The Island

The island is located off of the coast of Southern Chili and has no arable soil. The sea teems with fish, however, and there is fresh water and an adequate supply of driftwood for fuel. This island is unique in that it also has a large geothermal hot spring. My first visits to the island were spent in erecting a house that is heated by this hot water, giving me a comfortable place to hole up away from people and write.

There are no beaches nor harbors nor any safe anchorage for a ship, so I have everything flown in with me once a year. Canned food and nutritional supplements augment the fish that I net and allow me to stay there for a year at a time. I have a transmitter to summon help, but the helicopter is very expensive and I can't afford to use it unless it is a dire emergency. Solar panels and a small windmill allow me to operate a radio to keep up with news and provide lighting during the dark winter months.

I had just returned to the island to work on another book, and had only been there a week when I spotted what looked like an orange garbage bag in the rocks near where I fish. It wasn't a garbage bag, but rather a survival suit, and the long hair and delicate features of its occupant made me think a girl had washed ashore. It was only when I had carried the emaciated form to my house and removed the wet clothing that I realized it was a boy.

He was perhaps twelve years old and was pre-adolescent, with small genitals shriveled up tight against a hairless crotch. He had no identification and was very near death. My transmitter frequency is only monitored once a week, so he would very likely die before I could summon help.

I wrapped the boy warmly and placed him on the hottest part of the heated floor and waited. The next day he was sweating profusely, so I removed the heavy covers so he could cool off. He was older than I had first estimated, with well developed testes and a penis that was starting to fill out, and it was obvious that he was only a few months away from puberty.

The boy regained consciousness, much to my suprise, a few days later and told me his story.

His name was Peter and he had just turned thirteen. His mother had died a year ago and his dad had sold their Canadian home and set out for a round the world trip with Peter and his older brother. The small sailboat had sunk during a storm and he had washed up on my island. He had no living relatives that he knew about.

His presence posed a problem for me. There was adequate food and other necessities for both of us for the rest of my year long stay, but he would be a distraction for me and that might mean that I wouldn't be able to finish my book. That would mean financial ruin. I couldn't afford to summon the helicopter to remove him, and it would be unlikely that anyone else would call on us. I couldn't just send him away like an unwanted guest so I decided to make the best of it and try and finish my book.

People either like solitude or they don't. I cherished it. Most youngsters have a need for companionship and Peter was no different. I put him in charge of collecting driftwood for the cookstove, hauling in the water, and fishing for our food, This kept him out of the small house for most of the day and gave me the privacy that I require to write. I made a house rule that there would be no talking or unnecessary distractions in the house except at meal time and the two hours every evening that I had set aside for talking, socializing, and listening to the radio. This was hard on the boy, but he had the resilience of youth and he adapted.

By late summer he seemed perfectly well adapted to his refuge. He usually wore little clothing, and he was completely unashamed to bee seen nude. It amused me to see him frolic naked in the hot pool that serves as a bathtub behind the house, and he even had no reservations about being seen using the toilet seat over the sluice that is the sewage system.

He was out fishing one day, and I had just finished my bath and toilet and was in the house engaging in another necessary normal male activity.

I like sex, but my selfish, immature ego and my insecurities concerning relationships had prevented me from marrying. I enjoy women and I frequently take both lovers and prostitutes when I can. I masturbate every few days when I am on the island, as it relieves my tensions and helps me concentrate. I also like doing it. I had just started when he came back in for somethng or another. I turned away in embarrassment, but he just smiled as if it were perfectly ordinary and knelt between my legs. He graped my shaft with a practised hand, took me into his mouth, and fellated me as skillfully as any hundred dollar hooker had ever done. He swallowed when he was done, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and broke the silence by thanking me.

I lay spent and dumdfounded as he collected his forgotten net and went back outside. I spent several hours digesting what had just happened. 'Is this the way kids are, nowadays?' I wondered, 'or is Peter a little faggot?'

I breached the subject that evening and learned that Peter had serviced his older brother regularly, and that both he and his brother serviced their father! Peter had been taught that this was proper behavior for people, and also that it was a necessity if he hoped to enter puberty and become a man himself. His family had been adherents of an obscure religion that held sperm as its sacament. They believed that in addition to being necessary for procreation, sperm was also a good food source that should be shared. It was also revered, and never, under punishment of eternal damnation, was it to be wasted by masturbation. The lip service was his way of trying to save my soul as well as improve his diet.

I had been indoctinated that this type of behavior was not acceptable under any circumstance, so I continued to feel guilty every time he did it to me.

