Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2017 19:25:21 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Shark Reef 1:

This story and its characters are fiction. If any character resembles you
or someone you know, it is pure coincidence and, anyway, I WANT DETAILS you
lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the
author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Don't repost it
anywhere. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like
when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to
GET to the XXX store. You whippersnappers don't know how good you've got
it.

This story (eventually) involves sex between consenting adult males; if
that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee
to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some
below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs
are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use
protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I will not tolerate folks who flame others;
please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and
weave you and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry
like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

*****

Shark Reef 1: De Plane! De Plane!

by Bear Pup

*****

So let's skip to the chase, because up until Sunday (maybe Saturday), my
story is just another Hollywood mess. The flight took off from Brisbane
about 30 minutes late on a rainy Sunday morning for arrival in Los Angeles
very early Sunday morning. Yep. We were to leave at 10:20 AM (actually
10:55) and land at 6:00 AM on the same fucking day. I hate time zones. So
anyway, depending on where we ended up, could be Sunday, could be
Saturday. Anyway, it was dark, that's for sure.

I was cruising this adorable stewardess, not much in the tit department but
what a walk. She's started to warm to me and, since my home base was not
far from LAX, I was definitely hoping for a 'lay'-over. All a guy could do
watching her from behind was think about those hips doing that on
his... damn. Adjusted myself quickly before Grandma Noses in the next seat
saw and made another pointed comment about my marital status and her niece.

That was instantly no longer a problem as the aforementioned stewardess
shot sideways and vanished as the emergency exit went bye-bye just twenty
feet in front of me along with two rows of passengers. I hoped they obeyed
the 'fasten seatbelt' sign. It would suck not to plummet to your death with
a tray table. Everything in the plane went flying. And a dozen of the
nearest passengers quickly went into the void.

Me? I was buckled in. It had become a habit for me when flying just as when
driving, and it never bothered me. The plane started to turn and dive as
the little yellow "You're Going to Die" masks popped down. 'If someone near
you needs assistance, secure your own mask first...' Done! '...then check
on your fellow passengers.' Grandma Noses was staring blankly straight
ahead, but it was clear she would not be needing a mask. Something,
probably the laptop she's been fooling with, had crushed her throat.

The next two hours were unfathomable. The pilot got us down far enough that
we could breathe again and had turned any number of times. There was no
communicating with anyone between the wind, the engines and likely popped
eardrums from the sudden depressurization. I was in a daze, taking in odd,
fragmented snatches of sensation.

Some idiot getting up and getting smooshed against the ceiling on another
sudden maneuver, then whisked into nothingness. A toddler calmly toddling
down the aisle, completely unfazed. A book levitating -- during some wild
gyration and constant wind, it was like the entire plane was simply moving
around that book.

Next was darkness, HUGE sound, no seat, no plane. Cut on the arm. Pain!
Water. Underwater! Light above. Kick off. See moon. Breathe. Big
wave. Little wave. Big, BIG wave. Water. Big Wave. Sand under
water. Stumble and fall. Sand above water. Crawl. Drier sand. Crawl. Really
dry sand. Collapse. Completely fail to die. But you guessed that last part,
since I'm writing this and I am not a ghostwriter. Seriously, like I could
resist that pun?

*****

Urg. World's worst fucking hangover. All sticky and sand everywhere. Passed
out at Tiki Hut? After dance-a-drink-a-thon? Maybe. Where's the beach
chair? There's always a fucking beach chair when I pass out on a beach!
Soft sounds. Waves. Soft, lapping SHUT THE FUCK UP MY HEAD HURTS
waves. Wish they'd invent remotes to turn off waves. And sunlight. Click!
Darkness! Quiet! Thank you!

I gradually came out of it and remember the plane, the water, and why I was
really pissed off about waves in the first place. I opened my eyes and
quickly closed them. The hangover part was very, very real. Nausea,
headache, all of it. But not from drinking apparently. Shielded eyes and
tried again, a little at a time. I was sitting on a bar of sand about the
size of two football fields end-to-end. The far end has trees, plenty of
them from the look of it. From the flotsam, it looked like I was perhaps a
dozen feet above the high-tide line.

I looked around for the wreckage. Outside of the seriously-freaky shit like
Malaysia Flight 370, there is *always* wreckage. And don't forget that the
vast majority of plane parts float. As do people and luggage. I stood, then
sat unexpectedly. Tried again a few times until I was upright. No wreckage,
no oil slick, no... bodies.

I could see a few items along the near side of the beach and headed towards
them. A roll-aboard suitcase in the obligatory black is the first item, and
I opened it. Woman's crap, but a couple bottles of water snagged when we
got on the plane. I downed one of them in a single gulp and stuck the other
in my pants pocket.  I zipped the bag back up and dragged it well above the
tide line.

