The Wreck of the Inverness

By Isabella Lamont

The 210 foot tall ship, HMCS Spirit of Inverness, is driven onto a reef during a hurricane in the South Pacific. Of the crew of 65, only 13 survive—4 men and 9 women. They are marooned on a small but beautiful tropical island, a few hundred miles north of the equator. No one in the world knows where they are. An imminent rescue is unlikely.

With the young women outnumbering the men nearly 3 to 1, sexual tensions soon threaten the survival of the group. During their first 3 months ashore, their micro-society breaks down, leading to infighting and attempted suicide. The first mate of the Inverness is Kimbo Largo, a descendant of the Samoan race—he initiates a return to his people's ancient tribal society.

Formal 'couples' relationships are no longer recognized and are forbidden. A form of slavery is established, requiring that slaves do all the menial chores around camp. Tribal members who break community laws are delegated to slavery; essentially ostracised from the main tribe, into a small slave camp a short distance away. To be released from their roles as slaves, they must make themselves sexually available to all other tribal members—male and female.

'Fire circle' meetings are held at regular intervals. Everyone must attend—tribe members and slaves alike. Clothing at these ceremonies is forbidden. As their new Chief, Kimbo reviews events since the last fire circle; work schedules and various camp issues which must be resolved. Finally there is entertainment for the tribe, which tends to be highly sexual in nature. Depending on how the slaves perform during the entertainment sessions, they may be released back into the regular tribe. Soon sexual tensions among the group are utterly eliminated and Kimbo's fire circles are eagerly anticipated by all.

There is some kind of large killing predator living on the island. A young athletic woman named Katy Lang, teaches herself to hunt, using ancient weapons made by Kimbo Largo. Hunting naked, her slim body camouflaged with smeared mud, she eventually ambushes and attempts to kill the rogue animal. She is badly injured herself, and barely makes it back to camp. She is cared for by the entire tribe, most of whom have been her lovers—men and women.

There is one woman who cannot adjust; eventually lapsing into insanity. She tries to murder one of the tribal members, almost succeeding. She is banished from the island; cast off on a hastily constructed raft. A few hours later, she disappears over the western horizon, never to be seen again by any of them.

Two years after the ship wreck, life on the island is so idealistic that many of them wish it could go on forever.

Will it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Isabella Lamont
• Release date: Oct 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310618727

Isabella Lamont

Isabella Lamont is a professional who has been published in several scientific and environmental journals. This writing was terribly dull technical mumbo-jumbo, guaranteed to cure insomnia. A few years ago she and her SO exchanged some highly erotic letters, which they both enjoyed immensely. Isabella decided to experiment with romantic erotica. Here in Smashwords, she publishes her inner self -- highly erotic stories based on her life to date. Let her know what you think.

Book preview

The Wreak of the Inverness

By Isabella Lamont

Copyright 2015 Isabella Lamont

Smashwords Edition

License Notes:

Thank you for downloading this e-book.

You are welcome to share it with your friends.

This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for

non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains

in its complete original form.

All of the characters and most locations that occur

in this story are figments of my imagination.

This story contains many graphic descriptions of

sexual acts. All of the characters involved are

eighteen years of age or older.

Thank you for your support.

Chapter 1

The 4:00 to 8:00 AM watch was Captain Dee Carver’s favorite. Not even the lingering acrid stench of the engine room fire nor the painful burn blisters on the backs of her hands could ruin this beautiful morning as she sat in the darkness of the cockpit.

Now at 5:30 AM, the temperature steady at 75 degrees Fahrenheit, this was the coolest time of the day at their current latitude. They were several hundred nautical miles south of the equator, somewhere in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. It was the quietest time of day too, although she could hear faint activity in the galley below; the cook was starting breakfast for the crew of fifty-five, who would arise at 6:00 AM sharp. She enjoyed this time by herself, presiding over the dawn of a new day, listening to the rhythmic slap of the light chop alongside the hull, inhaling the fragrant morning air. The eastern horizon was hinting a pink glow—it was going to be a magnificent sunrise.

