Temptation Island

 Temptation Island

Long ago, long before the resorts and manicured beaches and nightly parties, long before we even called this place Temptation Island, there was a Maiden. She was bedecked in flower garlands gathered from across the island, her hair was woven with glorious feathers from tropical birds, and her garments were bright with the most rare and precious dyes. She swayed, unsteady and giddy, mind feverish and body clouded by tincture, a mercy to ease her transition. All around her the people celebrated, feasting and dancing, drums filling the warm night air. Her parents wept with the pride and the High Priestess smiled warmly, her usually stern face broken open with joy. The Maiden smiled back and giggled, for drugged though she was, she knew this was all in her honor. The Maiden was revered, for in the eyes of her people she was about to become a goddess.

The Maiden embraced both of her parents, blew undignified kisses to the adoring masses, waved gaily at her friends. She laughed, even if her role in this ceremony was solemn, it was hard not get swallowed up by the infectious joy all around. The High Priestess placed hands on her shoulder, gave them a familiar warning squeeze. “Remember you’re duty this night,” she warned. “The future of our people, your people, relies upon it.”

Despite the warm glow of her intoxication, the Maiden paid heed to these words. This was no coming of age party, no feast; this was an essential rebirth of their home and she had an enormous duty to perform. For the Island, the world as reckoned by her people, had grown weary. Her soul had become restless, tired of her corporeal existence and eager to set sail into the Final Sea. The physical nature of the Island had reflected her spiritual unease and become parched by drought, cursed by blight, and subsumed by rising seawaters. The time had come, as it had every nine generations through storied time, for there to be a great virgin sacrifice and for a new soul to take her place as the world. The Maiden solemnly nodded, for she was to be the one sacrificed, the soul to become the Island itself, to serve her people as a home.

The Maiden was nervous despite feeling greatly honored, for unbeknownst to anyone she had a secret. The lore clearly specified that the sacrifice must be a true virgin who had never indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. The Maiden, despite her vows, was no virgin.

The people of the Island did not object to the pleasures of the flesh, for coupling was the origin of life. Indeed they celebrated it, practiced it freely and joyfully, indulged in the bodily pleasures that it brought them. Sex was good. The restrictions upon the sacrificial virgin were not prudish moralizing, no, they were founded in a fear of the Island’s terrible passion. The Island people believed that the burning fires in the belly of the Island could only be quelled by a temperate soul, a virgin soul, who had never felt the glorious release of the flesh. A promiscuous soul, the legends said, would want too keenly to control their desire; could not deny themselves the glorious ecstasy of eruption. And so the maiden-initiates were raised in celibacy from birth, taught to control themselves and their urges, until only the most suitable maiden was chosen to become the World. The Maiden to her great joy had been chosen, but to her secret shame had strayed.

For years the Maiden had stuck dutifully to her vows of chastity, even as she blossomed into womanhood. But as the scent of flowers upon the wind is sweet, so too are the urges of the heart and the hunger of the loins. It was only natural that she would feel lust and love in her human lifetime. Temptation is a fact of being alive. Alas the Maiden was tempted, not once, but twice, and alas she feasted upon her desires.

A sad truth is that the role of Maiden-Initiate is lonely. For all their veneration, the would-be virgin sacrifices lived apart from their peers, separated from the other children and youth by the holy and somber nature of their mission. The initiates were also divided from within by their rivalry: only one Maiden would be chosen to Ascend, and so competition amongst the Initiates was fierce. And so our dear Maiden found herself lonely, bereft from the nurturing friendships that all people need to be happy. That is until she met her every heart’s desire: Twin Brothers. The people of the Island were wary of twins: superstition had it that twins shared a single soul, or that one twin must be a wicked mirror of the other, or that twins were merely an ill omen of trouble on the horizon. The Island people valued life and the twins were spared, but old suspicions would not be denied and so the brothers were held apart, kept at a distance from the community. And so the boys turned to each other and grew into a formidable if insular pair: one broad and strong and ever reliable, the other narrow and quick and clever. What happened next was almost inevitable: a beautiful and lonely young woman met two handsome and lonely young men and they become friends and then something disastrously more. 

