The Island – Chapter 4

First time sex stories: The Island – Chapter 4

The sensation of cool water on my forehead woke me.

I opened my gummy eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight that assaulted them. I smelled salt air, and heard voices nearby raised in anger, and others wailing. I turned to the left and was rewarded by a stab of pain in my neck, and a pounding headache. I focused on the dark blur in front of me. A lovely, tanned face gave me an encouraging smile. She continued to wipe off my forehead and said, “God, I’m glad you’re awake! I could use some help.”

She seemed familiar to me, but my addled brain was not putting a name to the face.

“Who…? I managed to croak. She must have sensed my confusion.

“It’s Joelle, Dr. Connor. I recognized you lying on the beach with the other injured. I stitched up your forehead while you were out. Do you remember what happened?”

“What? Where are we?”

“Some island. The plane grounded on a reef after they ditched it. The pilot saved our lives. It’s so tragic he didn’t survive,” she said sadly.

The plane! I remembered now. The guns. The crash landing. But…Joelle?

Joelle was an OR nurse at the hospital at which I had just lost my job. She was Peruvian, and one hell of a surgical assistant. She was also one of my favorite people in the world. What in the hell was she doing in the Indian Ocean with me? She had not been on the plane, too, had she? This was way too much of a coincidence, and I began to wonder if I was hallucinating.

I opened my mouth, intending to say so, but a thought materialized in my mind: Accept.

WTF? I am not a Zenlike person. I do not “accept.” The thought was out of character for me and seemed to have been placed there from outside of my own consciousness.

“Joelle, you can’t be here. This is crazy.” I started to explain why none of this was reasonable, but again, like a neon sign behind my eyes: Accept.

My mouth clicked shut. My headache pounded. Suddenly the whole bizarre string of events seemed perfectly understandable. It was natural that Joelle was here. There were injured people that needed my help, she was my best assistant, and she was there to help me. She stroked my forehead with her cloth again, and gave me the incandescent smile I dreamed of some nights.

Joelle was possibly the nicest person I knew. She was 32, gorgeous, dedicated to her job, smart as hell, and mystifyingly single. I knew she wanted a husband and family, but she never seemed to be able to meet anyone suitable. She was a good girl, raised by religious parents who had emigrated to the US when she was young.

I suspected her reluctance to engage in one-night stands and to troll the internet dating sites were hampering her search for man in the modern era. I had considered asking her out myself, but I had hesitated, fearing in my heart she was too good for me, and did not deserve a dedicated pussy-hound like me in her life. It would also be very awkward and have work implications, since we had a professional relationship. Nevertheless I could dream, and I did.

Her pleasantly plump body appeared in many of my fantasies, fueled by regular stolen glances down her scrub top at her big, tanned, freckled breasts encased in the conservative bras she favored. Her long brown curls draped over her shoulders like a thick cape, and her coffee-colored eyes peered out of a stunning Inca-influenced face that would frequently split open in a luminous smile that lit up the room. She was curvy, with a generous ass that I loved to watch move around the OR as she helped set up my cases.

On more than one occasion I had been treated to the site of her panties peeking over the waistband of her scrub pants as she bent over to pick something off of the floor. Once I had been pleasantly surprised to see a red lace whale tail cradling the top of her luscious bum when she had stretched over a patient to adjust a monitor. Maybe she had a naughty streak after all, I had thought, if she’s wearing a sexy thong to work!

Alas, I had never dared make a move on her. I wrenched my attention back to the present. I knew I should have been freaked out at just having survived a terrorist attack and a plane crash, but somehow I didn’t seem to be overly concerned at the circumstances I found myself in. I glanced around. I was lying on the sand under a palm tree. I was shirtless, and I wondered how much blood I had lost from my forehead. Scalp lacerations bled like shit. Maybe I had soaked my shirt? I did seem to have a lot of blood on me. Joelle wrung out the cloth she had been cleaning me with and re-wet it in a plastic container full of seawater by the salty smell of it.

She ran the cool cloth over my chest and I enjoyed the sensation while looking at her beautiful, familiar face. She was in a pair of tan shorts, and had on a white blouse that gaped open as she leaned over me to wipe the blood off my chest. I was treated to the sight of the lovely, caramel-colored expanse of her chest (no red lace this time, just a plain, white, cotton bra) for a moment, and my breath caught in my chest. She must have caught me staring, for she blushed and leaned back, a little flustered.

“You look like you’re feeling better, Dr. Connor,” she said hesitantly.

