Part One - Filfa

Marisa

FUCK! was all Marisa could think as she wrapped herself out of what was left of her Euro 800 Heimplanet Cave titanium tent. Grateful to have googled the most wind-resistant tent before she embarked on her project, she was swearing because the situation (and her tent) looked worse for wear in the dim morning light. Even worse than when she dragged herself to sleep after nearly drowning after her dive yesterday.

She stretched her light frame and donned her wet suit again- this had almost dried, which did not make the exercise easier, but she did not want to waste fresh water on it as she only had carried two twenty-five litre canisters up to her tent. Being blessed with 32E boobs did not help with this either, so she was happy only to work the zipper halfway up, donned her belt, mobile, and diver's knife, and was ready.

Most Maltese would have described her as normal if a bit skinny looking. She took after her Maltese mother, who once won the competition of most attractive student nurse in the nineties, with long, almost black hair, olive skin, and long legs. They'd ask her about the blue eyes that would always remind them of her German father and his medical school exchange fling.

In Germany, they described her as a Mediterranean Goddess or a f'ckin Turkish cunt depending on their socialization and intoxication status and desire to bed her. Still, she had never felt less gorgeous or more sore than this morning. And she had bad mornings in the past – mostly when her mum was full of drugs, alcohol, or semen from some sleepover she had picked up on her way to get sloshed yet again, and she needed to sort it out—something she would have to do a lot growing up.

Where had the bloody storm come from? Was it a storm to start with? Her weather app had indicated sunshine, and July is mostly stable weather all over the Mediterranean and far too early for winter storms. Her iPhone and iPad showed no network coverage. Peering over the rocks, the big Maltese island was still not visible; it was like a wall of haze, although the sky had cleared up a bit, and she should have had a signal, being just four miles from the Dinghli masts.

She needed to see whether Lady G had survived the night, so she needed to get down to the leeward side of Filfa, where she had been anchored for the last two days. It was ironic that she was allowed to use her almost-ex father-in-law’s fifty-foot historic Yawl to sail for her master's project, although it was mainly idling moored in Gzira marina most of the year.

Her ex got seasick just looking at boats, and daddy was too busy running his property empire. It was purchased as a mere vanity project - she fell in love with it when she first set foot on it, having learned to sail in Uni. Her father-in-law might also hope he could get in her pants now that she disposed of the younger model. She got hives just thinking of his lecherous glances when she was hanging out at the pool, and nobody was watching (or so he thought). Like father like son, she guessed.

The two boat crewmen enjoyed the break from their boring harbour routine and the sight of Marisa tanning in her bikini on the way there. They would have gone back at the end of today anyway after setting Marisa up for her fourteen-day stint, replenishing her halfway through. The government would not allow the boat to anchor for the whole period; hence she needed to set up camp- this would disturb the habitat less, or so the theory goes.

Ironically, her ex-boyfriend fell for a student marine geologist (there were more ironic things about her useless ex, but this is another story), with his seasickness and adversity to boats. Thinking how hard she had lobbied the Maltese environment and planning authority for her to study the cliffs of Filfa and what had led to half of the island sinking after the 1856 quake, she got ready. As funny as it may sound, this had interested her since she was part of the marine and seashore surveying group at Malta University during her first degree. Now that she had lost her camera, hard drive, notes, and anything else, if the boat was lost in her near-drowning experience yesterday, ironic really didn't quite cover it.

Having pitched the Heimplanet about a third up the sixty-meter high cliffs on the leeward Malta-facing side of Filfa on a little recess, she walked the five meters to the edge of the little ravine where the steep climb down to the shore started.

“What the fuck?” she shouted. Marisa was not typically one of the girls who made her points by swearing more than the sailors, geologists, and other blokes she regularly worked with, but she was otherwise lost for words. Instead of looking twenty meters down in the sea, she was looking at a stretch of land ranging about one kilometre towards the big island. Was there an earthquake? An earthquake? She could not remember feeling shakes, although it would explain the storm and waves,

She climbed down about five meters and tried to get to the far side, which appeared to be about a one-kilometre walk, for a higher position. She still could not see the Maltese mainland, just some gray haze in the north. She must have looked on her phone about twenty times in the ten minutes since she got out of her tent, and there was still no cell signal. Frustrated, she put it back in her Aquapack waterproof belt pouch. There were no masts to see, which was worrying, as this was bad news regarding the Yawl.