It was all the Maiden’s fault, she knew that. The Brothers had every intention of respecting her vows, of simply enjoying their strange friendship for however long it lasted, but the Maiden wanted more. Needed more. Her body ached to know the touch of a lover before her human life was ended and she loved the Brothers, these impressive men, so obviously alike and yet so different. She lusted for them, hungered for them in a way she had never felt before. She needed to feel their hands hold her, to feel them inside her body, to feel them strain against her, not just one brother, but the three of them united together. And so she asked this of them, pleaded with them for this one thing, seduced them with the obvious desire they felt too. And so on one moonless night the three stole off to a darkened glade and undid the Maiden’s precious, sworn virginity. It was wrong, a betrayal, and yet so right, so beautiful, so joyful! To the Maiden it was the perfect way to say goodbye to her friends and to her body. Despite breaking her vow, she truly had no regrets. And besides, she had reasoned, surely the rules requiring a virgin were superstition. The old legends were wrong about twins, they must be wrong about virgins too. Surely other sacrificial maidens had also strayed. It was not as if making love just once would be the end of the world. She could control herself from further temptation. She decided to keep this night secret, to put it all behind her and proceed down her chosen path to godhood.

Except now, deliriously high, held aloft on a litter carried by the chosen sons of her people, the Maiden was unsure. What if her virginity did matter? What if her transgression meant that she was no longer compatible with the ceremony, unworthy in a way that could disrupt her transcendence? She tried to tell the High Priestess, but only managed to babble. “Hush,” her teacher admonished her, “the time for words has passed. Focus on what is to come.”

The Maiden felt such conflict! She knew she should have confessed, taken ownership of her shame long before this moment. But what had held her tongue more than anything was her fear for the Brothers. To be a disgraced Maiden was a burden she thought she could carry, even if it brought shame to herself and her family. She would be the subject of ridicule and a lifetime of gossip, but that was just and a fair trade for the pleasures she had experienced, the choice she had made. The Brothers though, they would face a harsher judgement. Already outsiders, they would likely be cast out for defiling a sacred maiden, the chosen sacrifice, a sin magnified by the fact that both siblings had laid with the maiden together, breaking perhaps the one sexual taboo of their people. If the Maiden’s secret came out their lives here would end, and the Maiden could not subject them to that. And so she allowed her rationalizations to carry her through.

At least until this final moment when her doubts had finally caught her. As the litter was set down at the brow of the mighty volcano, the opening to the glowing womb of their Island, she tried one last time to speak her truth. The High Priestess silenced her again, handed her the final numbing tincture to drink and ushered the Maiden onto the platform. The time for doubts and recriminations was long past. Now was the moment of Ascension.

The Maiden took a steadying breath.

She walked out onto the charred bamboo platform.

Stood at the end, head spinning with intoxicants, heart beating an amplified rythm of fear and desire.

Her toes hung over the end of the platform, dangling.

She looked down into the angry glow of the lava pool below her, felt the awesome heat of its updraft, smelled the brimstone and chemical stench of the Island’s passion. 

She took another breath. This was her moment.

And then she leapt off the platform and plummeted into the volcano.

Distantly the Maiden felt her clothes and garlands and feathers burn. She felt her skin crisp and seer, her fingers curl and blacken, as the awesome heat of the Island’s womb immolated her. She was numb to the pain, but the sensations were still unpleasant until....

The Maiden could feel no more.

***

Transcendence is not clean.

Ascension was never meant to be painless.

Godhood is not achieved without a price.

The Maiden was destroyed, utterly and completely.

Sacrificed for the good of all.

The woman was dead.

It was not the end of her existence.

***

The Island became aware of herself all at once. She was confused, dazed by a riot of new, inexplicable sensation. She felt her shoreline, the places where her soft sand or hard rock met cool waves, water that washed against her gently in places and pounded in others. She felt the wind ruffle the leaves of her trees, like the memory of a breeze in hair. The island felt the weight of her foothills, ripe like breasts, burbling freshwater from their peaks like holy milk. She felt the mighty spire of her volcano: the smoldering lava in her conduit, the lazy smoke of her vent, the power and majesty of her highest point. But mostly she felt the heat deep within her belly, the churning magma of her desire, the passion that begged to be released, to erupt out of her in a glorious inferno of pleasure. She shivered and the Island that was her body quaked.

And then the Island recalled what had happened, who she had been, what she was now. What that transformation meant for her and her former people. What her responsibilities were. She steeled herself, forced herself to be still, tried to quell the fiery passion inside her. She clenched herself, if an Island can be said to clench. She thought cooling thoughts, like the ocean waves breaking against her, the clouds condensing at her peaks. She thought of cooling rains running down her slopes, dripping off her leaves, soaking villagers, making their garments cling, revealing hidden curves and secret clefts and eager bulges... Deep within her chamber the magma churned and bubbled, steam geysered from cracks and the water steamed in her springs. Her mind drifted, affixed upon the twin Brothers and her one night with them, the things they had done to her, the things she had done to them. The Island thought of how she had felt, the warmth of their bodies, the way she had glorious stretched around them, the building waves of urgency and pleasure, the final glorious release as she came and came and came, crying in ecstasy! The pressure within her built, the Island trembled and rocks broke off her and tumbled into the sea. She was losing control! But oh, ooooooh how hot she was, oooooh how the heat inside her grew more intense! She was stretching, filling, boiling to burst! She felt incandescent, like she was heated to glowing! That she was molten! She wanted... No! She needed to erupt! The Island whimpered a great plume of ash.