“I’ve told you before, it’s Dave. Especially after a plane crash.”

I tore my attention away from daydreams of Peruvian poontang. I had work to do! I sat up, preparing for the pounding in my head to intensify with the change in position, but my headache seemed to have abated once I gave up trying to puzzle out how all this had happened.

“How many injured? “ I asked Joelle.

“A few,” she said. “ A couple of serious ones I want you to look at. For better or worse, most of the badly injured ones didn’t survive,” she said sadly. I understood what she meant. Not having any equipment or medical facilities would mean a slow, painful decline for anyone with a major traumatic injury. A quick death might be preferable.

“There are about 60 survivors. Most of them are trying to salvage all they can from the plane. It’s resting on the reef on the other side of the lagoon. It was your friend’s idea—the one from Tae Kwon Do—she has been organizing things since the crash. She had been sitting by your side until I told her you would be OK, and convinced her to get whatever supplies we could save off of the plane.”

With a feeling of dread I asked, “What about the kids? My students? And the girls from the high school? “

“None of your students were hurt badly, just banged up. One of the cheerleaders and 2 of the field hockey players died. One of the coaches is pretty serious. She has a broken leg and has been unconscious since we got here. All of the terrorists are dead except for one woman. They have her tied up with shoelaces and belts over there.” She gestured behind her toward a patch of vegetation down the beach.

“The pilot and copilot both died. The cockpit took the brunt of the crash when we hit the water. A lot of the passengers were killed by the hijackers, and a bunch more were out of their seats when we hit. None of them survived. You’re pretty lucky you did.”

“Do you know where we are?” I asked.

“The flight attendants think we are somewhere near Malaysia, maybe an island. We haven’t seen any signs of habitation. For obvious reasons they had other concerns than getting a location fix before the crash. They aren’t even certain the pilot got off a coherent Mayday. Everything happened so fast, and by the end we were well below radar. We may be yet another missing airliner that never gets found.” Her voice quivered a little as she said that last bit.

I touched her shoulder. “Have a little faith, Joelle. For some reason I think everything is going to be OK.” She rewarded my with that wonderful smile, even through her tears. “Everyone has done their part while I’ve been out. Let me do something constructive. Show me the injured folks.”

I stood up and she led me to a shady area a few feet away. My first patient was Connor, one of my Tae Kwon Do kids. His left leg was in a crude splint made of sticks. He was a little hellion, but I had a soft spot for him, given that we shared a name. Joelle told me he had a tib-fib fracture, but no displacement. He looked a little peaked, but seemed to be handling things remarkably well. There were multiple cuts, scrapes, contusions, lacerations among a dozen passengers. Some had been patched up already by my trusty nurse, and had joined the salvage detail. Others needed a little reassurance, a suture or two, or some wound dressing. We had the med kit from the airliner at our disposal, and soon made short work of the walking wounded.

After I had seen a few patients, I was happily surprised when Janie came running up and gave me a big hug.

“You’re OK!” she cried happily.

“I’ve got a pretty thick skull,” I said, gently rubbing my new sutures. “How are you doing? How is Jared?”

“He’s fine. Not a scratch. He and some of the other students are organizing the supplies we are bringing back from the plane—sorting them into food, shelter, sleeping gear, etcetera. I figured it was something useful the younger ones could do.”

“I’ve got the cheerleaders and field hockey teams scouting the area for fresh water or food sources, or civilization. A couple of them were in girl scouts and know how to use a compass.”

“Some of the adults on the plane have been on burial detail. Nobody wanted to leave the bodies on the plane. We got the deceased passengers off first so that we could clear out anything useful from the plane without having to see them constantly. The dead hijackers we tossed into the ocean for the sharks,” she finished grimly.

I was impressed. “You have really stepped up here. Who knew you were FEMA material?”

“Well, I’ve led a lot of project teams at my consulting firm. And someone had to start organizing. There weren’t many other candidates.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Most of the passengers from the US were kids,” she explained. “About half of the adults were among those that tried to take down the terrorists and were stabbed or shot. Mostly the men. There were only five or six men among the international passengers, not counting the terrorists, and almost all of them were killed in the crash. Two drowned trying to save their families who had fallen into the ocean when we crashed. The pilot and copilot didn’t survive. The air marshal was killed. One of the flight attendants is male, but he doesn’t seem to be handling the situation very well. I suspect his boyfriend at home is the strong one. He seems pretty fragile. I suspect that if we had more men, one of them would have taken over; it’s in their nature. But other than you, there aren’t many candidates.”