Archive-name: Bondage/fantislr.txt
Archive-author: Gregory Daniel Nikolic
Archive-title: Fantasy Island Revisited

X-Moderator-Review: 9: say goodbye to "Sex Trek"


Contains f/f, D&S, big explosions, and a twisted version of one of
syndication's most beloved characters. Essentially this is Not Nice.

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Copyright (c) 1993 by Gregory Daniel Nikolic. 
This story may be freely circulated via electronic media, but only within the
explicit domain covered by Usenet. The author expressly reserves all other
hardcopy and electronic media rights under International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions.
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    "Tattoo! Dammit, Tattoo, where are you?"

    The richly accented voice boomed out into the lush underbrush of the
Island. Its cultured resonances caused a small flock of tropical birds to
explode in a pack from high trees. Scattered droppings assailed him from high
above. Mr. Roarke swore up a storm in Spanish before subsiding into the Island
patois.

    "When I find you Tattoo..." Mr. Roarke promised darkly, his beautifully
accented words ripe with aristocratic wrath. He pushed his way through the
undergrowth until he reached a wide clearing. Roarke was dumbfounded by
the sight before him.

    Tattoo was frolicking happily in the laps of two native girls. The girls
were bare except for strategically placed leis. He was so engrossed with his
surroundings that he failed to notice the presence of the one man who struck
fear in his tiny heart.

    "Tattoo!" Roarke roared incredulously. Tattoo jumped half out of the two
girls' laps. His small face was a comical mix of terror and startlement.

    "I _cannot_ believe this, Tattoo. I simply cannot. What have I told you
before about..."

    While Roarke lectured, insensed, the two girls bounced up and ran out of
the clearing, breasts jiggling aplenty. Roarke memorized their behinds' ID
tattooes for later punishment. Eidetic memory was only one of his many
talents.

    After a five minute tongue lashing Tattoo looked throughly chagrined and
put out. Roarke gained measured control of himself and tapered off his fiery
remarks with a forgiving smile. 

    "But it's alright, Tattoo. I understand you, too, have your own...
little... needs which must be met." Roarke chuckled at his bon mots while
Tattoo fumed silently. A wave of churlish anger dissolved his guilt like acid.

    "Come to the house tonight. I'll assign a serving girl or two for your
personal enjoyment. Perhaps you'll get to enjoy one of your own fantasies,
eh, Tattoo?" 

    _Yeah_, Tattoo thought spitefully, _You extradited to the US for trial_.
Instead, he smiled excitedly for Roarke's benefit. "Could I, boss? Oh, thank
you, thank you!"

    Roarke smiled indulgently at the man he practically considered his pet.
This contemptuous dismissal was not lost on Tattoo. "It's nothing, Tattoo.
Now, run along. You have house duties to perform."

    Tattoo picked himself up off the ground and ran his naked little body
off into the jungle. Watching the small penis flap in the wind, Roarke mused,
_Much like my favourite boy's_. He strolled out of the clearing with a deeply
self satisfied smile.
 
*  *  *

    The plane was circling now. Tattoo excitedly shouted out his familiar
spiel: "Boss boss de plane de plane!!" The white craft circled once more  
before touching down in the clear lagoon with a faint splash. Roarke put on
his best, most handsome smile for the guests.

    This week's honoured guests stepped out one by one as usual. Pretty
native women handed out leis to each visitor as they set foot on the Island.
One of the smiling women hid a very red behind behind her grass skirt,
courtesy of Mr. Roarke himself. The master of the island believed in
personally administering discipline himself, and at times that discipline took
on wildly bizarre forms, as even he would admit.

    Roarke knew which people would play the main parts in his twisted little
schemes that week. Oh yes. Lise, the wealthy European heiress from
Lichtenstein. Professor Malmstrom of a Sioux Falls, South Dakota college's
English department. Hot young Amy, the Professor's suspicious "travelling
companion". Tall Kirk, on R&R from the US Marines, still outfitted in his
combat fatigues. And of course, the delicious blonde, Samantha. Why she was
here, only Roarke knew, and Roarke wasn't telling.

    "Well," Roarke remarked affably, "I'm glad to have you all here. Tattoo
will see you to your rooms and go over the week's itinerary after dinner.
To preserve the island's quaint charm, we have installed outhouses in lieu of
indoor plumbing. Behind the servants' quarters and to the left." 
 
    Roarke flashed them one last smile, and strode away amidst surprised
murmurs. "Hey, that wasn't in the brochure."

*  *  *

    _This is odd_, Amy thought, staring blankly at the pair of leather
restraints she'd found left on a chair in her room. Other than that the room
was impeccably clean, so it couldn't have been an accident.

