Message-ID: <23718asstr$956020212@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <20000417133953.10742.qmail@web4005.mail.yahoo.com>
From: Kelvar Varkel <var_kel@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Jake and the Castaway Daughters (Mf M+f MF mg hist oral rape) {Varkel} [1/12]
Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2000 21:10:12 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/23718>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, apuleius
Chapter 1: Castaways
__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Send online invitations with Yahoo! Invites.
http://invites.yahoo.com
<1st attachment, "4jnar01.txt" begin>
Jake and the Castaway Daughters
a Novelette by Varkel
Spring, 2000
PROLOG
The clipper ship at the quay, the Fleeting Star, longer and
sleeker than the tubby Dutch and British ships on either side, was
for its era a magnificent emblem of Yankee prowess and technical
achievement. Its captain leaned smugly against the stays,
watching Chinese coolies wrestle aboard the last of his cargo:
tea, porcelain and exotica from the depraved, heathen Middle
Kingdom. The man's large nostrils filled with the scent of oak,
tar, tea and the stench of the dockside. He was eager to be away,
to be again at sea and feel his ship come livelier than a woman
beneath him.
He smiled at the sight of the Reverend Hosea Meron and his three
young daughters beginning their ascent of the aft gangplank. They
were such pretty girls, he thought, even the chubby one. Meron, a
missionary, owned enough of the Fleeting Star to be welcomed
aboard but not enough to question the captain's authority. On the
voyage home he and his girls would make a most satisfactory
audience for the captain's ship-handling skill.
"Good day, Mr. Meron," he called out to the party as it reached
the deck below him.
"Good morning to you, Captain Norris," Meron replied looking up at
the gruff seaman whose uniform could have been that of an admiral.
"It's a fine day to return home."
The two younger girls pulled away, wanting to race about and
inspect the vessel, but the tallest held them in check, gripping
their hands tightly. Except for color they were dressed alike in
knee-length frocks fluffed by many petticoats, lower legs loosely
encased in white laced pantaloons, ankle boots and medium sleeves
bunched high on the arm in the style of the previous decade.
Their foreheads under wide brimmed bonnets were moist despite
having just descended from the breeze of their rickshaws, which
did not surprise the captain. It was a warm day in Canton. Sweat
must often be wiped away from his own forehead and the bare-
chested coolies gleamed with it.
"We'll cast off in a few hours, Mr. Meron. Would you and your
lovely daughters honor me with your presence at lunch?"
"We would be delighted, Captain," Meron called back as he turned
to follow the barefoot sailor who led them to their cabins.
* * *
The two men sat at table in the captain's cabin, enjoying a light
repast, while the three girls giggled together at another nearby.
The stern portholes stood open, admitting the cool on-shore
breeze.
"So you had trouble, I hear, with your first mate. What's his
name?"
"Jacob Higgins," the captain replied with a sour look on his face.
"He somehow managed to ship a good sized cargo of his own here to
Canton in this very ship. We caught him easily enough, and while
he's imprisoned in a converted sail locker, where he belongs, I
must admit that I'll miss him on the bridge if we run into
trouble. He's a good sailor."
"He's a thief," the reverend responded with disdain. "He's stolen
from me and from my partners. Let the court in New York deal with
the rascal."
The girls suddenly began to squeal for no apparent reason,
disturbing the men.
"Belle," Meron turned to admonish his eldest daughter, "please
control those two little imps."
"I want to go to the bottom of the boat, Daddy," little Jill
stated, coming up to the table. The pretty ten year old had left
her bonnet somewhere again, much to the delight of any onlooker,
because she had the most lustrous, light blonde hair that hung
from her head in natural ringlets.
"Rats and stink live down there, darling," Meron replied to his
youngest daughter, pulling her onto his lap. The captain watched
with narrowed eyes, thinking ironically of the Chinese wanton, no
larger and not much older, who had graced his own lap just the
night before.
As her father's hand closed securely over her abdomen, Jill looked
up into the captain's eyes and amazed him with a wink. To the
captain it seemed deliberately lascivious. What had this one
learned among the heathen? Perhaps to read minds?