The winds had been light at four bells; the ship actually becalmed for a few hours, the sails hanging slack in their stays. But around 5:00, Dee felt a slight breeze on her cheek and noticed rippling across the sea surface, in the long tapered reflection of the moon. Overhead, twenty thousand square feet of sail rustled and began to gently flutter, the complex spider web of rigging creaking and groaning as though awakening from a sleep. As the sails filled, the rudder slowly responded as Dee swung the six-foot teak wheel, watching the ship’s compass spinning in its cast iron binnacle to their plotted course. Soon the ship was making a steady five knots; heeled over nine degrees from the vertical. They’d stay on this tack, possibly all day. Their speed would increase as the morning trade winds freshened. It had been so calm in the early morning, she’d sent her helmsman below to catch up on his sleep—he was to report back to the helm immediately after breakfast.

A tall slim attractive woman, Dee Carver had worked her way up through the ranks of the Royal Canadian Navy to Master of the training vessel, HMCS Sir John A. MacDonald, based out of Esquimalt, BC. The JA MacDonald was a schooner-rigged, one hundred, twelve-foot sailboat with a crew of thirty. They had been wonderful years, sailing the Pacific Ocean from Vancouver to Tokyo—from the Bearing Sea to Cape Horn at the tip of South America. On that trip, they’d sailed far enough south that they could make out the continent of Antarctica on the horizon before deteriorating weather chased them back north.

On deck, she was an enigma to her crew; long blond ponytail flailing in the wind, her uniform cap keeping it out of her eyes as she scanned the horizon or gauged the luff of the sails above. She was radiant, her curves nicely filling her uniform tunic; her face glowing with health and vitality.

She was a pleasant, fair officer until crossed; then could be vicious, her tongue lashing the miscreant who’d failed to carry out her orders or broken her laws. She occasionally caught crew members with alcohol on board; absolutely forbidden on her command. The young man or woman who’d brought it aboard spent the remainder of the voyage confined to their cabin. Back in home port, she'd court-martial them. While visiting the naval yards in San Diego, she’d discovered her Coxswain, drunk on watch. She’d put him ashore and reported him AWOL. He’d made his own way back to Canada in disgrace, where he too was court-martialed.

But nothing lasts forever. When the Canadian Navy downgraded in the late fifties, they encouraged their officers to consider early retirement. The prospects for a meaningful career in peacetime were bleak, especially for women. Captain Carver resigned her commission in 1960.

There were few opportunities in the world for Masters experienced at sailing tall ships. Carver served aboard a few smaller ones, before finding what she considered the best job on the planet—Master of the two hundred, ten-foot research vessel, HMCS Spirit of Inverness. This three-masted replica of the huge Clipper square-rigged transport vessels of the 1800’s, was commissioned at great expense by a Hollywood studio for a movie, then purchased afterward by an elderly billionaire in Vancouver. He’d hired Dee to sail and manage it for him. Two years later having contracted a terminal cancer, he donated the Inverness to Vancouver’s University of British Columbia, on the stipulation that Dee remain as Master for at least a decade. The university had jumped at this.

Within a year, the ship was refitted as an oceanographic research vessel on which university students could serve an entire semester, doing actual research almost anywhere in the world. The program was highly successful and students from around the globe vied for acceptance into the program. Only the brightest and most suited to ship life were selected.

***

But something prevented this morning from being perfect; the stench of freshly burned rubber and oil, still wafted across the decks whenever the breeze swirled over the mid-ship ventilators. Almost a week earlier, they’d suffered a catastrophic fire. The main 'genny' had seized, exploding in a geyser of diesel fuel, and setting the entire engine room ablaze. They'd lost their auxiliary generators, water pumps, machine shop, the electrical system for the entire ship, and a ton of heavy storage batteries. They were now running under sail for Honolulu, still over two thousand miles to the north, the nearest port at which the Inverness could be hauled out and major repairs made. Dee's ship would require a three-month refit; essentially a whole new engine room.

They had come close to losing the Inverness. Several of the crew had tried to abandon ship, but Carver and her first mate Kimbo Largo had berated them while personally leading the attack on the fire. She had six people in the infirmary with burns and smoke inhalation; nothing life threatening but very sick, nonetheless. One of them was the ship’s engineer, thirty-year-old Derek Jackson—he’d been the engine room when the fire started and tried to fight it, suffering second-degree burns to most of his upper body. After ten minutes, he’d collapsed and lay unconscious at the foot of the companionway leading down into the engine room. They eventually managed to seal that entire section and flood it with fire-retarding foam, displacing the oxygen and extinguishing the fire.