Down on the lower part, it did not look like this was part of the seabed yesterday. It appeared to be grass and macchia like everywhere else on the Maltese islands and dry with no signs of old ammo or seashells or weeds or anything she would have expected if the sea around Filfa had suddenly risen by thirty meters. Also, strangely, no debris from Lady G or other boats sunk here by the Brits over half a century ago anywhere to be seen. Was that a good sign? Did they get the boat away? They were professional sailors, after all.

This lower area looked about doubling the size of the island, mainly to the west and a bit to the north- whilst she could still not see the Maltese mainland, she would not have expected to be significantly closer to it. At odds as to what to do next, she went back up, retrieved her diving gear minus the useless, as now empty air bottle from outside her tent where she must have dumped it in her exhaustion and terror yesterday, and prepared to make the shortest possible way to the waterline.

Her plan was still to see if she could find the boat, missing that to explore the seabed with her snorkel to see if this could help explain what was happening here. She also kept pinching herself in case she was still asleep. She had been terrified the day before, suddenly sucked to the ground whilst exploring the island's windward side underwater. She was then thrown up in a sea that appeared to be boiling and nearly drowned several times until she managed to get on the island and fall into a dreamless sleep in her tent. But she was remarkably calm today.

One of her dad's principles that she had sworn to upkeep is that one should not waste time fighting or be anxious regarding things outside of one's control; trying to adapt was a better way to deal with ambiguity or wait for when the time to fight came. This had served them well during the pandemic. Either way, she was not getting her knickers in a twist (not that she wore any under her wetsuit). However, she felt emptying her bladder would be a good idea, so she pulled down her wetsuit with little bother about the sea petrels that would be the only witnesses to what was happening. Scratching her snatch, which she usually kept meticulously groomed, but had started to grow very short pitch-black hair whilst being at sea, sent a shiver through her pussy.

Calm down, girl; she thought it's been a while, fearing her drought period might last a bit longer given her situation. In truth, it had only been twenty-four hours since she last had a session with her trusted Satisfyer, which she kept in her cabin on the Lady G in its USB charger. As for real cock that was sadly a different story.

She dumped her ex halfway through the pandemic when she found him mounting daddy's PA and having the guts to ask her to join the fun rather than just continue to stand there gawking. She was no prude by a long way, but that suggestion was stretching her fantasy a bit too far. Especially given the fact that she was coming home from a wedding planner, thinking about the proposal he made only a week before, and her reluctant acceptance - at least it confirmed her doubts. He was kind of good-looking, from a filthy rich family and nice enough mostly- but he rarely got her eyes hazy, neither in life nor in bed, and was interested fuck all in her as a person, but liked to show her off to his mates as if she was a prize. He also had strayed not only at this time; good riddance.

She had not really been bothered by lockdown as it got rid of all the college boys coming onto her constantly in Southampton Uni. She had never been a party girl (her mum covered that for her and several other people). She did not think marine engineering (her first degree) or geography was such an alpha male course. Blokes had become a right PITA after word got out she might have become available.

After half-term in Malta, she blended more in; her long black hair hung to the hips when left down. Her Levantine features were considered more normal, and whilst her body was carved out of a thirteen-year-old schoolboy's wet dreams, she would primarily hide it in jeans and T-shirts. Her mum said that all German girls wear a uniform even if they look more practical than attractive. Whilst she tended to agree, she preferred dresses.

However, she wore them only in the summer in the Mediterranean - no dress looks appealing if the wearer is covered in goosebumps and has clattering teeth. (The tolerance to cold was definitely not something she had inherited from her dad). The vibrator might have gone down with the ship (as she could not see any masts), which didn't improve her morning mood. Her iPhone had shown it was 10.30 when she woke up, and she was unsure what to expect from this strange day. It was only clear that she was not asleep.

Walking back to the lower part, she finally reached sea level on the island's western tip, which still had its old (or normal) outline. Arriving at the beach, she saw a large post or pole with what appeared to be a human arm tied to it above it, and there was a long blond mane and a shoulder just above the waterline.