    Professor Malmstrom walked out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry.
"What's odd, hon?"  

    Amy held up the restraints. "These. What're they, Josh?"

    Malmstrom carefully kept his expression neutral. They were a pair very
much like the ones he'd brought from Illinois with him. He'd intended to
introduce this aspect of sexuality to his eager young pupil, but it wasn't
he who had left these particular restraints out. 

    Josh didn't think it was the right time to explain bondage to Amy. He
took the leather restraints from her and tossed them into a wastebasket with
a shrug. "Probably nothing, dear."

    He walked over and wrapped his big arms about her. Amy felt the polyester-
cotton blend shirt press against her sensitive skin. The hair on the nape of
her neck twitched. "Josh..." she squirmed within his arms as he planted
kisses on her neck and breasts. "I feel like we're being watched."

    The professor ignored her pliant complaints, unbuttoning her silk blouse
with solid white teeth. He cupped her breasts, savouring the feel of the
sheer bra. "Nonsense. No one can watch us here." He found the buckle to her
belt, stripped it off, and unzipped her jean shorts. _My god she's got a 
tight ass_, he thought. 

    "But Josh," Amy protested half whiningly. In some ways she was still a
little girl. Malmstrom pulled down her white panties. In others....

    "Mmmmm you look good enough to eat," he chuckled. His tongue flicked out
to seek her clitoris. Amy closed her eyes above him and held his thick white
head of hair. She began moving her hips in a slow rocking movement as her
older lover sucked. Climbing, climbing... "Uhhhhnnnn.... That's soooooooooo
good, Josh.... Oh..... Uhn.... Josh." 

    _I know dear_, Josh thought. _I know._ His tongue paddled her clit
furiously. The girl was getting very wet.

*  *  *
 
    Roarke's footsteps echoed hollowly as he moved down the dripping stone
corridor beneath the hotel. Rats scurried somewhere in the darkness. Roarke
tossed them a bucket of KFC extra-crispy wings and left them to scurry over
the fast food garbage. In his other hand he carried an alligator skin
briefcase filled with his own special implements...

    The maze seemed to go on forever but he knew every step by heart. He had
traced this route many a time before, here in his own personal, secret
dungeon. The pleasantly smiling, handsome man contained a hundred hidden
passions. Tendrils of hot white mist curled and drifted on the slick floor;
he was careful with his footing. The mist grew thicker as he proceeded,
billowing white clouds illuminated by flickering torches.

    Roarke rounded a corner and entered a world of steam and heat and cold
stone. The women cried out when they saw him. "Please master!" "Us, come to
us," a pair of buxom white twins cried out with strange, slurred speech. Their
bodies were unusual: too thin, with improbably large breasts that swayed
pendulously.

    Drool spittled their cheeks as they reached out to him. Manacles chained
their legs to a wall, but they reached anyway as he passed, scrabbling for
purchase but grasping only air, crying his name: "Please! Please! Oh please
master we need you." Each licked her lips lewdly and thrust a bare pelvis
at him. Chains clanking slightly as he halted. They grew frenzied with
encouragement.

    "Oh yes... Come to us master," they murmured seductively. They stroked
each other's breasts and bodies, fingered erect clits and sopping vaginas.
Gyrating, their manacles clinked sharply. "Ohhh... it's so nice, master...
mmmmm....wet....touch us...." The women kissed without ever losing eye 
contact with him.

    The larger breasted twin began finger fucking her sister. She leaned
towards Roarke and smiled, licked her lips, nodded at him. Her hand began
squeezing her twin's clitoris forcefully. She gasped. The force increased to 
elicit grunts, but neither minded.

    "Yes?" the girls smiled at him.

    Roarke made as if to turn. They panicked. "Oh no! No don't go! Look!!"
The tall twin abruptly forced her entire fist into the other's vagina. Chains
clinked with the abruptness of the move. Her twin tensed as the fist drove up
but made no other complaint.

    Roarke stopped and walked slowly towards them. "Yes!" they hissed
ecstatically. He looked at them with hooded eyes. Extending a finger, he
rubbed it against the girl as she groaned ecstatically, the taller twin
watching raptly.

    Roarke felt the inside of her vagina and let out a long, slow whistle.

    "Like fine Corinthian leather," he murmured remarkably.

    He drew back and smiled broadly, with compassion. "Are you thirsty, my
lovelies?"

    They whipped their heads up and down fast enough to suffer whiplash. They
dropped promptly to their knees. With their long slim legs folded beneath
them, their bushes were prominent with moisture. The twins stared at him belt
level and salivated hungrily.

