Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

  I found myself blushing at this, but Conseil only laughed. “Be careful with my master,”

  he chided. “The sand may chafe his soft skin.”

  Ned laughed, and I blushed all the harder. By 8:30 the Nautilus’s skiff had just run gently aground on a sandy strand, after successfully clearing the ring of coral that surrounds Gueboroa Island.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Some Days Ashore

  Stepping ashore had an exhilarating effect on me. Ned Land tested the soil with his foot, as if he were laying claim to it. Yet it had been only two months since we had become, as Captain Nemo expressed it, “passengers on the Nautilus,” in other words, the literal prisoners of its commander.

  In a few minutes we were a gunshot away from the coast. The soil was almost entirely madreporic, but certain dry stream beds were strewn with granite rubble, proving that this island was of primordial origin. The entire horizon was hidden behind a curtain of wonderful forests. Enormous trees, sometimes as high as two-hundred feet, were linked to each other by garlands of tropical creepers, genuine natural hammocks that swayed in a mild breeze.

  Meanwhile, ignoring all these fine specimens of Papuan flora, the Canadian passed up the decorative in favour of the functional. He spotted a coconut palm, beat down some of its fruit, broke them open, and we drank their milk and ate their meat with a pleasure that was a protest against our standard fare on the Nautilus.

  “Excellent,” Ned Land said.

  “Exquisite,” Conseil replied.

  “And I don’t think,” the Canadian said, “that your Nemo would object to us stashing a cargo of coconuts aboard his vessel.”

  “I imagine not,” I replied, “but he won’t want to sample them.”

  “Too bad for him.” Conseil said.

  “And plenty good for us,” Ned Land shot back. “There’ll be more left over.”

  “A word of caution, Mr Land,” I told the harpooner, who was about to ravage another coconut palm. “Coconuts are admirable things, but before we stuff the skiff with them, it would be wise to find out whether this island offers other substances just as useful. Some fresh vegetables would be well received in the Nautilus’s pantry.”

  “Master is right,” Conseil replied, “and I propose that we set aside three places in our longboat, one for fruit, another for vegetables, and a third for venison, of which I still haven’t glimpsed the tiniest specimen.”

  “Don’t give up so easily, Conseil,” the Canadian replied.

  “So let’s continue our excursion,” I went on, “but keep a sharp lookout. This island seems uninhabited, but it still might harbour certain individuals who aren’t so finicky about the sort of game they eat.”

  “Hee hee,” Ned put in, with a meaningful movement of his jaws.

  “Ned. Oh horrors,” Conseil exclaimed.

  “Ye gods,” the Canadian shot back, “I’m starting to appreciate the charms of cannibalism.”

  “Ned, Ned. Don’t say that,” Conseil answered. “You a cannibal? Why, I’ll no longer be safe next to you, I who share your cabin. Does this mean I’ll wake up half devoured one fine day?”

  “I’m awfully fond of you, Conseil my friend, but not enough to eat you when there’s better food around.”

  “Then I daren’t delay,” Conseil replied. “The hunt is on. We absolutely must bag some game to placate this man-eater, or one of these mornings master won’t find enough pieces of his manservant to serve him.”

  While exchanging this chitchat, we entered beneath the dark canopies of the forest, and for two hours we explored it in every direction.

  We couldn’t have been luckier in our search for edible vegetation, and some of the most useful produce in the tropical zones supplied us with a valuable foodstuff missing on board.

  I mean the breadfruit tree, which is quite abundant on Gueboroa Island, and there I chiefly noted the seedless variety that in Malaysia is called “rima.”

  This tree is distinguished from other trees by a straight trunk forty feet high. To the naturalist’s eye, its gracefully rounded crown, formed of big multilobed leaves, was enough to denote the artocarpus that has been so successfully transplanted to the Mascarene Islands east of Madagascar. From its mass of greenery, huge globular fruit stood out, a decimetre wide and furnished on the outside with creases that assumed a hexangular pattern. It’s a handy plant that nature gives to regions lacking in wheat—without needing to be cultivated, it bears fruit eight months out of the year.