Next was a small carry-on, obviously another woman's but one with a things
for the beach, maybe even an athlete. Lots of lotions. I pulled out a spray
bottle of SPF six billion and coated my neck, face and arms, the last with
a shout. There was a livid cut down nearly the length of my triceps and it
did NOT like whatever was in the sunscreen! There was also a huge, pink,
frilly sun-hat like the ones Aussie chicks always wear. Fuck fashion; the
sun was killing me! I slapped it on my head and dragged the case further
from the water.

I next spotted one of those huge duffels that is about ten times the
"Nothing larger than this box" box. Bright red. As a constant flier, I
loathe people who hog the bins. It was bobbing in the surf, top just barely
above the water. I waded in and dragged it up and started looking through
the zillion pockets and pouches. Eureka! A snorkel, mask and fins in a mesh
dive bag! Tourist grade trash with a resort logo, but at least I was less
likely to starve.

Perhaps twenty yards off the beach, I could make out another bag, dark
green against the crystal-blue water. I pulled on the mask, leaving the
snorkel and fins. I laid face first in the shallow water and checked the
seal. Not bad. Spit for anti-fog and a quick rinse, then snugged it on. I
moved to knee-deep water and bent to swim out. I was back on the beach
before I could blink. Right below the bag, in water no more than a couple
yards deep, was a serious-sized black-tail shark. Not as much a killer as
the Tiger or Bull, but still a real threat. Hey! Stop with the surprise. I
watch Animal Planet, too.

On reflection, I thought through the other things I'd seen. The swaying
coral fans had the yellow-white tips that, to me, screamed fire coral (more
like evil fucking anchored jellyfish) and I saw several striped
flashes. Until proven otherwise, I'd treat the area as having a healthy
(unhealthy for me) lionfish population. Great. Lovely. Plane coulda dropped
me in Bora Bora or a nice resort island with leis and lays galore. Nope, I
get an episode of Pacific's Most Deadly. Sigh.

So that backpack was off the list, at least for now. I pulled the duffel
with me to next sixty yards to the tree line, intent on going through
it. Yeah, yeah. I know. I was supposed to go through the whole "rescue
coming any minute" and "check the cell phone" thing. Or maybe "Is this
actually Purgatory?" question. Sheesh. Uma Thurman and Matthew Fox already
covered that. I was there. It was hot. There was no wreckage. I didn't care
if it was a weird dream, bad drugs, coma-memory or really happening; I was
exhausted, hot, sweaty and aching in muscles I didn't know I had.

I was about ten yards from the blessed shade when a loud, slightly-panicked
male voice rang out. "D-Don't come any C-Closer! I- I'll shoot you!" I
didn't even pause.

"Then fucking shoot me, jackass. But unless you're an Air Marshall, you're
probably going to just throw a coconut at me. Now if you don't fucking
MIND," I plopped down in the sand against the nearest tree, "I'm gonna
catch my breath. Or you're gonna shoot me. Your pick."

I peeled off my shirt and mopped my face, floppy hat now turned into a
fan. Out of the deeper shadows crept a very wary, obviously freaked young
guy, maybe college age if that. Jean shorts, no shirt, barefoot. Milky
skin, red-blond hair and more freckles than brain cells from the look on
his face. Had the whole rail-thin thing going like a Burberry ad in the
back-of-seat Air Mart. I think, 'I hope for your sake this is a dream,
dude; you're gonna look like a lobster by sunset.'

"Cop a squat, kid. What have you found so far?" I took a swig from my water
bottle and watched his eyes widen as he licked his parched lips. Half the
movies, some guy starts to hoard everything. Dude, if they don't find you
in 24 hours or so, you're gonna die anyway. Why be a prick about it? "Have
some water, kid."

He moved forward, swear to God, exactly like a squirrel going for a peanut
in fits and starts and then jumped out range immediately. He downed that
bottle like I had the first. "So, answer the question. What have you
found?"

He just stared. Sigh. I travel everywhere for work, so I can usually guess,
but a red-hairs milky-white kid with freckles. They don't MAKE that model
outside places where English is not the language of choice.  He's not deaf;
his challenge earlier didn't have any of the vocal signs of that
affliction. And that challenge was in English. He was eyeing me the way I'd
look at a grenade.

"Kid, we're gonna get rescued." His face lit up. "Or we're gonna die
here. Like, in the next few days." His jaw dropped. Apparently, wherever he
was from, honesty in the face of certain death was not normally on the
menu. "So let's just work together, huh?" With no response, I turned back
to pillaging. The duffle was a treasure chest. Apparently the property of a
bodybuilder or health freak. There were a dozen
just-small-enough-for-air-travel pouches of protein drink mix. Nope, not a
health freak. I find a handful of posing straps.