    Roarke stepped forward and put his hands on his waist. "Dinner is yours,
my dears," he whispered softly. "All ready to be served."

    They shook tremulously as they unzipped him to extract a hardening organ.
The twins gasped with pleasure as they saw it grow, the deliciousness
overwhelming them. When they reached out and touched it with their hands it
was fully erect. The two stroked its smooth surface. 

    "Ours," they moaned with desire. "Tasty good, yum." They put their lips
around his member and sucked feverishly. Wet slurping noises filled the air
as white mist drifted around them. The taller girl squeezed her tits against
Roarke's leg as she swallowed the head of the penis in one gulp. 

    Her sister teased the balls with her tongue. The smaller girl pulled at
soft testicle skin with her lips, pushing the sacs with her tongue. An
inexplicable hunger struck her as she licked down to his perineum, then moved
to his asshole. She thrust her tongue all the way in, feeling him shudder as
she cleaned his butt.

    Her sister moved down the cock steadily until the whole engorged thing
was lodged comfortably in her throat. She rotated her neck around the tool and
started humming, vibrating the whole surface of it. Roarke pushed her head
very strongly against the surface of his groin as he thrust into her. Her
smaller sister followed motion, sucking deep into his asshole. The blowing
twin moved back off the cock to the glans and started jerking Roarke as she
sucked. 

    Her twin moved from his butt and returned to licking and kissing his shaft
with her sister. They moved in unison, kissing each other, frenching about the
thickness of his shaft. Roarke grabbed their hair with each hand and shoved
his dick between the two of them. They grappled with their tongues and lips
for it, sucking and blowing and nibbling between them.

    The twins gulped him down, switching positions. Squeezing his shaft
lovingly with tight little fists, letting him titfuck each of them, they
worked and salivated constantly. The twins couldn't get enough of the sucking
and groaned when he clutched their large fleshy cups and squeezed. 

    They divvied his cock in two halves and moved up and down the both of
them with suctioning tongues, up and down quickly. Roarke looked down and saw
the girls. Their mouths were amazing, and so thirsty for him... He thrust
forward, pushing them back against the cold, wet walls. 

    His cock pulsed and spit gobs of white liquid over their faces as he
groaned loudly. They sucked greedily, draining him of the orgasm. They licked
the little bits that had escaped them off each other's face, and licked the
floor and walls for tiny specks, kissing each other, fondling each other's
heavy breasts.

     They started fucking frantically. In their delirious thirst for more 
ejaculate, they began tonguing each other and humping mindlessly. Shouts of
female pleasure echoed in the mist. Roarke wiped his limp cock against their
writhing bodies and stroked them as they fucked each other heedlessly with
fingers and mouths and joints. He tucked his manhood back in his pants and
zipped up. He watched them move like animals in heat.

     Standing back, he looked thoughtful. Conditioning.

     Roarke strode off to find the surface and rejoin the outer world, leaving
behind a sussuras of orgasmic cries.

*  *  *

    Kirk was an all-American boy from Iowa. High school quarterback, life of
every party, young Kirk grew up tall and straight. The patriotic man attended
West Point right after graduation. Within a year Kirk was an elite marine
fighting in far off places: the Balkans, St. Pierre and Miquelon... and the
girls of course loved him.

    Samantha sat opposite him, gazing seductively into his eyes as the bright
eyed, bushy tailed blond boy spoke up excitedly: "And then we rode the convoy
from Skopje straight into an ambush! Boy was that dangerous." Kirk giggled.
Samantha wondered brain damage. 

    The young man's abdominal muscles rippled as he spoke, Samantha noticed.
What a fine six pack he had, if unfortunately the boy was as mentally agile
as a three toed sloth on valium. She decided she was getting nowhere fast.

    "Kirk," Samantha said firmly with a lilt of her head and toss of her
blonde tresses. Kirk stopped in mid-sentence, his piercing blue eyes
assuming the same blank look that could very easily be taken for thoughtful
introspection from a distance.

    Samantha stood up, swept back her skirt, and walked around to Kirk. She
leaned into his face: "I...want....YOU." She licked her lips and smiled to
demonstrate.

    "Oh!" Kirk said, and smiled eager as a beaver, for beaver. "You wanna do
it?" he asked boldly, with a touch of the machismo picked up in the Marines.
Samantha nearly changed her mind on the spot. But he *was* awfully cute, and
there were sacrifices to be made. Times of war, and love, necessitated it.

    "Yeah. I do." She picked him up off the chair and led him to the queen
sized bed. She had specified that her room have a large bed. Samantha was
just that kind of girl. They stripped quickly and efficiently, like good
young American couples are wont to do. The loss of the art of undressing
would have deeply disturbed Casanova and other members of that uniquely
European pantheon.

