From the Journal of Olivia Delacroix - First entry.

It’s been nearly twenty-one days since The Golden Dove was blown off course by a truly malevolent storm. Had it not been for the peerless bravery of our good Captain Harrington and the courageous Lieutenant Littlefield, we most certainly would have been lost at sea somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Though having lost our glorious airship and most of our supplies, some of us made it safely to shore, holding out hope that the rest of the crew as well as the missing members of our expedition survived as well, possibly carried by the powerful currents and washed up upon these strange shores elsewhere.

Our party, currently, numbers six, including myself. First and foremost, the aforementioned Lieutenant James Littlefield who has, bless his soul, assumed command in the interim, both the good Captain and my employer, Professor Walter Waites being among the missing. I am confident in his abilities to keep us safe from harm and, eventually, rescue us from this peculiar beachhead upon which I will comment later.

Also among our number is the professor’s daughter Emmaline with whom I have struck up a robust friendship over the course of my tenure as Professor Waite’s personal assistant. She has held up surprisingly well, despite the disaster and the uncertainty as to her father’s fate, and stood as a beacon of hope to the others. A perennially cheerful girl with an infectious laugh, she’s has helped salvage our morale despite her own worries, for which I admire and adore her even more. I should also point out that she is her father’s daughter in many ways and had developed quite an interest in the sciences, a definite boon, considering our surroundings.

Jaspar Fincher whom, until our perilous arrival upon the rock strewn shore, unsettled me. At first impression, he is more brute than man, dwarfing even the most robust among the crew of The Dove in size. The Lieutenant refers to him as ‘The Bull’ and I must agree, it’s a fitting moniker. And yet, he is surprisingly polite, even gentle, when dealing with Emma and I. Also surprising is his nimble mind. He, alone, is able to converse with me in my native language and on a wide variety of subjects, giving me the impression that he has the background of a scholar. When the needs of survival become less pressing, I will make it a priority to open a deeper conversation with him.

Gavin McCross, another of the ship’s crew, is another enigma. He calls himself a cowboy, and hails from the American west. He would best be described as rugged and hardworking. Although he keeps to himself, I would not call him unfriendly, merely gruff. More than that, I cannot say, knowing little of him. Surprisingly, I have caught him making sketches of the local flora and fauna with a pencil in a small notebook. From what I could glimpse, his drawings were surprisingly lifelike. That the Lieutenant favors him makes me glad of his company.

Our sixth member, Carter Grant, had been hired by the Professor as a cartographer, a detail that seems ironic due to our circumstances. He seems at a loss without his instruments, although I suspect that is in large part due to the shock of being castaway upon this unknown shore. In my humble opinion he is our small band’s weakest link and, personally, I find something in his manner disquieting, although I cannot put my finger on it. Perhaps it is the way that his eyes fix on Emma from time to time, or on myself when he thinks I am looking the other way. A gentleman, he is not, and while I try not to make it obvious, I take great pains to never be alone in his company.

Earlier, I made reference to the strangeness of the flora and fauna of this strange place. We have made our makeshift camp above the beach, using a combination of the flotsam and jetsam of our beloved airship as well as what we have been able to scavenge from the lush paradise, and a paradise it is, that surrounds us. Canvas lean-tos shield us from the ravages of the midday sun and the frequent downpours that wash across the beach. The weather is very tropical and even the rains are warm. It soon became apparent that modesty was a luxury we couldn’t afford. By the third day, both Emma and I had shed the veneer of civilization down to our undergarments and the gentlemen, even the good Lieutenant, had shed all but the most necessary of garments, stripping down to suspenders and shirt sleeves or undershirts with the exception of ‘The Bull’ whose uniform now consisted of a pair of breeches torn off above the knee and a pair of sturdy leather boots. I must say, it was an admirable sight that brought a blush to the cheeks of Emma and I when we caught each other stealing glances at his physique.

Colorful and fragrant flowers bloom everywhere, filling the air with scents and smells both familiar and strange. Need had taken us a short way into the lush vegetation on many occasion, to gather the myriad of fruit that seems to grow everywhere. As long as we are willing to go without a well-cooked steak, something I’d heard Mister McCross grumble good-naturedly about on several occasions, we are in no danger of starvation or even privation. Most of it is sweet to the taste and quite delightful, though occasionally we’d discover something bitter, like the pear-shaped berries that grow on the stems of what could only be described as giant daffodils. It makes me a little wistful that Professor Browning isn’t with us. His passion was botany. While we still hold out hope that we have merely been separated from the rest of the survivors, my last sight of him had been moments before a large piece of burning debris had pushed him beneath the waves.

Of the fauna, fish, such as Mister McCross has caught using a makeshift line with a hook fashioned from the broach I had been wearing when we’d arrived, seem fairly ordinary, as do the crabs and mollusks that inhabited the tide pools, except for their penchant to appear twice as big as what one would imagine.