Next surprise was small pack inside the larger bag. I smiled. Smart
fucker. I've known business travelers like this. Try your damnedest to get
you megabag onto the flight and, when forced, pull a right-size one out
with essentials. Nope. Wrong again. Instead of the 'just what I need to
fly', what was inside was even better. A small water kit, camelback,
protein bars, more sunscreen, bug repellant, first aid kit, space-blanket
-- a hiker's pack.

Rest of the pockets: Small electronics, dop kit, all the usual. The clothes
were useless. The shirts were the size of tents and the pants had waists
about the right size to be a cockring.  Big, I meant HUGE collection of
pill bottles. I glanced at the labels. Oh, to have internet. The labels are
in what I'm guessing is Russian. Yay.

For reasons I can only call anal-retentive, I neatly repacked the bag,
putting the least-useless items in the outer pockets. I flipped Mr. Quiet a
protein bar and eat one myself, slipping the water kit into my
pocket. Donning the über-fashionable pink floppy hat, I dragged the
other two bags into the shade and repeated the inventory. I giggled and the
kid looked at me like I'd grown fangs. Sorry, I couldn't help it when I
thought, 'Well, we'll never run out of tampons!'

I stood up again and looked at the kid. "Okay. Since you've decided not to
talk and don't appear to have any real use, I'm going to call you SALLY."

"Hey!"

"Oh, now you speak? So, Sally, what have you found?"

"I'm not Sally! Stop calling me that!" He was blushing as only an Irish kid
can. The voice was definitely from that Emerald Isle.

"Not until you -- 1 -- answer the fucking question and -- 2 -- giving a me
a reason not to... like telling me your name. Actually, I kinda like
Sally. You look sorta like a Sally."

"Stop that! It's mean! I'm Ian. I h-h-haven't found anything. I w-woke up
in the trees and saw you coming for me."

I heaved a huge sigh, "And you were just gonna sit here and, what, starve?
Get your ass in gear, Sally, and help. Until you do, Sally is the only name
you're getting." I turned and walked off, and felt more than heard him
follow. I skirted the edge of the trees on the same side the bags had been
floating and found a backpack and really expensive leather bag. I checked
the embossed logo. Yep. Hulme. The carryon cost more than my Biz Class
ticket.

"Yo, Sally! Catch!" I slung them both to a furious Irishman who was smart
enough to stash them with the others instead of mouthing off. He was back
with me shortly.

"There!" He shouted and was ten feet out, about knee deep when I yelled.

"FREEZE! DO NOT MOVE!" It was like he was a stop-motion toy, instantly
inert. He'd been headed for a light-green bag with huge handles. "Son, Ian,
turn around and come back, try to step in about the same places. I know for
a fact that there are sharks, and pretty sure of fire coral, not to mention
other nasties. You're barefoot, kid, don't be stupid."

He came back, stepping gingerly in the insanely-clear water, eyes the size
of saucers. He leapt the last few yards and stood quaking. "Come on kid,
Ian, let's get you protected from the sun and talk a minute. Turned out the
Hulme piece had clothes that would only look ludicrous on his slender
frame. I sprayed him with SPF Nuclear War then handed him a shirt (very
nice, very fashion-forward) which he shrugged into, then a pair of
pants. He stared at me, clutching the garment in front of his body. "Fuck,
seriously? We're deciding whether we're gonna die and you're bashful? God's
sake, Sally. Grow a pair."

I had the decency to go back to rummaging. The shoes were not completely
useless. They had fine leather soles but would be slippery as fuck in the
water. I looked up in time to see Ian turned away from me, struggling into
the too-big pants. I filed away the facts of 'went commando' and 'not bad
ass if he were a chick' then dove in search of a belt.

He just stood there. Not his fault; without both hands, he'd be nekkid
again in a heartbeat. I finally gave up and went to the Frilly-Lady bag --
I was already started applying mental tags -- and pulled out a red belt
that would likely fit, then turned to Beach Bimbo and retrieved another
floppy sun hat. It was a shockingly-lurid turquoise.

Ian literally scowled at me, mutinous at the colors. "Look at it this way,
kid. With me in pink and you in that, we've a better chance of getting
spotted." He jammed it on his head, sadly forgetting the belt
situation. The tail of the shirt hid his junk, but he reacted as if I'd
barged into his stall in the men's room. Whatever.

While he got himself sorted, I grabbed the mask again and tent-shirt from
Lunk-Lunk's bag. We soon set off, him awkward in the too
big... everything. And me already sweating in the shirt but glad for the
layer of sun protection. Went around the other side and found that the
trees all the way into the water. We'd have to wait for low tide to check
there, or venture into the mangroves or whatever these things were. Not a
nice thought. I looked out and saw nothing, nothing at all. No bags,
wreckage... Coast Guard helicopters. Sigh.