    Propped back on her elbows, with the twin barrels of her breasts aimed at
the ceiling, her folded knees revealed a full, thick bush. Wetly she watched
the muscular young blond waddle forward awkwardly on his knees, dick guiding
his way unerringly to her muff like a divining rod. 

    Kirk reached out with his strong right hand and touched Samantha. The pink
lips of her sex spread easily, as if flapping loosely in the wind. He massaged
her clitoris between his middle and fourth fingers. It fit snugly, wetly, like
a small, fleshy button. Samantha's throaty moans sounded out aggressively as
he stroked her in her most sensitive spot.

    Kirk, being the dull, incredibly horny boy he was, soon dropped his
manual manipulations for more immediate pleasures, moving cock to cunt.
Without further adieu he slid in, buttocks clenched tightly as the two of
them joined in sensual union. Samantha caressed the soldier's cheek as he
thrust deeply.

    "Ugh," he moaned. "Gurgle, ptaa...." He pumped away with military
abandon, the regular discipline ingrained in him from parade drills and forced
marches. One two one two, steady as she goes. Chanting voices filled his head:
"I don't know but I been told..." Thrust, thrust, thrust...Right, left...in,
out... ten-hut!

    "Oooohh." The boy from Iowa groaned softly and spilled his seed deep
inside the girl from California.

    Meanwhile, the virus from Arizona happily continued on its own journey, an
inexplicable RNA voyage of love and self replication.

*  *  *

    The tap on Lise's door came quietly but firmly.

    The Countess of a small Lichensteinian region made a moue with her lips
and approached the door in a long black silk nightgown. She opened the door.
Roarke was standing there, with Tattoo at his side.

    "Yes?" she asked with the common courtesy one member of royalty
traditionally reserves for another.

    Roarke smiled, a brilliant edge of white in the darkened hallway; it was
late. 

    "Ahhhh...Ms. Von Gyros-Al-Bretain de Pont du Fanastra...may I call you
Lise? And may I come in?" The Countess nodded haughty assent. She was a 
beautiful, dark haired woman in her twenties, and yet she had already mastered
the pompous bearing some people took a lifetime to acquire, if ever.

    "Well..." Roarke said, stopping himself. "You may go, Tattoo." The little
man scurried off.

    He turned with a fresh smile for the Countess. "Well my dear, how are you
adjusting to life on our Island?"

    The Countess scowled like a woman waiting to be dominated, to Roarke.

    "It's hot, I'm fast running out of water purification tablets, and these
*people* don't even speak French or English very well. AND room service still
hasn't sent up someone with my pina coloda."

    Roarke raised his hand; lo and behold, he had a very faintly bubbling
pina coloda with him.

    "Bubbling?" The Countess frowned.

    "Yesss -- it's carbonated. Try it, you'll like it." She took a sip of the
drink and smiled. 

    "Hey, not bad. Very much like--" *thump* Out like a light.

*  *  *

    The room was pitch black. The Countess struggled to move before realizing
she was bound and gagged.

    "Mfffflllfllaffl!"

    She sensed his smile. "Yes, Lise. I know. You must be quite indignant."

    Lise felt the nightgown lifted off her body. Her panties gently tugged
down past her ankles.

    "Grrrrrrrmmffft!!"

    The man ignored her and began stroking between her legs in little circles.
Touching the outer lips of her sex, he pulled lightly and moved his finger
just slightly within her silky entrance. He smoothed her vulva with his palm
and pushed lightly against it.

    "Hmphtllahmph? Mfflthapth?"

    His other hand lightly raked downy pubic hair. Without difficulty he
found her clitoris and touched it, once. The Countess stiffened perceptibly.
The shadowed figure touched the rest of her sex's triangle, grazing the
thighs, encountering the belly as he caressed slowly.

    Lise felt him insert a finger and unconsciously moved against it, body
temporarily overruling mind. She regained control of herself and made a
muffled plaintive noise.

    "It'll feel better in a while," his voice whispered to her.

    She felt herself lubricating a little with a sense of despair. He pulled
his finger out and rubbed it against the lips of her sex. The finger was wet.
Chuckling, he moved his hand over her clitoris and tickled it.

    "Mmmmmfmmmm..."

    Slowly he began stroking the erect little clit. Every now and then he
would dip his fingers back inside her to moisten them, returning to stroke
her steadily. His finger strokes were light as feathers and constant. 