The beautiful warm months of fall gave way to the harsh winter of July, and we spent most of our time indoors. The book was progressing splendidly, and would be completed several months ahead of schedule. Much to my suprise I found that having Peter around actually helped instead hindered my progress. He not only relieved me of the burdens of cooking, foraging for fish and fuel, and cleaning up, but I think his interest in my salvation improved my creativity.

I had not seen him nude in over a month when I noticed that his voice was becoming a little deeper and that there was sometimes a small tent in his bedcovers when he woke in the morning. I decided to have a look at him and see how close he was to puberty, so I had him strip down one day after he had finished relieving my tensions.

His crotch now displayed a very fine smokey wisp of hair, and his testes and penis were noticeably larger. He was also starting to act a little tense and edgy. I reached out and took his circumcised length im my hand and felt it stiffen. He immediately removed my hand and reminded me that it was forbidden.

I will never be able to adequately explain or justify what I did next. I never thought that I would be capable of such an action, it may have been a latent desire, or maybe I subconciously viewed it as an act of kindness, but anyway I took him into my mouth. There was almost no taste to his penis, as he had just bathed. It swelled up in my mouth, and I gave a few tentative strokes with my lips. His began to thrust in time to my ministrations, but although he had the desire and the equipment he lacked the ability to orgasm and I stopped after five minutes.

"Thank you." He said, and added, "your beard tickles."

I finished the book late in the winter, three months ahead of schedule. I radioed for the helicopter to pick us up, and we settled in for the six week wait until the weather improved enough for the journey.

I decided to splurge that night, and we fixed an extra-special dinner. We went out to the hot spring after dinner and soaked for a while. It was pitch dark, but I soon sensed Peter standing in front of me in the warm cloud of steam. He had tried several times in the last few weeks to achieve orgasm, but still hadn't been mature enough. I placed one had on his penis and the other on his back. Just after I started his body stiffened and convulsed, and he gushed his warm, salty, first seed into my mouth. The darkness spared him from witnessing the desecration to his seed as I silently spit it out.

Peter stood in front of me a month later. The down on his crotch had thickened to a curly bush, his testes hung low with fullness, his erection had increased in both lenghth and girth, and he was taller and more muscular. Puberty had descended upon him rapidly and he was requesting service more frequently. His ejaculations were also more intense, and now his volcanic explosions almost filled my mouth.

He had become more adept at pleasing me as he became functional himself, but his enhanced abilities provided me little pleasure. I was worried about how he would cope once back in civilization. His inability to quench his normal teenage desires with self-graticication would undoubtedly result in him commiting forcible rape or sodomy, and his evangelical crusade to save the souls of onanists would be misinterpreted, and he would be ridiculed, beaten, abused, and ultimately infected with a deadly virus. I had saved him from the sea, now I must save him from himself.

I had withheld service from him for a few days, and his belated orgasm was so intense that he never felt the prick of the hypodermic in his hip. He quickly succumbed to the powerful opiate and slept peacefully as I started work.

I sterilized the long nosed locking pliers from the tool kit as well as his scrotum. I then worked each testicle to the bottom of his scrotum, adjusted the clamp to its tightest setting, and crushed each cord in two places. I injected him with a powerful antibiotic to combat infection, and then I iced his testicles down with fresh snow in a plastic bag. I kept him heavily sedated for several days until the bruises had faded and the swelling had subsided before allowing him to fully re-awaken.

His first reaction was one of confusion, and then concern as he realized that there was no feeling in one of his favorite regions.

"You were sick and had a severe fever for a few days." I informed him. "The loss of sensitivity must be a complication of that fever. We'll be back in Chili in a week, and you can see a doctor then."

I serviced him that night, and the testosterone remaining in his body made it a satisfactory experience for him. Two days later he was somewhat impaired, and four days after that, our last on the island, he was impotent. He went to bed dejected, and I went outside and masturbated for the first time in seven months.

I deposited Peter at the Canadian embassy the next day. That was sixteen years ago and I haven't seen him since then.

The novel was a best seller, thanks to a skilled editor and an argressive publicist, and sales of the book and screen rights made he obscenely wealthy.

I returned to the island to write the sequel, but gave up after a month and finished it in my seattle apartment. The public liked that book, but the critics hated it. I married the mist vehement of these critics, and she put up with me for ten years and bore me a son before tiring of my eccentricities. I look at him now, thirteen years old and cavorting naked in the hot spring behind the island home, and wonder what became of Peter.