Dee had burned her hands through her firefighting gloves going in to save Jackson, as had several other crew members who tried to fight the flames while the engineer was being carried out. Most were able to continue with their onboard duties.

She visited the infirmary-bound crew members twice a day, thanking each of them—making it clear that the rest of the crew owed them their lives. She promised that once back home, she would be submitting their names for decoration for bravery.

She wished she could call for an aircraft to take Jackson off the ship, but with the loss of their backup power supply, they’d lost communications, too. Besides, there were no airbases within range, and it would be at least a week before there were.

She felt someone moving at her side in the dark; it was Ben Simon, the ship’s surgeon. She heard a clink on the edge of the chart table and smelled hot coffee. She felt for it, lifted it to her lips and sipped. God it’s good.

Hey, thanks Ben, I really needed that... When it was just the two of them, they used their first names. If other crew members were present, it was Dr. Simon and ‘Cap’ or ‘Skipper’.

He didn’t answer; she could feel his hip and shoulder press against hers. The only light in the cockpit was a tiny glow over the compass, fed by an auxiliary D-cell battery. No navigational lights, nor any other lights on the ship were operational—no electronics, no radios, no LORAN, and no radar. This was seat-of-your-pants dead reckoning based on charts, compass, sextant, chronometer, the sun and stars, and fifteen years of sailing experience.

This is why they pay me the big bucks. She smiled to herself, finding in a perverse way that she was actually enjoying this unexpected adventure.

Simon’s hip was warm and felt good pressed against hers, but nothing was going to happen while here on watch. He was an average sized man; moderately muscled for an academic, dark-haired and not bad looking. He was still quite pale compared to the rest of the deeply tanned crew—he didn’t like the sun and spent most of his time undercover. Hidden here in the dark, she felt an arm encircle her and soft lips on the side of her neck. She felt a warm shudder deep inside; he smelled musky and sensual, having just come from his bunk. Then he was gone—it had been an invitation. Their relationship was purely sexual—the most poorly kept secret on the ship.

She could smell frying bacon now, wafting up through a hatch twenty feet ahead of the cockpit and the faint glow from emergency Coleman lanterns. Thank God the designers of the ship had included a diesel-burning stove and oven, in case of power failures. They were frantically eating their frozen food stocks. Some had been moved to the bilge where it was cooler, and covered with blankets and insulation. When it all finally spoiled over the next few days, they would be eating canned food and fish. Eventually, they would arrange for an air-drop of emergency rations when they managed to flag down another ship.

The breeze was freshening; the rigging creaking like it was alive. The occasional cloud blotted out the stars. She could hear a few stray splats of rain striking the canvas cover over the helm and her mind wandered back to the evening two nights after the fire.

Every person aboard was experiencing a physiological hangover from the terror, adrenaline, and shock of the fire. There was no hot water and no showers—every person aboard stank of smoke and felt grubby. Just after 10:00 PM, they’d sailed through a small tropical storm—a thunderhead that produced spectacular lighting and possibly the heaviest rain that Carver had seen in all her years at sea. The rain gauge collected just over three inches in fifteen minutes.

The deluge was so heavy that visibility was reduced to fifty feet—a quarter of the length of the ship. Several of the crew scampered up on deck with bars of soap for an impromptu shower. This lukewarm rainwater, freshly evaporated from the sea, was full of energy from the tropical sun. Soon nearly everyone aboard had joined them.

The night was inky black; they couldn’t actually see naked people around them, except in flashes of lightning every five to ten seconds. It was a surreal scene like a crazy strobe at a dance. Each flash would freeze the image of naked people lathered with streaming soapy water, their arms spread upwards into the impossibly heavy rain to be rinsed off. The droplets were so large, they were almost painful on the skin. The students and crew took to soaping one another; it was difficult to tell who was rubbing and washing who, but it didn’t seem to matter. Strange hands washed the breasts, buttocks, and genitals of the closest person. In the subsiding lightning flashes, many couples writhed on the deck, engaged in spontaneous lovemaking, celebrating being alive.