    "Mmmmmmmmmm." She felt a stream of warm air pass over her clit and sighed.
Gradually he increased the speed of his manipulations as he moved the other
hand into play.

    Soon her gag was muffling moans. Her pelvis arched, straining to get
closer. His hands moved at a quick, certain pace. Suddenly her dark shape
jerked and froze in silent orgasm. The fingers kept working. Lise was still,
hips thrust out. Suddenly she collapsed on the bed. Limply, she felt her
bonds being removed one by one and the gag removed.

    The Countess was dimly aware of the lights going on. When she opened her
eyes, the room was empty.

*  *  *

    "Something's going on here!" Professor Malmstrom insisted. Kirk, Amy,
Samantha and Lise were gathered in his room.

    "This Roarke, I don't trust him," said Kirk as he ran a 14-inch serrated
knife against a whetstone.

    Lise blushed mysteriously in the corner. She had been seated there since
the beginning of the meeting, staring out the window at a beautiful Island
evening.

    Samantha nodded reluctantly. "He does seem a bit odd."

    "Yeah!" Amy perked up. "And he probably left these." She triumphantly
dangled the leather restraints in front of everyone. Josh Malmstrom stiffened
perceptibly, taking them from her.

    "We have to get away now. Besides, the package deal explicitly states that
if we cut short our trip we get a 50% rebate."

    It was shortly agreed that the party would be leaving.

    "No!" Everyone's head turned to crane at Lise, the European heiress. "I'm
staying here. Don't try and make me go."

    Having all had a taste of her former arrogance, no one put up an argument.
Frankly, she was hurt.

    Malmstrom stared icily at Lise. "She's on *his* side. We have to go 
immediately. Stop only to pack the things you need." He moved to collect his
sex toys and related paraphernalia.

    Kirk stood up. "There's a few things I gotta do first..."

*  *  *

    Roarke looked around the hotel lobby in dawning horror at the array of
explosives set in classic textbook formation. Anger quickly replaced his
horror as he realized who was responsible for this...this...

    Roarke clenched his fists and stuck out his face.

    "K-iiii-iiiiiii-irrrrrrr-rrrrrkkkkkkk!!" he shrieked. "Kiiirrkkk, I will
crush you. Destroy you. Utterly. You will RUE the day you met me on the field
of battle, Kiirrrk. Kiiirrrrk, do you hear me?! Do you hear me Kiirrrk?!"

    The cry echoed through the jungles, toppling a mating pair of red-chested
thrushes, three coconuts, and a Good Humor ice cream cart and its vendor. Kirk
heard the last faded shout and gulped.

    "Boy I'm gonna be in trouble now," Kirk grinned as he pressed the detonate
button.

    The Island blew up in an enormous gout of flame.

*  *  *

    "Phew," Samantha and Amy sighed in relief on either side of Kirk's rugged,
relaxed frame. One of the Island's catamaran makers was expertly flying the
Apache AH-64 they'd scavenged from the air base. The women's hands strayed
into their hero's lap as he directed the native pilot to the mainland based on
the position of Polaris and a two-year-old Farmer's Almanac.

    "Gosh, girls," Kirk grinned, "keep that up and I'm gonna spoo right here
and now."

    They kept it up. And so did Kirk.

*  *  *
    
Somewhere in the Pacific.

    The tall man leaned back against the dingy's stern. He smiled at a
peaceful dark haired woman while their diminutive companion struggled with
a pair of old, plastic oars. Two small boxes were tucked in a corner. Filled
with gold bullion, they were marked "Island National Treasury" and stamped
with the seal of the Roarke administration. The tall man took in a deep,
contented breath and sighed happily.

    "Ah, this is the life, is it not my old friend?"
    
    The tiny man grumbled something and continued to struggle with the oars.

    "What's that, old friend?"

    He piped up, "Nothing boss", and fell silent except for ragged breathing.

    "Ah, yes. That's what I thought."

     There was a moment's silence as the sun beat down heavily and waves
lapped hypnotically. The tall man opened his mouth, and began to sing in his
melodic voice:

     "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily,
merrily, merrily, life is but a dream." He chuckled quietly to himself.

     "Or, perhaps, a fantasy."

THE END

================================================================================

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

    Driven into the wilderness by his peers as a young boy, the author
eked out an existence on berries and wild coca. His life as a rural urchin
would have continued uninterrupted had he not stumbled upon the remains of a
Commodore VIC-20, and some barely functional word processing software. He now
lives the life of an ego-starved dabbler in the writing arts, forever craving
feedback like some sort of cheap, pathetic e-mail ho.
    
    The author can be reached at:  gdnikoli@descartes.uwaterloo.ca

    Thank you.
--