"I'm getting sea sick, Daddy," pudgy twelve year old Marie
complained enviously, wanting a cuddle of her own, despite Belle's
previously expressed judgment that all of them had grown too big
to sit on a lap.
"Marie!" Belle protested sternly. "We're still tied up to the
dock." She pulled Marie back from the table, where Jill grinned
in her father's embrace, knowing that she was his favorite.
Belle was an essentially grown, tall girl of fifteen whose face
would be beautiful did it not scowl so often in her role as
surrogate mother to the two younger sisters. "Belle, darling,"
Meron beamed at her, his favorite in fact, "show the girls around
the deck. We'll be leaving soon and then it may not be so
pleasant."
"Yes, Daddy. Give me your hands, sisters."
The captain nodded approvingly as the tallest led her sisters out
onto the bridge deck, now almost cleared of the clutter of port.
"Quite the leader, isn't she!"
"Oh, yes," the father responded fondly, "and a more serious and
responsible one you would look long to find. Their mother died
trying to birth our fourth and Belle has been my right arm since."
The man chuckled wryly. "It pains me to know that somewhere in
the world today walks a callow lout with no idea of the good
fortune that awaits him when he takes her to wife."
The captain grinned. "Thus speaks a father! You wish to make
certain, I take it, that your 'callow lout' at least is not
Chinese?"
"If you mean, is that my reason for taking them home? -- no, the
European colonies grow in China with every arriving ship. Didn't
I understand that you fetched two or three families here on your
current voyage?"
"Yes, I did. Excuse me, Mr. Meron; I had no intention of prying."
"Not at all, captain. I don't mind explaining my reasons. China
today is simply not the place to raise white children.
Licentiousness is the way of life. You can hire no servant, male
or female, for whom sexual intimacy is more significant than
urination or defecation, and God knows they're careless enough
about that!"
"I take it you discovered this characteristic well after you
brought your children here?"
"<I> paid it no attention until I caught my youngest inspecting an
immodest houseboy! Then I saw evidence of the prevailing attitude
everywhere I looked. To you, sir, I'll admit my surprise that my
wife never noticed such indifference. But she was an intensely
loving woman always eager to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.
God, how I miss her!"
"I'm sure you do," agreed the captain sympathetically.
"I was having great spiritual success in my district, except for
this sexual abandon that I had failed to notice. When the girls
are safe with my sister in Massachusetts, I shall return instanter
-- possibly on your next voyage out. Here in China the
opportunity and need for God's message is unsurpassed anywhere in
the world."
The captain smiled. "Don't you find it surprising that such an
important message, considering the source, had never managed to
arrive here before?"
Meron drew back to study the man. "Are you serious?"
The captain shrugged. "Perhaps not. Excuse me." He got to his
feet, peering out over the long deck. "What concerns me more
immediately is that your daughters seem about to enter the
fo'c'sle. What they might see there, sir, is worse than any
possible inspection of houseboys!"
CHAPTER 1: Castaways
The ship pitched wildly once again, smashing Jake's head painfully
against the strong door of the converted locker. He fell to the
deck in nausea, blood streaming from his scalp, as the ship heaved
violently back and forth, casting him to the other side of the
small compartment.
"Oh, Christ!" he moaned aloud, his wail obliterated by the rage of
the typhoon that tossed the huge ship as if it were a cork. Above
him wind with a strength beyond imagination screamed in the
remains of the rigging. The whole structure of the ship, oaken
beams thick as his torso, creaked and snapped in constant
complaint. Jake had been at sea for 27 of his 44 years, but never
had he known such a storm as this. The wind above was so powerful
that violent gusts of it penetrated to his prison, deep in the
hold, strong enough even there to blow out the oil lamp swinging
in the passage beyond his barred door. A few other lights
remained in the hold, enough for him barely to make out the
silhouette of a hand held before his face.
And now water splashed over him as the ship rolled! He struggled
to his feet, holding to the bars of the door, cold with sudden
fear for his life.
