The Gimp

Unnamed Island, South Pacific – June 16, 2008

Unnamed Island, South Pacific – June 16, 2008

An exhausted Cocoa Michelle awakens. Bright sunlight terminates many hours of rest. The years of solo racing have trained her system to operate on minimal rest then instantly react to opportunities for slumber... like a camel drinking at a desert oasis. Thus after washing ashore, she let herself succumb... both her mind and body ceding for many hours to the recuperative powers of sleep.

The deflated raft lies beside her on a beach of pure white. It too was punctured by the coral as the strong winds blew the craft over a reef. Fortunately the reef formed a shallow lagoon and Captain Cocoa was able to swim the final quarter mile in much calmer water, her normally powerful even strokes burdened in towing the raft. The survival equipment stowed within mandated that the partially submerged vessel be saved.

Cocoa peers about and smiles. She has escaped death and finds herself inwardly laughing, not only in relief but in irony. The view is idyllic and she cannot help thinking how much money is expended by vacationers on similar secluded tropical islands. Her visit is free... but for the cost of her abandoned ketch.

Sitting up, she notes that her rubber soled shoes are gone, evidently kicked away at sea to assure an unburdened swim. Her white slacks have small tears. Her life preserver rests beside her. After having served more than adequately it was wrestled from her shoulders and chest before collapsing to sleep. In so doing, she mangled her shirt, or perhaps it was her thrashing about in heavy waves.

She stands. Her smile of relief fades as she further apprizes. There are only her struggling foot prints in the sand. Otherwise the expanse of white is perfectly smooth. Her eyes scan the dense greenery of the island. Nothing is to be seen except tropical vegetation. No telltale colors of habitation.

The sounds are of birds and the moderate swish of the small waves of the lagoon washing the extra fine sand crystals. Captain Cocoa does not recall the name of the island as it was listed on her charts. But does it matter? She is alone. There is nothing manmade and no evidence of other mammals. Yes, the smile fades as she contemplates her position.

Just how far off the standard course had she sailed before running aground? It dawns that it is probably too many miles. Searches for her missing craft will probably initiate not here but instead along the logical path of navigation. Perhaps, after time, the search will veer southward to her revised course. But will efforts terminate before reaching her paradisaical seclusion?

The question is relevant. She has survival training. But for what period of time should she prepare?

Despite the early hour, the direct rays of a tropical sun radiates great warmth. It quickly dawns that clothing is quite optional when in total seclusion. Besides, there is no point to wearing out garments that are now superfluous. Captain Cocoa carefully slides off her slacks, cautious in damaging no more. She mentally shrugs and removes her underpants along with her torn shirt. She stretches, feeling soreness in muscles strained in meeting the challenge of an entire ocean.

At nearly six foot, Cocoa Michelle is a marvel of feminine puissance. The numerous press photos, which extolled her winning efforts, never captured the full extent of her musculature. Now, presenting her bronzed form wearing only her tight sports bra, she flaunts her sculpted form to nature, smiling in self confidence in noting her own brawn. It is for these occasions that Cocoa Michelle has so arduously endeavored to hone her physical fitness, between races spending countless hours at the gym.

Her nakedness oddly exhilarates. But for massive breasts that require support for ease of movement, she would discard the confining sports bra and disrobe entirely. Despite the tenuousness of her situation she smiles again in noting the raft. A gash has made it useless but the implements of survival have safely endured the ordeal. Biscuits, a desalinization pump, a plastic container, a square plastic tarp with any number of uses, basic tools including a knife. But most importantly a mirror. Specially molded in being concave, it will not only reflect but also aim and focus the sun’s rays. Airplanes can be signaled, even ones at extremely high altitudes, as well as ships well out to sea. An otherwise simple circle of reflective glass is priceless in her situation.

The euphoria of escaping instant death, the relief in discerning that her predicament will not likely end in slow death, brings a frisson of delight. A right hand lowers. Cocoa Michelle celebrates. Fingers toy, rubbing outer labia long ago defoliated of hair through laser removal. Then they plunge as Captain Cocoa deeply inhales when her digits find the wet soft pinkness nestled within meaty rolls of brown flesh. She rubs... gyrates... m**********g freely in her new world of seclusion. She must sit as waves of pleasure enfeeble otherwise powerful muscles. A left hand joins the effort, first lifting and splaying the c******l hood to bring wafts of tropical air to a normally well hidden bud. Then as the fingers of the right settle to a steady rhythm, kneading sensitized inner labia, the normally untouchable nub of femininity begs for attention. The fingers of the left accommodate. Captain Cocoa shrieks with joy, her outburst piercing the calm of her deserted home. It is a most guttural howl. Yet no one will hear. And no one will observe as her pudendum erupts to spray the sparkling white sands with feminine essence.

Just as tragedy can bring great need for hormonal release, so can euphoria.