I used the mask as a leaky dipper and fed some of the water into the
purifier. To my indescribable sadness, the result was just as saline as
what it started as. Apparently (like I knew how the fuck they worked) you
couldn't use it to make salt water into fresh water.

Back around. We found a large backpack actually in the trees and the type
of canvas bag that only old ladies used, both well off the ground. Okay, so
that's why no wreckage, at least right here. The plane had still been
airborne when I, and the luggage, had been sucked out. And Ian.

We found nothing else before reaching a relatively narrow channel washed by
waves as the tide began to move out, water flowing from my left to right. I
could make out the next sandbar-island, with a much larger group of
trees. I looked down and a very large, very fast shape shot through the
channel. Make that 'a much larger group of *completely-inaccessible*
trees'.

I followed the arc of what I could see. The islands were perhaps a
half-dozen feet above the tide-line at most, so trees would be all I'd see
more than a few hundred feet away. I spotted a few other places where they
stood as I turned in a slow circle and was able to sketch the outline of
what was a clearly an atoll. The good news was that the luggage (at least
that we could see) had fallen inside the sheltered lagoon and was thus
unlike to wash away. The bad news was the sharks didn't fucking care.

By the sun, I guessed it was midafternoon. We trudged back to the trees and
began the rip into the new bags in detail. The Hulme suddenly caught my
attention. I'd rifled through it quickly, but really didn't take any time
on what was obviously a Tumi shaving kit. Until I noticed that there were
three such in there. And me oh my did the third one have a
surprise. Handcuffs, both metal and leather, and a variety of interesting
toys appeared. Ian's eyes got bigger with every item revealed, and his jaw
dropped complexly when the front compartment yielded a TSA-approved clear
baggie with, you guessed it, about nine flavors of lube.

"Apparently, Ian, a gay couple someplace was going to be having extremely
uncomfortable sex..." assuming they lived, I silently amended. The small
bag I called Old Lady yielded a massive skein of wool and knitting
needles. Seriously? I can't bring fingernail clippers and some old bat can
bring a pair of sixteen-inch steel stilettos? WHF?  Strike that, *several*
pairs of various-length ninja death needles. Yowza.

The kid finished sorting what might well have been his own backpack going
by contents. Under a scrunched-up hoodie and a couple of those little hats
that look like stretch-beanies, were every electronic gadget known to
teendom. Better was the TSA baggie stuffed to the breaking point with
sample-size bottles of every hair and skin product ever invented. It looked
like someone had robbed a high-end salon and the backpack was their getaway
vehicle.

Overall, we ended up with much better haul than I expected. Two
smuggled-aboard (would love to know the woman's secret) one liter bottles
of Ph8 water and just short of a dozen of the smaller bottles handed out as
we boarded the plane. Everything -- EVERYTHING -- else was a distant second
in importance. Overall, assuming the kid and I were the only survivors, we
could last at most three days with the water in those bottles.

I sighed deeply. "Ian?" He pulled his attention from an earphone thing he'd
been exploring. "Ian, I need you to focus for a minute. You with me?" He
nodded, brow furrowed since I'd apparently interrupted a VERY important
track from WhoTheFuckCares. I decide to start slow. "Water is going to keep
us alive Ian, you with me so far?"

He rolled his eyes. "I read Dune. 'One date palm requires forty liters of
water. A man requires eight liters. A palm equals five men. There are
twenty palms out there--one hundred men.' Duh." He eyes widened suddenly;
apparently he could also do math.


"No, Herbert -- yes, I read! -- had that wrong. You need two quarts, I
forget what that is in metric--"

"Under two liters."

"Oh, um, okay. Under two liters to survive each day. So here's the choice,
Ian. Stretch it out and hope, or drink when we're thirsty and die
tomorrow." He gave me a clear Are You Brain Dead look. "I agree, but that
means we have to guard this stash above all. Nothing else matters. Get me?"
He nodded. "Also, we need to leave the shade at night, if possible, to
limit our loss. You with me, Ian? Now, anything you find help us get out of
here? No sat phone? Shortwave radio kits, Ian my boy?"

Ian shook his head. "Um, thank you for stopping the 'Sally' thing. I'm
sorry if I was a bit useless at first. But, um, what do I call you?"

I blinked. He was right, I never thought to tell him my own name even as I
teased him about his. "I'm Jason, Ian, but everyone calls me JB. JB
Cantrell." I reached up with an offer to shake, and Ian smiled.

"Good to meet you, JB. Ian Doyle, at your service, sir." When our hands
met, something truly bizarre happened. It was like my entire body
tingled. From the shock in his eyes, something similar happened on the
other end of the handshake. I held on for longer than I'd held any
handshake in my life, trying desperately to understand that rush
of... something. A thousand thoughts flashed, all of them sexual and none
of them, not one, featuring a creamy little wisp of nothing. What the FUCK
was going on?

<eof>

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