Dee Carver had been among them with Ben Simon. It had happened quickly; she’d recognized him in a lightning flash and instantly they were in a passionate naked embrace. Within seconds, she was leaning forward against a bulkhead and he was behind her, his swollen cock buried to the hilt inside her, thrusting frantically between her buttocks. Over the roar of the rain on the deck and in the sails, she could hear the rhythmic slapping of his loins on her backside as he pounded into her. She came within thirty seconds of Simon entering her and he came seconds later. His semen poured out of her, instantly washed away as a cascade of blood-warm water spilled from the belly of a sail, nearly knocking the two of them over.

Then as quickly as it had started, it was over. The Inverness sailed out from the deluge into the faint illumination of a waning moon and starlit sky. The bodies on deck lingered for a while; then disappeared like ghosts. The brutal mental strain of the past two days; fighting the fire, seeing close friends injured, and believing the ship was lost, had been debilitating for many of them. The episode on the deck that evening had been a form of spontaneous therapy. Everyone went to their bunks feeling tremendously alive and slept soundly.

Her first mate, Kimbo Largo had been on watch. In the moonlight, she could see that he’d folded back the cover over the cockpit and had enjoyed a shower himself, without leaving the helm. He was pulling his shorts back on when she passed him in the darkness on the way to her cabin.

It had been a magical experience.

For many of them, it would be the last pleasant experience of their lives.

***

Again, Carver sensed someone moving beside her in the dark. It was Kimbo Largo, fresh from his cabin. His deep melodious voice greeted her.

Good morning, Captain Carver. How are you on this fine morning?

Good morning, Mr. Largo, I couldn't be better. How are you feeling today?

He understood she was referring to the fire—he'd inhaled a good deal of smoke during the crises. I’m gonna be fine, ma’am, he replied. Thank you for asking. How about you—how are your hands?

She held them up—Dr. Simon had left them unwrapped, feeling her second-degree burns would heal faster, exposed to the air. I’m feeling pretty good—they're doing well, she said. She and Largo had not yet had an opportunity to discuss the fire at length—she lowered her voice. Hey, we got a little lucky the other day, huh Kimbo?

I’ve always believed that people create their own luck ma’am, but yes, maybe we did; just a little.

What brings you up from your bunk at this time of morning? she asked, already knowing the answer.

I felt the ship heeling in this early breeze and thought I'd have a quick look at the rigging. Anything you'd like adjusted, Captain?

Kimbo Largo’s domain on the ship was the upper deck and all the ship’s sails and rigging. He’d sailed ships of every size and class since he was old enough to walk.

Dee chuckled. If it meets with your approval, then I know it's all good. After breakfast, you and the Coxswain can do a bit of trimming if you think it’s required. The course and winds will be pretty much the same as yesterday.

Those sails have a big job ahead of them, he said.

They surely do.

It was impossible to tell his nationality from his appearance or accent. He was six feet, five inches tall and built like a professional basketball player, although he had never played that sport in his life. His skin was a medium coffee color suggesting African ancestry, but his accent was cultured European, possibly a blend of English and French. Now in his mid-thirties, he kept his hair cropped short; the rest of his body was sleekly smooth and supple, muscled like a Greek statue. Dee had never been invited to his private cabin, although she would be tempted if asked.

Kimbo was a beautiful, powerful man; every female eye watched him as he directed his crew of sailors in the rigging above. His skin shone in the sunlight as though lightly oiled and the muscles along his back, chest, and legs rippled as he stood on a spar, hauling sail or adjusting the tension of a line. He’d lead his crew in song as they did their combination trapeze act and sail maintenance. It was mesmerizing to watch from the deck.

Dee had asked him about his nationality one time. He’d laughed and said that he was a walking ‘United Nations’. His blood was a mixture of Samoan, South African, Irish, English, French, with some German thrown in as well. He was born on the island of American Samoa. His family relocated to England when he was ten. In his late teens, his application was accepted at the Sorbonne University in Paris. In spite of a Master’s degree in anthropology, his true love was the sea and sailing. For the past decade, he’d served aboard tall ships of many nationalities, all over the world.

Then he heard about Vancouver's University of British Columbia acquiring the Spirit of Inverness and contacted them. His resume was so impressive, the university flew him to Vancouver from London for an interview. A week later he’d won the competition for first mate aboard the largest, wind propelled research vessel in the world.