  Ned Land was on familiar terms with this fruit. He had already eaten it on his many voyages and knew how to cook its edible substance. So the very sight of it aroused his appetite, and he couldn’t control himself.

  “Sir,” he told me, “I’ll die if I don’t sample a little breadfruit pasta.”

  “Sample some, Ned my friend, sample all you like. We’re here to conduct experiments, let’s conduct them.”

  “It won’t take a minute,” the Canadian replied.

  Equipped with a magnifying glass, he lit a fire of deadwood that was soon crackling merrily. Meanwhile Conseil and I selected the finest artocarpus fruit. Some still weren’t ripe enough, and their thick skins covered white, slightly fibrous pulps. But a great many others were yellowish and gelatinous, just begging to be picked.

  This fruit contained no pits. Conseil brought a dozen of them to Ned Land, who cut them into thick slices and placed them over a fire of live coals, all the while repeating, “You’ll see, sir, how tasty this bread is.”

  “Especially since we’ve gone without baked goods for so long,” Conseil said.

  “It’s more than just bread,” the Canadian added. “It’s a dainty pastry. You’ve never eaten any, sir?”

  “No, Ned.”

  “All right, get ready for something downright delectable. If you don’t come back for seconds, I’m no longer the King of Harpooners.”

  After a few minutes, the parts of the fruit exposed to the fire were completely toasted.

  On the inside there appeared some white pasta, a sort of soft bread centre whose flavour reminded me of artichoke.

  Ned fed me a morsel from his fingers, kissing me afterwards, sharing the rich flavour between us. This bread was excellent, I must admit, and I ate more of it with great pleasure.

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “this pasta won’t stay fresh, so it seems pointless to make a supply for on board.”

  “By thunder, sir,” Ned Land exclaimed. “There you go, talking like a naturalist, but meantime I’ll be acting like a baker. Conseil, harvest some of this fruit to take with us when we go back.”

  “And how will you prepare it?” I asked the Canadian.

  “I’ll make a fermented batter from its pulp that’ll keep indefinitely without spoiling.

  When I want some, I’ll just cook it in the galley on board—it’ll have a slightly tart flavour, but you’ll find it excellent.”

  “So, Mr Ned, I see that this bread is all we need—”

  “Not quite, Professor,” the Canadian replied. “We need some fruit to go with it, or at least some vegetables.”

  “Then let’s look for fruit and vegetables.”

  When our breadfruit harvesting was done, we took to the trail to complete this ‘dry-land dinner.’

  We didn’t search in vain, and near noontime we had an ample supply of bananas. This delicious produce from the Torrid Zones ripens all year round, and Malaysians, who give them the name “pisang,” eat them without bothering to cook them. In addition to bananas, we gathered some enormous jackfruit with a very tangy flavour, some tasty mangoes, and some pineapples of unbelievable size. But this foraging took up a good deal of our time, which, even so, we had no cause to regret.

  Conseil kept Ned under observation. The harpooner walked in the lead, and during his stroll through this forest, he gathered with sure hands some excellent fruit that should have completed his provisions.

  “So,” Conseil teased, “you have everything you need, Ned my friend?”
r />   “Humph!” the Canadian put in.

  “What. You’re complaining?”

  “All this vegetation doesn’t make a meal,” Ned replied. “Just side dishes, dessert. But where’s the soup course? Where’s the roast?”

  “Right,” I said. “Ned promised us cutlets, which seems highly questionable to me.”

  “Sir,” the Canadian replied, “our hunting not only isn’t over, it hasn’t even started.

  Patience. We’re sure to end up bumping into some animal with either feathers or fur, if not in this locality, then in another.”

  “And if not today, then tomorrow, because we mustn’t wander too far off,” Conseil added. “That’s why I propose that we return to the skiff.”

  “What. Already!” Ned exclaimed.

  “We ought to be back before nightfall,” I said.