WTF? Now running down to the person, she tried to recall what her dad and the countless first aid courses he had made her take (in the hope she might follow his path and become an anesthesiologist or emergency doctor) recommended in this situation. Was there such a thing if you were ever stranded on an island that did not exist yesterday and found yourself in a position to be the first responder to an unconscious person? Goodness!

First, she needed to get them out of the water. Trying that proved more problematic as it appeared to be the guy was as out of it as anyone can be, head flopping around. Cutting the piece of wood with her knife, she lifted it off of the man to free his body and appraised her options. Pulling bit by bit was the only feasible plan while trying to keep the dangling head mainly above the water. She had to regain her strength after getting the bloody pole off the bloke and dragging him almost out of the water, giving her time to appraise her rescue.

He was about one hundred eighty-five centimetres, making him about ten centimetres taller than her and possibly weighing eighty kilograms. Even with her best moves and well-trained body, there was no way of carrying him further, as there was almost no tone in him. Bringing her wrist close to his mouth and nose reassured her he was just out and not dead, although his breathing appeared shallow and irregular. She found a low pulse on his carotid artery and decided that had to be good enough for now. Dad would have done a primary survey, so she looked at his body all over, patting down his sides.

His body shape would have otherwise increased the tingles in her neither region. He appeared well-built without pumping iron constantly and taking steroids, as her ass of an ex did. No, this looked more like hard work and good genes.

“Hello, Mr Shaggable; pleased to meet you,” she said aloud. No response, not that she expected one. What an ass! Yes, he had a chunky ass as well in what seemed to be a white loincloth or something. She was tempted to look at what this hid at the front. Focus, girl, focus!

The loincloth was the only kind of clothing, if you could call it that, that he wore. He had otherwise little on him, but his stuff was strange.

Jesus, who would walk around like this? You'd get arrested or sectioned!

His right hand clutched a dagger or knife of some sort; his grip was so hard she could barely wrestle it free. Strangely, it looked kind of old, like something she would have seen in the Roemisch/Germanisches Museum in Cologne as a youngster. However, it appeared to be brand spanking new, and it certainly had no 'made in Hong Kong' stamp on it and only a light layer of rust.

His arms had two bracelets, more like wide rings around his wrists; they looked cast from a bronze/brass-like metal. His legs were long, muscular and he had another rope tightly tied around his right leg about halfway down his thigh over a makeshift, blood-soaked bandage. It was not currently bleeding, but she reminded herself to check out this wound later.

After twenty minutes of dragging, panting, sweating, and swearing, Marisa managed to bring him up higher. She needed to get him out of the sun, but there was no way of getting the bloody tent down here.

She had an emergency tarpaulin in her rucksack and some sundries, and a medical kit that she could fetch. So, pondering whether it would be safe to leave him there, as he was certainly at risk of deterioration if not dying of sepsis, aspiration pneumonia, or hypovolaemic shock, she decided she needed to put him in the recovery position and get her stuff.

Flipping him over caused her to curse some more, and after she had put him in a stable position, she went up the cliff again.

I wonder where the coast guard is?

Whilst you couldn't see Malta, the sea was calm. They should have gotten a distress signal when the Lady G sank.

Then she remembered that her phone was offline, which could mean transmitters were down in Malta because of the quake. If they had a proper earthquake, the coastguard had possibly more important things to do than look after a twenty-eight-year-old girl and her albeit expensive boat.

On the other hand, her ex-father-in-law would kick their ass to get the boat back, if not her, and was possibly on the phone with the prime minister right now.

She was unsure what to make of her find; he was neither Maltese-looking nor like a northern African or Arab refugee currently arriving on the Maltese Islands in their droves from Libya (or what was left of it these days). He looked more northern European, perhaps Dutch, or even Scandinavian. He had nothing to identify him; his clothing, or lack of it, seemed weird or almost like some fetish stuff, or at least like a gothic death metal band. The whole thing made no sense whatsoever, but little had made sense since last night. Could he have fallen overboard from a cruise liner whilst some strange costume party was going on? Was he suicidal? It just made no sense.