The Island knew she shouldn’t erupt, not ever, no matter how badly she wanted to or how good it might feel. It was too dangerous, too destructive. She could destroy her erstwhile home, kill her former people. She had been chosen for her temperance and her self-control. The Island was meant to be a benevolent goddess, a calm and safe home. But ooooh how she burnt and rumbled! Ooooh how she remembered the wonders of orgasm! Ooooh how she wanted to feel the volcanic release of her new body! She gasped and the island hissed with caustic steam. She would hold herself back! She must! It was her sole duty! She moaned and a single geyser of lava sprayed out of her crater, a glowing drool of molten stone trickled down her slopes.

The Island ground herself tighter, making the land leap and tearing fissures in her surface. She tried to hold herself calm by force. But ooooh, oh oh oh, she had felt the spike of pleasure from even that tiny release of lava! Ooooh she wept, oooooh how she wanted, needed to feel the real thing, the full thing, just once! She held her human orgasm in her mind, imagined how much larger, how much more explosive erupting must be. An entire Island exploding in pleasure! But no, no she must not! The freshwater springs on her foothills began to boil. Another tiny blast of lava splashed out of her, a second red glowing tendril of molten rock. She couldn’t hold it in, she couldn’t! It had been such a short time and she already felt like she was  being ripped apart by the blinding fury of her magma, of her passion! How could she possibly contain herself for a nine generations, let alone a single lifetime!? 

Maybe...

Maybe it would be fine to erupt just once, just a little?

Maybe she could vent some pressure safely?

Maybe she could celebrate her new existence in the manner she said goodbye to her old?

Just one eruption wouldn’t be the end of the world.

The Island shuddered at thought, and the ground quaked violently. She could do it! Just once! Just give in, carefully, just a little. Lava began to well out of her chimney, to coat the rim of her vent, to maker her entire opening glow in the night. She prepared herself, as best as she could, shiverring and quaking as she was, boiling with pressure and need. The Island opened herself, just for an instant, and a great jet of lava spewed out into the world. She screamed, roiled at the spike of pleasure, the entire Island leapt, a cloud of ash shot into the air! Ahhhh she spat lava again and again! Ahhh! And again! She was awash in an intensity of pleasure like she had never felt before! She needed more! These little bursts were not enough! She had to release it all! But no! No no no no! But yessssss....

She erupted!!!

The island erupted!

With the sound of thunder that carried across the ocean! With a towering geyser of lava that lit the night like a second blood red moon! With a plume of burning ash and soot that could be smelled half the world away! With a quake that sent waves smashing into all the coastlines of the world! The Island truly, completely erupted!

She erupted!

The Island was swept away by an ecstasy beyond her understanding! She felt the boiling magma escaping her, rushing through her chimney, exploding out of her in a rhythmic torrent that seemed to go on and on and on! She felt gasses and heat and soot blow out of her like a joyful scream into the night! She felt herself quake and lurch and crack like she was twisting and arching her body in pleasure! She felt the glorious heat of the rushing tendrils of lava river trace across her surface, felt the hiss of steam as her lava met the sea. It felt as if her entire body was a single sacrament to her pleasure, that she was experiencing the greatest act of self worship! The Island never wanted it to stop!

She erupted!

For nine days the Island erupted in a constant rain of fire, destruction, and pure unadulterated bliss. When the Island finally became aware of the world again she saw what her carnal jubilation had wrought. She saw the island on fire, her lush jungles burning or buried under a carpet of ash, blighted by her toxic gasses. Her freshwater springs, once absolutely pure, now bubbled and stank of brimstone. And the villages, her former home, lay in ruin, broken by the geologic forces of her orgasmic writhing, crushed under landslides, swept away by the firey lava  of her passion. She had become desolate, ruined by her joyous release. The island wept, a great and heavy rain that fell upon her soil, helped quell the smoldering fires.

The survivors, those fortunate people who had escaped the Islands cataclysmic self-love, fled to the sea. They took whatever boat they had, raided the shore for whatever provisions and materials could be salvaged, and set sail to find a new home. They knew in their hearts what had happened, that the Maiden had been no virgin, that the island could no longer be trusted. Having tasted the joy of the flesh and then experienced the ecstasy of the volcano, the Island was doomed to wallow in her passion. They knew their Island was now uninhabitable.

The Island was saddened by this, of course, but she was also freed by it. With no people to protect she no longer needed to contain herself, she could embrace her passions and enjoy her new explosive form. Which was truly for the best since the fiery magma in her belly churned with an urgency that she lacked the will to deny.