Of the fifty-five people aboard, forty-five were students. Of these, twenty-one were men and twenty-four, women. Their ages ranged from nineteen to twenty-nine. The rest were permanent crew and instructors. But even though the students were primarily concerned with their educations and oceanography, they were still expected to perform other duties related to running the ship.

Kimbo Largo had hand-selected twenty-five students to work with him in the rigging, up to one hundred feet above the deck. His initial choices were based on physical condition—they had to be slim and athletic before he’d take them aloft. He’d weed out the ones obviously ill-suited to the work, leaving twelve or thirteen that he trusted not to fall and kill themselves. These crew members would be ready to climb the rat-lines at moment's notice, twenty-four hours per day. They were the unspoken elite members of the crew.

All but one of them were young men. Katy Lang was stringy tough; more than able to climb with her male counterparts. She was slim and attractive, with a shapely backside and medium-sized breasts—typically unrestrained beneath her deck crew t-shirt. It was easy to get a covert glimpse of Katy’s breasts as she worked, by simply looking upward; she simply didn’t care. If it bothered anyone, that was their problem. With her long dark hair restrained in a ponytail, she scampered through the rigging like a monkey.

Kimbo was a single man and one of only five people aboard with a private cabin. The others were Captain Carver, the Chief Engineer, Doctor Simon, and the cook. The cook’s was the size of a broom closet but still considered a status symbol. Only the Captain’s had a private head.

Katy Lang had spent much of the previous night in Kimbo's cabin, returning to her bunk just an hour ago for a few quick winks before arising at 6:00 AM and breakfast.

If any of her sleeping bunkmates had noticed her drifting past, down the row of gently swaying hammocks, they wouldn’t have thought a thing of it. Many of the crew went up onto the deck during the night when it was too hot to sleep below. They could take a blanket, foam pad, and a pillow topsides, and sleep comfortably beneath the stars.

There were constant liaisons up there, too—crew and students wishing to find a private place to ‘hook up’, away from prying eyes below. On a moonless night, it was impossible to see from one end of the ship to the other. The watch officers might detect movement up near the bow but that was about it. Captain Carver would turn a blind eye—they were human beings after all and needed an outlet for their natural desires. It made for a happier ship.

Katy Lang could have had any man on the ship she desired, but she considered herself bisexual and generally preferred sleeping with other women. Unfortunately, the only other two ‘out of the closet’ lesbians on board were a couple—not interested in other partners.

Kimbo caught Katy's eye the first day she’d come aboard in Vancouver; she’d been among the first candidates he’d chosen for training in the high rigging and she often caught him watching her as she did her chores high above the deck. She suspected they would be together one day—last night seemed like the right time.

It was just after midnight when she tapped on his cabin door. She could hear muffled sounds from inside and the door opened. If Kimbo was surprised to see one of his crew; an attractive young woman standing there, he didn’t show it. Her hair was still wet from the rain squall. He held the door open for her and without a word, she walked in.

She’d clearly awoken him; he’d simply pulled on a pair of the baggy uniform shorts worn by all deck crew. Made from a natural canvas material, they were loose and comfortable for easy climbing. They were tough enough to protect the thighs from the rough manila lines used extensively in the rigging. Katy was wearing hers, too.

Kimbo’s cabin was small but comfortable. Along one wall was a seven-foot bed to accommodate his six foot, five-inch frame; the covers were pulled back. There was a twelve-inch brass porthole open directly above his bunk with a refreshing breeze flowing into the room; redolent of sea air. There was a small desk opposite his bunk with two comfortable padded wicker chairs. He directed her to one of the chairs and he sat beside her in the other.

Two small candles flickered on the desk, the flames protected by old-fashioned glass chimneys. She could smell the burning paraffin and the sulfur-tipped match that he’d struck to light them. She could smell his personal odor, too; musky and pleasant, like a man who’s been working. It reminded her of her father when she was a little girl, sitting in his lap, his arms encircling her on a Saturday night after he’d worked hard all day, settled into his old armchair for a couple of hours of Hockey Night in Canada with Foster Hewitt.

This is a nice surprise, Ms. Lang. To what do I owe the pleasure?

She didn’t answer immediately. "It just seemed like