appeared from the north, heading straight
toward us. Brooke fired the flare. The red streak of light shot into
the sky, bright against the approaching twilight.
The plane banked, circled twice, and rocked its wings. They had
seen us. Rescue, long a dubious hope, had become a reality.
Brooke dropped to her knees, laughing and crying. Bridget was more
restrained but the tears in her eyes overflowed. I knew my own cheeks
were wet. I grabbed both of them and held them close while the plane
circled overhead and the pilot's voice crackled through the radio,
telling us a rescue boat would come with daylight.
One more night. That was all we had on the island before the world
The three of us stood on the ridge until the plane disappeared
into the west and the sun slipped below the horizon. No one spoke on
the walk down. Below, the shelter waited. A month earlier it had been
a pile of palm fronds and driftwood. Somehow, it had become home. Now
everything we had built suddenly looked temporary, which hurt more
We should have been celebrating, but we weren't. We had wanted
rescue, but we hadn't. All three of us were conflicted, haunted by
the same fears and doubts. That night, we sat close around the fire,
knees touching, hands linked, watching sparks rise. Was this really
Tomorrow, we would be survivors. We would be news, the kind that
ends newscasts on a "happy note." Families would be told
and many tears of joy would be shed. Doctors would check us.
Officials would ask questions. Reporters would want interviews.
Tonight, we had one last opportunity. Not for sex, but to be close
in a way that would never happen again. We had promised, but our
relationship was still so new, so fragile that I doubted it would
survive the rescue and all that came after. I found myself mourning
the "us" that could have been.
Brooke rested her head on Bridget's shoulder. Bridget leaned into
her. I held both their hands, preparing myself to welcome tomorrow.
And dreading it at the same time.
Delaying Reality.
The morning the rescue came, Brooke was the first one awake. I
knew because when I opened my eyes, she wasn't beside us. The surge
of panic caused me to bolt upright so fast that I cracked my head on
That woke up Bridget. "What?" she murmured, opening her
eyes in the pale morning light.
"Nothing," I said, holding my head, which was bleeding
from a gash. "Brooke isn't here."
"Brooke?" Bridget called, but there was no answer.
We headed out, scared for Brooke. Fortunately, she wasn't hard to
find. She stood at the waterline, wearing Madison's shorts and a
faded shirt we had scavenged from another suitcase. Her blonde hair
was tied back with one of Bridget's bands. She was barefoot, arms
wrapped around herself, watching the horizon. The fact that she was
wearing clothes was a cue that she had already begun shifting her
Bridget slowed when she saw her.
We walked down together. Brooke didn't turn until we were close,
but she knew we were there.
"I couldn't sleep," she said. Her voice was calm. "I
dreamed about my mom. She was in the kitchen, making coffee like
normal. And I walked in, and she looked up and said, 'There you are.'
Just like I'd been upstairs too long."
Her voice broke on the last word. Bridget took her hand and Brooke
"I want to see her," Brooke said.
"Of course you do," I said.
"I can safely say we all want that.