A crash loud as thunder rang through the ship and his hands were
torn from the bars. He fetched up on the soggy remains of his
bedding. Had the mainmast snapped off? A terrible grinding sound
reverberated through the ship, on and on, making his teeth ache.
No, not the mast. Most of the motion had ceased; what remained
seemed to be more pitch than roll, and the deck beneath his feet
now sloped permanently upward toward the bow. His cold fear
increased as he understood. The Fleeting Star was fleet no
longer. Its back was broken on rock. The grinding meant that the
storm would soon tear it apart.
At least it would be easier to stand now. He forced himself up,
reaching again for the iron bars. The light was just bright
enough for his astonished eyes to see that the door stood open.
The crash on the rocks had forced the locking bar from its hasps.
"Get out, we're sinking!" a voice screamed from somewhere in the
hold, barely audible above the terrible grinding. Instantly Jake
launched himself through the open door.
Water rushed at his ankles as he made his way to the nearest
companionway. Death seemed fairly certain as he coughed his way
toward the upper decks, but less so than in the dark of the hold,
now filled with choking dust from the disturbed cargo. He knew
that some kinds of dust, tea in particular, were explosive and
that lamps were yet lit in the ship. He seemed to fly up the
steps.
He reached the well deck intent only upon escape and forced open
the fo'c'sle entrance. Without hesitation he threw himself into
the pitch darkness of the main deck -- and slammed into a wall of
water. Immediately he was submerged, alternately lifted and
dashed down, twisting and turning crazily, arms and legs flung
about by overwhelming forces. Great rushing sounds and monstrous
gurglings pounded his ears through the water.
He knew only that he was about to die. His lungs were bursting.
The run up the companionway had already exhausted his oxygen and
he had taken no time to replenish it. Though the violent
confusion had eased, he gave up. He opened his mouth to suck in
the killing fluid.
But it was air that filled his lungs. Sweet, incredible air! He
found himself at the surface of the sea, flailing and spitting,
but <breathing>, by god!
A breaking wave dashed his momentary elation, but he clawed his
head above water again and took another breath. After this
happened two or three times he discovered that he fared better
faced away from the wind-whipped froth and struck out swimming in
that direction. Shortly his arm struck something large and very
hard: a smooth, endlessly long pole, probably a ship's spar. He
encircled it with both arms and held on desperately as the storm
sought to destroy him.
Time passed interminably. Hours later a gray light stealing over
the world roused him from numbness. To his amazement, he was
still alive. The sea was calming because the storm was past.
Soon the sun rose above the horizon into a sky cloudless except
for a dark mass high in the west, the retreating storm. It
promised a lovely day for those more fortunate than he.
But he too was fortunate, he suddenly realized, finally
registering what his ears had been telling him for some time. The
boom of surf! On the crest of the next wave he looked wildly
around and espied a dark island behind him hardly 200 yards across
white froth.
* * *
Though weak and exhausted, he wasted no time in pulling himself
erect and staggering above the strand, beyond the reach of the
dashing water. There he flung himself on his back and took great
lungfulls of air. He almost fell asleep, so peaceful was this
motionless land and cool breeze, but the very incongruity of his
fate amused him. From prisoner in the tiny locker to freedom in
an infinitely larger prison!
Presumably so until further notice. He rose first to his elbows,
then to his feet, the better to survey his new world. From wave
marks above the surf, he judged the tide to be low. Despite that,
the sandy beach was relatively narrow. A jungle began hardly
fifty yards from the water. Tilting his head back, he understood
the reason for the narrow beach. The land, clothed in palms and
broad-leafed tropical vegetation, rose quickly in a slope he
thought as much as forty degrees to a hill high enough to shade
this beach in early afternoon.
He saw shells above the high-water mark and here and there the
parallel tracks of crabs and the trident tracks of birds, but no
human footprints except his own. The beach curved away to right
and left. On his left a huge cluster of rocks rose from the sea a
half-mile offshore. Possibly the Fleeting Star had struck a
submerged member of that collection.