Once back with him, she checked if he was still breathing (he was), put the tarpaulin up to get him out of the sun, and rechecked his pulse. Then she looked at his leg and attempted to take the bandage off. When she tried to get to what was dried blood stuck together, her new fellow islander groaned and attempted to curl up, so this needed to wait. She thought he needed fluids and antibiotics, but she had no IVs here, and he could not safely drink or swallow. What would her dad do? (At work, he would get a whole f-ing intensive care unit to attend, but here?)

She needed to attempt to wake him up and get some fluid and meds into him, so she started slapping him gently, and when this was not effective, she did a jaw thrust.

AARRRGGGH, some slight flicker of his eyes. She tried again. Suddenly, his eyes shot open, and he grabbed her wrists with a force she had never experienced in her life. Suddenly, she was scared to death!

His eyes were the deepest grey-green she had ever seen. She struggled to get free and spoke Maltese to him, then English, telling him she bore no danger and wanted to help.

He tried to speak but was obviously on the verge of fainting again. As fast as he woke up, he fell asleep again. She wriggled her arms free, gently slapped him again, and showed him the water bottle. He looked confused, but when he saw water dribbling out, he gulped it down in a few big gulps. She managed to get some Azithromycin and Metronidazole in him and some Tramadol as well. However confused he was, he accepted all of it.

Well, at least you won't get the clap on that combo, she thought, smiling to herself. She was unsure if this antibiotic combo she had left over after her ex's last encounter would do anything against wound infection. Still, at least the painkiller should help. The man fell into a deep sleep soon after.

She cleaned the wound carefully and found out it was deep, so he must have lost lots of blood. Still, without remembering all her anatomy, no major arteries or veins appeared severed. Hence, she took a clean dressing from her rucksack and applied it, hoping for the best. Of course, she could not stop herself from getting a good look at his best friend whilst attending to his thigh.

He should have worn pants if he didn’t want his package to be seen.

Despite being in cold salty water, his member seemed about twelve centimetres long and appeared unharmed when she had a closer look (just to make sure). It jerked a bit, and his rate of breathing increased.

All okay here. Suddenly, Marisa felt a deep desire to have a little taste, but her education kicked back in, and she thought, you cannot consent if you are unconscious.

Suddenly, she was worn out after yesterday's and today's exhaustion; the heat and lack of sleep made her almost zone out, so she curled up under the tarpaulin and decided to wait with the snorkel till she had rested a bit.

She woke up cold and confused but also somehow very comfortable. When she opened her eyes, it confirmed she had not dreamt; she was spooning what appeared to be about a thirty-year-old prime example of manhood, who seemed to have grown a rather tasty example of morning cock in her hands. It had nearly doubled in length, gained significant girth, and was shining a bit at the tip where the foreskin had rolled back, and she was even more desperate for a taste.

WTF?

Laris

Laris had been awake for quite a while, nursing the worst hangover of his life. Not even when they had been drinking for two days stat in some highly questionable taverns in Kart Hadasht or in Sikleia after losing the Siklean land war had he felt like this. He also usually drank very little and did no other drugs. His whole body was numb; well, not his entire body. When he first woke up, the seasoned warrior in him appraised the surroundings, but he could not think of any immediate danger.

The woman (if she was a woman and not a sea goddess or a daughter of Astarte) surely meant no harm, as she could have otherwise killed and eaten him long ago. When he was defenceless and unconscious, she could have left him to drown in the sea, but, instead, she waited upon and watered him.

There appeared to be no one else around. Also, whilst he could move all his limbs, he was unsure if he could even stand, so he did not try. He must have bled like a butchered sheep.

Deep within, he enjoyed how his saviour had gently stroked him awake. It made absolutely no sense; he could not understand his reaction. But then, it had been a long time since a female had touched him gently down there. The professionals in the Mediterranean harbours he had used occasionally were much quicker and more purposeful in making their time count.

How had he come here, and where was he located? He desperately tried to recoup what happened before the storm finally finished off what was left of the Tanit, his beloved tetrere, and the rest of his fantastic crew after being nearly boarded twice and rammed once. What he could remember was the battle south of Sikleia - how the Romans had surprised them (or at least Hanno, the clueless commander of the fleet). Laris and fellow experienced captains who had been in Sikleia or Sardinia for years had warned the strategos that the Romans were not the naive landlubbers anymore and had built a real battle fleet and were more than ready to use it. This, along with a lack of training, and the arrogance of his countrymen, had risked and lost the fleet, the greatest Kart Hadasht had ever put to sea, and many of its best men.