  “But what hour is it, then?” the Canadian asked.

  “Two o’clock at least,” Conseil replied.

  “How time flies on solid ground,” exclaimed Mr Ned Land with a sigh of regret.

  “Off we go,” Conseil replied.

  So we returned through the forest, and we completed our harvest by making a clean sweep of some palm cabbages that had to be picked from the crowns of their trees, some small beans that I recognised as the ‘abrou’ of the Malaysians, and some high-quality yams.

  We were overloaded when we arrived at the skiff. However, Ned Land still found these provisions inadequate. But fortune smiled on him. Just as we were boarding, he spotted several trees twenty-five to thirty feet high, belonging to the palm species. As valuable as the actocarpus, these trees are justly ranked among the most useful produce in Malaysia.

  They were sago palms, vegetation that grows without being cultivated—like mulberry trees, they reproduce by means of shoots and seeds.

  Ned Land knew how to handle these trees. Taking his axe and wielding it with great vigour, he soon stretched out on the ground two or three sago palms, whose maturity was revealed by the white dust sprinkled over their palm fronds.

  He began by removing from each trunk an inch-thick strip of bark that covered a network of long, hopelessly tangled fibers that were puttied with a sort of gummy flour. This flour was the starch-like sago, an edible substance chiefly consumed by the Melanesian peoples.

  For the time being, Ned was content to chop these trunks into pieces, as if he were making firewood—later he would extract the flour by sifting it through cloth to separate it from its fibrous ligaments, let it dry out in the sun, and leave it to harden inside molds.

  For myself, I was more than happy to watch him work. The muscles in his arms and back bulged as he swung his axe, and there was a great deal of bending over involved, granting me a rather spectacular view. I dare say I could have watched him for days.

  Finally, at five o’clock in the afternoon, laden with all our treasures, we left the island beach and half an hour later pulled alongside the Nautilus. Nobody appeared on our arrival.

  The enormous sheet-iron cylinder seemed deserted. Our provisions loaded on board, Ned and I went below to my stateroom. There we found our supper ready.

  After dinner, we undressed for bed, but I knew sleep would have to wait. Ned watched me with a predatory glint in his eyes.

  “Surely you’re exhausted,” I teased.

  “Not yet.”

  He pulled me close and kissed me first. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and questioning, almost as if we’d never kissed before. He caressed my back with his strong hands.

  “You’re amazing. Do you know how amazing you are?”

  I could only shake my head.

  “So smart. So strong.”

  I recalled the vision of him wielding his axe. “Not as strong as you.”

  “As strong as any man I’ve met,” he said. “Out there, you’re brave and sure and nobody would ever question your manhood. But then in here—”

  “I’m less of a man?”

  “No. But you’re a man who knows how to exchange control for pleasure.”

  And what an exchange it was. The thought of it made me weak. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him again. His erection pressed against mine. The hardness of his hands was marvellous upon my back. His teeth nipped at my ear.

  “I love you, Professor,” he said. “Do you love me?”

  “More than anything.”

  “Tell me you’re mine.”

  “Forever.”

  “Good,” he said. And in that word, I heard him gathering the mantel of his strength around him. I tested the surety of my knees, for I knew an order would come next.

  I wasn’t wrong.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  I obeyed. I expected him to grab my wrists, to bend me over the bed and pin me down as he often did, but that wasn’t what happened. Instead, he went to his trousers, which were lying on the floor, and pulled a length of twine from his pocket. He used it to tie my wrists, nibbling at my neck as he did. “Too tight?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He left me again for a moment to retrieve the lard from under the bed. I shivered as he approached me. I knew better than to ask what he planned to do.

  He stood behind me, letting me lean back against him. I felt his fingers at my entrance and my breath caught in my throat. I moaned in anticipation.

