His gentle moans remind me how much he likes this, and Elliot murmurs compliments about my hairy, tight hole.
I groan and play with myself, jerking off with a steadily increasing pace. The sun climbs toward the height of the sky, and Elliot buries his tongue in my ass, working me into a leaking mess.
My thighs burn, sweat pours down my chest, and I release my dick to avoid orgasming.
His mouth feels amazing. Elliot finds every one of my spots, opening me up to deep sensations. I groan loudly, and Oystercatchers sing and laugh on the rocks.
My hand lands on the back of Elliot’s head, and I pull him into me as he moans his appreciation. When I hit my climax, the sea waves back.
Cum in my fist, I feed it to Elliot, and then he pushes me to my knees, feeding his cock and his orgasm to me just as quickly.
No protein wasted.
We kiss in the water, then sit on the shore, basking in the sun.
“It’s not getting cloudy,” Elliot points out.
I look up, surprised. “Maybe we’ll be able to start the signal fires tonight. I wouldn’t be surprised if the small branches are already dry.”
“Oh!” Elliot says, excited. “The fern fiddleheads are ripe, right?”
“Yes, they should be.”
Elliot nods. “Then we’ve got a lot to do before our dinner date. Let’s split up to get all the foraging done. I need some private time to get ready, anyway.”
I nod back at him, proud of what a team we’ve become. “Sounds good.”
We make out for a while, then split up. I get the ferns, berries, and wild onions. Elliot handles clams and seaweed salad, but goes to flip the drying wood first. The sun does stay out, shining brightly, and as I pick the tightly curled fiddleheads of emerging ferns, I watch a boat bob far away.
Humming, I take the time to groom myself by the water. We’ve been prepping for this dinner date for a couple days now, and I intend to enjoy it.
I gather some particularly colorful cockle shells, shades of pink with purple stripes that I know Elliot loves, then head up toward the grasslands and forests to select a few choice, decorative flowers, buttercups and prairie-fire, brilliant yellows and reds.
When we reunite back home, Elliot is wearing his ruined suit pants, and a laurel of flowers and greens hangs around his neck, the white blooms of shadbush and soft grasses.
I reach out and touch the laurels. “I’d never think to make something like this.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” he says. “That’s part of why I like making it for you.”
Smiling, he offers me another laurel necklace, which he puts over my shoulders with a kiss. Elliotooohsandahhhsover the pink shells, and then we light the small fire in our dry area, cooking everything in open flames. When we’re done, we gather it all with some branches and head toward the dinner date on the beach.
We arrive to the rocky perch as the sun sinks to the horizon, and down by the water, the seals molt and call out with low-frequency honks. Elliot and I sit cross-legged on either side of a flat rock, now full of decorative flowers and our meager meal.
A gentle wind whips through the air, tossing some of the petals.
“To our impending rescue,” Elliot says, raising an imaginary glass.
I pretend to cheers him. “Surely, any moment now,” I say sardonically.
Elliot nods happily. “Let’s eat!”
Despite being small, it’s the biggest meal we’ve had, and we both devour it. Clam juice and oily wild onions fill my mouth, and I savor each asparagus-like bite of tender, tiny fiddlehead. We go into great detail describing each of the wonderful flavors while the seals play on the shore, our signals smashed beneath them and scattered to the waves.
“This meal is good enough, I’d love it off the island, too,” Elliot says.
I nod in agreement. “I’d serve this at a dinner party in a heartbeat. Just with actual portions. Silverware. Stuff like that.”
“Now I’m imagining a proper dinner party with you.” Elliot licks his fingers. “What embarrassing story would Angie tell about you, if she were here?” he asks.