And so the Island erupted again and again! Celebrated herself and her power and the pleasure of her explosive release! Sometimes she would hold herself back, not out of obligation, but as a game to see how much pressure she could build within, how monstrous the eruption she could create. And then she would erupt again, larger than ever! She was a symphony of fire and destruction and ecstasy! The Island was a joyous cataclysm undoing a lifetime of restraint!

And so it went for a generation, the Island bathed in glowing fire, fornicating with her own nature and erupting...

***

But the memory of the world is long and passion cannot be sustained indefinitely.

What is a goddess without worshippers?

What is a home without people?

Slowly the Island grew sleepy and cold, her heat and passion spent.

Slowly she became dormant.

Time passed. Stories faded.

But nothing in this world remains forgotten forever.

Rediscovery and rebirth are also facts of life.

***

On a day within our lifetimes, twin brothers set out to find paradise. They had heard a rumour, barely a story, of a secret island. This island, as the legends would have it, was cursed by an untrustworthy goddess and was too mercurial to be inhabited. The people of the other islands had avoided the island for generations, certain of the wisdom of their history. Other visitors, strangers from afar, did begin to visit the island. Merchant ships and deep sea fisherman would sometimes shelter in her harbors during storms, would on occasion refill their freshwater from the blasted island’s springs. Later still the island became a stopover for pleasure boaters and yachters, a secret island oasis of lush jungle and secret beaches to enjoy; a hidden gem amongst the waves. The twin brothers had heard all of these stories and chose, as modern men are wont, to put their faith only in the newest tales. Or perhaps they were blinded by their desire or by their avarice and simply chose the story that best fit their needs? Who can say? Regardless, the two men set sail to discover their island, the Island of my tale. 

I wish I could tell you it was a dangerous journey, fraught with storms and filled with aimless searching, but the brothers were experienced sailors and the island was exactly where the bribed fisherman had told them. Alas not every tale fits its narrator’s wishes, but I want to speak to you only of true things so that you understand the gravity of what I am telling you.

The years of dormancy had been kind to the Island, had given her time to heal. The jungles had grown back more lush than ever, fed by the bounty of the Island’s ash. The noxious chemicals had left her waters, leaving them as pure and sweet as time primordial. The two greatest tributaries of her lava had birthed a new sheltered cove, lined with pristine sand beaches and bare of hazardous reefs. This is the Island that our twin brothers discovered when they steered their boat into the embrace of her harbour. The brothers landed upon her shores and danced for joy, for this was a true paradise and unclaimed by man or nation. They renamed this place Temptation Island and made it their home.

The twins were business men and they had great plans for Temptation Island. They brought more people to the Island, built a hotel and cabins, a premium resort on the shores of her cove. But not just any five-star experience, for the brothers believed in free love and the healing power of nudity, and so here on Temptation Island the twins established the worlds finest, most exclusive naturalist resort and spa. Lured by the twin promises of discretion and paradise, visitors came to the island to revel in unrestrained hedonistic sensuality.

Unbeknownst to the revelers the Island began to stir. All of the parties and feasting and fornication and decadence filled the Island’s dreams and the ground began to rumble as she shifted in her sleep. What is an orgy but an act of worship to a goddess of desire? What is consummated lust but a hymn to her glory? Slowly, so slowly she awakened, blew steam, and quaked in surprise: she had people again! Supplicants of a sort. She sensed their every motion, their lithe sun-kissed bodies, the way they strained against one another and cried out in ecstasy as they made love. She felt the heat within her quicken, her magma begin to stir. The Island felt a new and growing desire to erupt after so long cold and forgotten. She rejoiced for she had thought these feelings were behind her. She trembled in fear for she did not wish to unleash devastation upon herself and doom her vacationers! The Island never wanted to be alone and abandoned again! And so Temptation Island resolved to refrain from erupting. She would hold her lava in and deny, ever deny herself that most incredible release, even if it meant living in constant volcanic pressure for the rest of her existence.

And this my friends is the balance we live in today. We rejoice and sing and drink and eat and fuck while the goddess beneath our feet groans and frets over the ever building pressure and lust to explode in glorious fire and destruction! 

Do you feel the ground tremble and quake? That is the Island writhing, barely holding onto herself, always so very close to erupting!

Know that this day in paradise is yours only because a weak-willed goddess clings desperately to her self-denial!

Celebrate as if this day is your last! Feel your heart beat faster, feel your loins grow hotter, savor the sweet nectar of peril! For one day, perhaps today, Temptation Island will falter, will succumb to her desires! And on that day we will all be swept away in the fiery lava of her passion!

Remember that everyday on Temptation Island is gift not to be taken for granted!

***