Insects, too, are larger than they have any right to be, something which does plague us from time to time when something resembling a wasp takes too great an interest in our activities and has to be beaten off with a rod fashioned from either salvage or the local flora. It is this fact, more than any other, they keeps us from venturing far from the beach. And then, there are the butterflies, the smallest of which have wings the size of my spread hands, the largest dwarfing even Jaspar’s, and made up of colors I have not even names for. Had I the luxury, I would sit and watch the majestic creatures flutter from flower to flower from noon until twilight. They are the reason we have begun to call this small stretch of real estate Butterfly Beach. Emma and I are both thankful that not a soul has spotted any creatures of the arachnid persuasion. I can only imagine what monstrosities they would be given the size of the other insects and it leaves me with waking nightmares from time to time.

The birds, however, are delightful. Brightly colored and knowledgeable in a variety of musical notes and sounds, creating discordant yet delightful symphonies in the morning and evening hours when they seem most active.

Strangely, there have been no sightings of the mammalian population, although we are sure one must exist, nor anything even vaguely reptilian.

Hopefully, rescue or, at the very least, a reuniting with the other survivors comes soon. Until then, I will do my best to chronicle our experiences knowing that the professor would expect nothing less of me as I am, despite our circumstances, still in his employ.

Olivia Delacroix.

June the 16 th in the year of our lord, 1867.

oOo

“Come, have a look at this, Livie!” Emma called out to me as she made her way through thick blades of chartreuse grass, her auburn hair blowing about her face as the evening winds began to blow in earnest. Although I observed that she held something within the cupped palms of her hands, what it might be I could not say, other than it seemed to excite her immeasurably. Behind her James and Bull (although it was an odd thing one of my gender to call a man, it seemed more comfortable on my tongue than his given name) followed closely behind, both armed, James with the revolver and military saber that had survived with him and Bull with a large club of wood that looked deceptively small in his massive hand.

Had we been elsewhere, I would have had to gather my skirts to maneuver through the overgrown fauna overlooking the beach. Like her, I was dressed in the skimpiest of garments. Had we been back in civilized lands we’d have been labeled as scandalous, or worse, but on Butterfly Beach, necessity had done away with such concerns, leaving us both learning to be comfortable with tattered camisoles and petticoats to hide our undergarments from the eyes of our male companions as best they could.

Curious, I hurried over to her, brushing my blonde tangles impatiently from my face as I peered into her hands at a dozen or so plump berries the color of the ribbons I’d worn as a child; bright pink. I’d never seen the like before.

“Wait until you taste them, Livie,” Emma giggled holding her hands out to me in offering.

“Sweeter than candy,” James Littlefield announced, a little breathless at having to keep up with Emma. He, like Emma and Bull, wore an enthusiastic grin as I plucked one from her palm and placed it on my tongue, biting into it, surprised at the potency of sweetness that overwhelmed my taste buds. He’d been correct in his statement; it was like a little taste of heaven.

“Oh,” I managed, closing my eyes and swallowing, the juices coating my throat and tongue before greedily taking another, much to my companion’s amusement. I had never imagined anything as delightful as the taste of what we would later name lustberries. Nor could I foresee the consequences of Emma’s discovery…

oOo

“Livie?”

Living arrangements had been easy to configure. Emma and I shared a lean-to. It wasn’t much; a ‘bed’ made of the broad flat grasses that grew everywhere, sheltered by what amounted to half of a tent that faced away from the men so we could have the illusion of privacy. While the nights were mostly mild, we found ourselves cuddling while we slept, not for warmth, but for comfort. As much as we both put up a brave front, at night the fears and uncertainties were harder to hold at bay.

Blinking at the sound of my voice, I fought my way back from the edge of dreams, murmuring in French, lost somewhere safe and civilized.

“What is it, Emma?”

She lay facing me, her nose practically brushing mine. Pale moonlight and the curtain of stars that filled the sky providing enough light to make out the shadows of her eyes and mouth.

“I feel strange,” she whispered, her fingers brushing against my arm, her breath shallow and rapid. The heat that spread through my flesh at her touch had me suddenly awake, the concern I felt at first replaced by something else. I felt warmth spreading through my body like a slow wave, leaving me flushed in its wake. It felt like a feathers brushing over my skin from within.

“You feel it too,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing along my upper arm and shoulder until they came to rest, cupping my cheek leaving a trail of ecstasy in their wake. I felt my breathing quicken as the sensation filled me, spreading through my limbs, the majority pooling between my thighs and in my nipples.

“Oui,” I managed, suddenly consumed with lust. For a brief moment I was frightened as the sensation consumed me and then, all reason was washed away by her kiss, a gesture that was not merely the brush of lips against mine in a friendly manner, but born of hunger, pure and undiluted.