No strange footprint, but artifacts were washing ashore even as he
watched. He waded into the surf and picked up a sailor's striped
shirt, thinking that if he was to survive he might need it. Here
and there were other articles: mostly barrels most probably of
tea, a few boxes, a pillow from some sailor's hammock, even a
corked bottle. He retrieved the bottle and found a folded paper
inside. The handwriting was only too recognizable.
"To whom it may concern:
"Greetings.
"This message is consigned to the charity of the sea at five bells
of the dog watch on July 2, 1848, believed at 7 S 139 W, past the
northernmost island of the Marquesas group, the ship assailed by
wind and wave forcible beyond previous experience, having lost
mizzen and midtop before darkness fell, pumps barely keeping pace
with the flood, with 104 souls on board.
"Harvey G. Norris, Master, Fleeting Star, out of Canton bound for
New York
"May God have mercy on our souls."
Jake stood quietly with the paper in his hand. Curious message!
He was certain that the dog watch was long behind them when the
ship crashed on the rock. Then he decided, not so curious:
obviously the bottle would drift before the storm alongside the
crippled ship.
Was he the only survivor? He shaded his eyes and looked farther
out to sea. Flotsam in the shape of barrels rose into sight on
the tops of swells as far as he could discern them. The fatal
rock could be miles offshore. But <he> had made it! The
stormwind must have been onshore; a shoreward current might even
be running.
Perhaps the only difference was that he had jumped into the dark
almost immediately after the ship went on the rock. Perhaps
others had tried to stay with the hulk and were at last drifting
closer. He jumped up and down, shouted and waved his arms over
his head, but had to give it up when no answering arm could be
seen on the sun-sparkling water.
With a sigh and a whimsical smile, he stuffed the paper back into
the bottle, shoved home the cork and threw the message as far as
he could back into the surf.
* * *
A dry throat finally drove him from under his palm tree back out
onto the beach in the dazzling noon-day sun. The storm last night
must surely have contained as much rain as wind. He reasoned that
somewhere on the island a fresh water stream, however temporary,
must today be spilling into the sea. Facing the surf he turned
right and set out to round the island, trying to count his paces
as he strolled. His clothing, a tattered sleeveless undershirt
and side-striped trousers that remained from his mate's uniform,
was long since dry, itching his shoulders and hips with the
retained salt. He walked in the wet strand of necessity because
the dry sand was hot enough in the sunlight to cook his bare feet.
Though he had slept off and on during the long morning, he was
confident no one might have come ashore without him noticing. No
footprint had been added to those of his own. Now the tide had
turned and was rising.
His count of paces was approaching 200 when he crossed a spit of
sand, rounding a boulder large as a house, and saw the white
lifeboat stranded hardly a hundred yards further down the beach.
He lifted on his toes into a jog, dashing spray from the puddles
left by the strongest waves, and quickly reached the boat.
It was 20 feet of white-painted wooden hull, one of four normally
born inverted on the main deck, covered with canvas still laced to
the gunwales. With a sigh of disappointment he decided that this
one had simply come loose from its restraints during the storm to
wash up here and be stranded at low tide, as had the other flotsam
still lying about.
Ah, but a lifeboat contained emergency provisions! He turned to
the bow, where to his surprise he found the laces already
loosened, leaving an edge of the canvas free to flap in the wind.
Thirst drove him to ignore this anomaly.
Yes! Just beneath the raised flap in the bow thwarts was the
provision locker. Leaning into the boat, he worked the sliding
catch forcefully, opened the cover and smiled hugely as he held up
a corked gallon jug of clear water.
The cork was jammed tight, but reaching farther into the locker he
located the corkscrew as expected. The plug was soon extracted.
One second later the sweetest water he had ever tasted was washing
down his throat, albeit likely it had been moldering in that same
jug for the two years since Fleeting Star's initial voyage.
Much refreshed, he lowered the jug to the canvas cover and wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. Life was looking up! If
this proved to be one of the two boats with centerboard, stepped
mast and mainsheet, he could very shortly --
From close behind him a female voice said clearly, "We couldn't
get it open."
<1st attachment end>
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format. The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+