  “I’m just getting you ready so we don’t have to stop later,” he said. His fingers moved in me, direct and purposeful, greasing me up, making me writhe and whimper, although I fought to stay still. “Not that it takes much,” he teased. “You’re always ready, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love how easy it is to open you up.” His fingers pulled out, only to plunge in again. I moaned. “And I love that sound you make.” He repeated the motion, and this time, I couldn’t help it. I pushed my hips back, driving down onto his hand.

  His fingers withdrew. I tensed, waiting.

  Smack.

  Not too hard, but the sting of it still made me gasp. “I love that sound even more,” he said.

  He pushed into me again, spreading even more grease inside me. When he was done, he moved to stand in front of me, cupping my cheeks in his hand as he often did. He kissed me, gentle and sweet, his tongue tracing the inside of my lips. He slid his hands down over my shoulders, caressing my chest, then stopping for a moment to fondle my nipples until I whimpered. Then his hands were on my hips, his thumbs teasing towards my cock. I ached, panting in anticipation. I knew how he liked to tease me. Every once in a while, I liked to tease back.

  I took a deep breath and thrust my groin towards him, trying to grind my cock against his body.

  He chuckled against my lips and a second later, his palm came down hard on my right buttock. It was exactly what I’d wanted, that sweet sting that woke my nerves and spread like waves through my body. He smacked me again, and I gasped.

  “You did that on purpose,” he said.

  “Yes,” I confessed.

  He smacked me again, the other side this time.

  “You’ve really learned to enjoy this part.”

  “Yes.”

  He smacked me yet again. “Don’t you worry, Professor. I’ll make sure your ass is red for a week.”

  The thought of it made me weak.

  Ned gripped my hips again, kissing my neck as he did. He teased his lips forward, over my collarbone. He kissed lower. His tongue flicked my nipple and I gasped again. Such a simple thing, his mouth on that nub of flesh, but it was amazing. I shivered. I fought the urge to push my chest towards his mouth. He squeezed my hip with his hand. His fingers dug into my soft flesh.

  He moved to the other side, circling my nipple with his tongue. “Is that good?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And how about this?”

  This time, he bit me. It was a sharp, numbing pain, so intense and sudden that I nearly came. I shuddered and whimpered, and he went back to the first nipple to bite it as well, alternately nibbling and licking
until I was close to tears.

  “They’ll be as red as your backside,” he said, and he smacked my flank as he said it, as if to be sure. The fingers of his other hand groped towards my entrance, and I tensed. It was too much pleasure. I wasn’t sure I could continue to stand and absorb it all.

  But as always, it was as if my lover sensed how close I was to breaking. He let go of me.

  “Breathe, Professor,” he instructed. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  I did. Large gasping breaths at first, until I could beat the surge of desire back. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. The sting on my rear subsided, as did the pleasure-pain on my chest. The urge to come abated. I realised I’d been pulling against the rope that bound my wrists. I forced my muscles to let go. First my shoulders and my neck, then my back. I unlocked my knees and took deep, cleansing breaths until I felt my self-control returning. It was strange, talking myself down from such heights, knowing full well he was only going to drive me back to that place again. It made my heart race. The knowledge threatened to shatter the moment of calm I’d found.

  “Now,” I said, my voice shaking.

  “Good,” he said. This time, his voice came from below me.

  I opened my eyes to find him in front of me, looking up at me from where he knelt on the floor. His hard cock bobbed between his legs. He gripped my hips. “No words,” he said.

  “Not until you’re about to come.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good boy.” Then, he did something no man—or woman—had ever done to me before.

  He leant forward. He touched my scrotum with his tongue. He licked me there, a hot wet line over that loose flesh, right between my testicles. I moaned, pushing towards that warmth.

  Smack!

  But he didn’t move away from my groin. Instead, he opened his lips and sucked one of my testicles into his mouth.

  How strange it was. So hot and wet, I cannot describe it adequately. The new unknown eroticism of feeling his tongue caressing me, fondling my stone with his lips. I cried out. I strained against my bonds.

  He moved to the other side. The wet flesh he’d departed felt cold in the dry air, but the other side of my scrotum was now being tasted, being held in his mouth.