While I had lain with several lovers in the past, none had affected me as this one kiss. Without hesitation I slid closer to her, hands brushing over her bare arm in imitation of her advance, and returned her kiss with passion, her soft moan fueling my lust.

“I want you,” I breathed into her mouth. Those were the last words spoken until later, when we lay in each others arms, spent from our encounter. I felt no need for words or explanations as an all-consuming desire rose up within me. Hungry for her, I pressed my mouth to hers and explored her with my tongue while she did the same, lost in our sexual frenzy. I knew that this was out of character for Emma, just as it was for me, but I felt no compulsion to stop as each touch seemed to heighten the sensitivity of my flesh. With fingers trembling with desire, I pushed my hands beneath her threadbare camisole and cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her already hardened nipples as breath escaped her lungs with a soft hiss of pleasure, and fingers slid like the teeth of a comb through my unwashed blonde tresses.

While no words passed between us, we were not silent. With only the language of our bodies to converse, we were left free to make all manner of lustful noise. Her kisses upon my throat drove the last of my good sense from me and made me burn from within. I could feel the heat of my pussy, a word I would never had used before that moment, radiating as she cupped it through the material of my petticoat, a flood of musky sweet discharge soaking my silk panties. Gasping, I tore open her camisole and fastened my mouth to her breast, sucking on her swollen nipple, my rough tongue flicking against the tip.

Nimble fingers pushed my drawers aside, causing me to bite down harder as they invaded my soaking cleft, her slender finger filling me, clumsily at first, and then, less so. Emma had always been a clever girl and a quick learner. I gasped with pleasure as her thumb discovered my swollen button, brushing and rubbing against it. Although normally sensitive, I had never before felt such pleasure burst inside of me and climaxed with a full-throated moan partially smothered by her soft breast and stiff nipple. Rather than relieving the sexual tension that held my body taut, my orgasm only seemed to heighten it. I felt my senses reeling, my thoughts scattering like pollen on the wind as she continued to finger me, her mouth seeking out mine, prying it from her firm bosom and filling it with her tongue. Spurred on by whatever it was we were feeling, I pushed her petticoats and drawers down and thrust my hand between her wide spread legs, letting the slickness of her inner thighs guide me to her mons, mirroring her movement, a single digit peeling her open and pressing between her petals.

Her thighs closed on my hand, trapping my arm between them as if to make sure I didn’t regret my actions, and she began to roll her hips forcefully, thrusting against my hand and driving my finger in deeper. Without conscious thought I extended a second finger and then a third. I could feel her pussy pulsing frantically as her muscles clenched and she climaxed with a cry muffled by the hot kisses we were sharing. I was unable to contain the flood of her nectar as it leaked out and spilled down my forearm. A distant noise made me peripherally aware that our companions were similarly engaged. For a brief moment I felt envy, jealousy even, that it was not I who was impaled by the Lieutenant’s prick or the Bulls, wondering if his manhood was as large in stature as he was. Strangely, their homosexuality did not bother me in the least, not that I dwelled long upon it, seeing as Emma strove to distract me with great enthusiasm, using her fingers to – fuck me. A crude word, admittedly, but so apt at the moment.

She moaned again, rolling me over on my back, her mouth descending down my vulnerable throat, the playful kisses and nips she delivered making my blood boil as she made her way south, forcing me to pull my fingers from her dripping pussy, releasing her pent up juices to sluice all over my thigh.

The musky sweet scent of sex and perspiration assailed my senses until I thought I might drown in them, so thick did they cling to us. I found myself suddenly divest of petticoat and drawers, Emma’s mouth fastened to my cunt – another vulgar word that would have shocked me before the moment, and yet one that I came to embrace as I felt her muscular tongue push past my outer lips and spear me like a prick. So overcome with bliss at her invasion, I climaxed again, much to her apparent delight as she lapped and sucked until I thought I might pass out, forcing yet another orgasm from me before reversing her path and kissing her way past my rib cage and breasts.

I am not sure if it was my doing, or hers, so fevered was our passion, but by the time she mounted herself upon my face, her thighs to either side of my head, finger woven into my dampened tresses as she guided my mouth to her cunt, we were both completely undressed. She began to grind herself against my mouth until my lips, chin, and cheeks were covered with her heady essence. With one arm stretched straight so that I could coax myself to yet another orgasm, and the other cupping her squirming bottom, I did my best to thrust my tongue into her as she had done to me, while she rode me like a filly, her perky breasts out thrust, her back taut and curved like a bow, and her moans and cries increasing in volume until she too dissolved in an earth-shattering climax, signaling the end of both our energies, if not our desire.

Afterwards, we lay entwined, breathing heavily, touching each other and gifting out butterfly-like kisses and murmuring sweet endearments to each other as we listened to the gentlemen rutting away nearby. More than once did I play with the notion of reminding them of our presence, but they seemed to quiet shortly after we did and soon, I was lost in the sweet embrace of slumber.