Only Tanit and a few other swift boats had escaped the ensuing carnage. But there was a price; they were nearly boarded, and only with an old Greek naval trick, going broadside, riding up and breaking the oars of the roman quinquereme before they could drop their Corvus and get away did they survive.

Many of his men were wounded, and he got a pilum hook stuck in his leg, which the barber had removed, and it bled like hell. They had first set course for Kart Hadasht, but then Laris hesitated. Returning sea captains who retained their ships were not usually crucified like officers of the land troops who lost a battle. However, his slave heritage might have questioned his loyalty to the city, and some of the senators still did not like the blond, recently freed upstart.

He also lost all his money in his business in Sicily and needed to pay his men. He wanted to discuss with his men to go to Iberia and try their luck in the colonies or work some years in the Ptolemaian Navy as they always looked for talent. He even entertained the thought of a few months of piracy, as his ship was well suited for such activity.

They set their eye on the island of Melita for repairs, replenishing their stocks, getting some rest, and reflecting on this. It was a backwater with a small garrison who might also benefit from a warning, as after the loss of Carthaginian sea power, they would be in the eye of the Roman Senate as a stepping stone to take the war to the North African heartland.

Following the barber's advice, he chewed and inhaled some hemp to better deal with the pain and inevitable fever following the surgery. He relinquished the ship’s command to his trusted mate, Melkart, and passed out from the weed, only to wake up in the middle of a boiling sea. There was just enough time to throw off his body armour and sword and tie himself to the mast before it fell when the battle-weakened ship finally broke apart, and everything went overboard.

Then he drowned.

When he came round, he thought he had died and went to paradise, as the most stunning female he had ever seen was holding him up and looking into his eyes.

Was she a goddess or nymph?

He roughly recalled having grabbed her, but he had no power to detain her, and she broke free. By the gods, was she beautiful, not in the chaste look of the old Phoenician nobility of the city or the austere Roman women, but also not as provocative as the Hellenic or Egyptian ladies he had met on his travels. Her shiny dark hair was hanging partially over him, and her face had a healthy tan.

She wore a strange black full-body armour, which fitted like a second skin, following every tempting curve. It was open on the top, and her breasts almost spilled out, seeming to defy gravity. A woman of her age would likely have given birth and have some sag in her tits - unless she was nobility and had slave girls doing the nursing for her. But then surely she would not be here alone, would she?

She had deep blue eyes and talked in a language he had never heard before. She looked confused but offered him some liquid from a strange metal amphora. Would she poison him? She also had little pieces she offered him to swallow. Too weak to fight and short of words to argue, he accepted and fell into a deep sleep soon after.

When he woke up, he felt a stirring in his cock, which he had not had since he was last in love and stayed over in Samara's house, and they swore to stay together forever. Until her father and his master discovered them and rapidly married her off to a distant member of the Barkas' family, she was moved to an estate in the countryside.

Never ever would he forget his pain or her sorrowful face when she was forced to move away, only surpassed by the physical pain in his crotch after his master had found them and put a wooden shackle over his cock and balls and closed it tight.

They were only Naive Teenagers, then. It was made undeniable clear that they were both his property, and his balls took months till he could touch them again and even longer till his pee would be without blood. He considered himself lucky to be allowed to keep them and his cock back then - many of the boys who were sold with him at the market lost them as soon as they were sold to the whorehouses or nobility harems in the capital.

Laris was unsure if keeping his goods was an advantage, mainly because his master liked dining on both sides of the table - until Samara showed him what they really were made for and introduced him to how to make love to a noblewoman of the city. He thought life could never get better, but it lasted way too short.

The small hand with the strange bracelet with moving hands on his manhood was still gently jerking him. He could not stifle a deep groan, and he knew that he would douse her hand with his seed if she did not stop soon, but then he did not want to stop her either.

Was she awake? Who was she? And where was he?

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