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Mango Madness

A buzzing wakes you up.

Not the swarm of bees in a flower garden, or your air conditioner after the compressor kicked over, or your old coffee grinder if you left it on after all the beans had been atomized. No. It's just the buzzing of your overactive, undertaxed mind. You've slept and overslept until queasy, popeyed wakefulness is your only option.

You get off your bed of leaves and stretch, looking out at the endless sea.

This is your world; this is your hallucination: There's you and this girl stranded on an island the size of a Walmart parking lot. Palm trees and mangoes and scrub grass, bubbling freshwater, the rotting clothes on your backs, your Swiss Army Knife and fire. Passion, too. And History.

A curtain of dullness drops over everything, wraparound sunglasses for your mind.

"Good morning."

She's already got breakfast for you both at the driftwood coffee table. A sliced mango, a clam, and yellow stuff. "What's the yellow?"

"That's egg. Remember the nest?" She's smug; she thinks she's better than you, but doesn't care whether you know it or not, as long as she does. You marvel at this quality.

"It's good," you say, eating your morsels with a fork you'd whittled. She eats with your second, better rendered fork. She's done some whittling of her own.

"Thanks."

After breakfast you sit, back against the driftwood table. "So what's new?"

"You're real funny, you know that?"

"Just trying to keep positive," you say, laughing, and again comes that smug look.

"Junking?" she asks, when you get up again.

"Like every day."

You slowly follow the perimeter of the beach down to the far side of the island. Nothing new has washed up. Your best find was a half- gallon milk jug, now holding your drinking water.

On the far side of the island you stare at the same nothing on the opposite horizon, watching the waves roll in, foam up and recede, roll in, foam up and recede, roll in, foam up and recede, roll in, foam up and...

...this wasn't fair.

Or, maybe it was. Maybe you wound up here by choosing not to choose, freed from the responsibility of making a decision; if you don't decide which donut you want, when confronted with the full selection including both the limited holiday flavors and manager's specials, the pressure of making a bad decision is lifted.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you should have picked a donut after all. Or gotten a dozen assorted ones, and tasted all of them until you were full without committing to any one particular flavor...

No. That's gotten you in trouble already.

You need things. Other things.

A small crab skitters around by your feet, but you leave it alone; that's a tease, not a meal.

You go tend your crops, touching each mango. No ripe coconuts yet.

Dinner is more formal than breakfast. Courses, condiments, more whittled silverware. Tonight- flame broiled seagull dumplings flavored with a light mango sauce, and pulped mango for dessert.

For dinner you both sit on the log facing each other, hoping that looking at one another is preferable to staring at the ocean waves roll in, foam up and recede. Roll in, foam up and recede. Roll in, foam-

"You like the dumplings?"

"Sure."

"What?" Trouble.

"Nothing. Wish we had a bigger menu, is all."

"Sorry."

"Whatever. Forget about it."

"I've been trying to forget about a lot of things."

After dinner you wash the dishes and then you sit facing the water together as the sun sets.

Like a nervous high school sophomore you lean back to stretch first and act like it was an accident when your arm drapes across her shoulders.

"Sunday already?" she laughs.

You kiss her cheek.

She lets you. You can't touch her lips and she won't return the affection, but she's letting you kiss her.

When your hard cock bulges inside decaying jeans, she grabs it.

"Are you sorry?" she asks.

"Yes, yes, of course," you say.

"Would you be sorry if I wasn't the only pussy on this island?" Smug. She releases your throbbing dick and pushes herself back a couple feet. "You would have left me for her in an instant."

"I only told you what I did because I care about you enough that I felt guilty and had to be honest about it."

"You fucked some girl you met in a bar."

"And I'm sorry and I love you." You stare and stare and stare and this never gets old or stale or boring, and she slips her hand back into your pants long enough later that she doesn't think that you think that she's been bullied or submitted into touching you because, in fact, she has not. She could withdraw her hand at any moment and you know it and she knows it and she's smug about it and you would be too, if you were her.

There's a tapered driftwood rod you whittled to have just the slightest upward hook at one end. You'd polished and filed it with handfuls of wet sand to achieve a satin texture. She hands it to me.

"Kiss Her."

You do, gently kissing the rounded tip, wetting your lips. She's watching intently so you kiss Her again, harder, licking as you slide Her into your mouth and glide the cool, smooth wood over the moist velvety wetness inside your lips and cheek, running your tongue over Her, moving your mouth around Her, twirling Her a little, the hooked end meeting the underside of your tongue and the roof of your mouth as you slip Her in and out of your mouth until spit spills down your chin and you're startled when she lays her hands over yours and you realize your eyes have been closed as you loved this new part of her, this extension of her, her will embodied in a piece of driftwood.

She kisses you, fingers lacing between yours as she separates Her from you, taking Her away and reluctantly you surrender Her and the sea air is cool against your sweaty, open palms. Instantly you miss holding Her and she kisses you again and you slowly sink to the sand below.

You kiss her, all over, her lips, her chin, her cheeks, working your way down her neck, spending some time tasting the hollow of her throat and the ripple of her shoulder; the salty, silky skin stretched taut over her collarbone fascinates your lips as you make your way south to her breasts. Her nipples draw tight and she presses your head into her chest and moans and you lick them, tongue circling and when she slips the driftwood piece between them you kiss Her, too, moving back and forth between all three as they meld into a one, into her, all of them a part of her that you might please.

She licks her fingers slowly and grips your skinny ass cheeks and spreads them, thrilling you as her wet fingers make their way to your asshole.

She circles your rim once and enters; your breath catches as first her fingernails and then the pads of her fingers open your asshole and dip inside. Your ass cheeks sadly clench for a second out of a reflex you've desperately attempted to shed over these encounters. What started as a punishment, her payback for your shameful betrayal has evolved into a new way of things. Because submission is an act of free will. When you have no choices you're freed from the burden of choosing.

It wasn't presented to you that way, of course. She'd warmed up to you one night in the early days after your confession; kissed you and played with your cock and told you that she wanted to put something inside you precisely to prove that she was more trustworthy than you were and that you'd have sex afterwards. You'd agreed, and, afterwards, after that initial, thrilling probing, she'd refused. You called her a liar and all she said was "This is how betrayal feels. Welcome to my world."

She sinks her fingers into the skin of an overripe mango, rips down the length of it and smears thick, pulpy juice all over Her.

She kisses you, biting down on your lips as she brings Her to your warm, loosened asshole and slips Her inside, the bulge of the hook on the end tight for a second and you moan and she slows down, kissing you, twisting Her like a corkscrew, the veins and tendons in her wrist popping through her skin and the sight of her muscles working as she torques and twists makes your cock get hard, harder, and you grab it.

"That's it," she whispers, pushing Her even further inside you, continuing to twist and you massage your hard cock for a little while with one hand while your other cups and paws at your sack which draws up, hardening, your index finger pressing on my taint as She bumps and rubs it from the inside.

Deep inside you start to itch and seize and finally your ass cheeks clench together around Her, rolling inward as you thrust outward, groaning as you turn inside out, cumming all over. All over the sand, all over your life, all over everything.

The tide washes it away.

She won't kiss you, as you clean off and return Her.

You are home.

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