Re: Jinn’s AI Swamp
Posted: Wed Jan 31, 2024 9:32 pm
Trying out an o/c jungle girl. It was originally going to be a one off, but I think I’d like to try some different sinky and slurpy stuff with her.
The Royal Navy schooners had barely rounded the cape when the landing parties touched the shoreline of what is now modern day Kenya. Half a dozen dinghies landed on the white sands of the British East Africa Protectorate, where a contingent of British sailors and a handful of civilians made their way toward the dense tree line beyond the beach.
‘Pirates,’ hissed Jameela, as she spied on the invaders from a towering acacia tree. Her strong, slender legs straddled a giant limb as she propped herself up on her trim, muscular arms.
It didn’t matter that the ships were sailing under the Union Jack; for the resentful, reclusive jungle girl, the only factor differentiating the Royal Navy from other pirates was a crown.
The observant young girl knew enough about naval landings to perceive that this was a search party. They were looking for something… or someone.
Several tribespeople unfamiliar to Jameela appeared from under the jungle canopy and met up with the officers in charge on the beach. They shook hands and appeared to be offering guidance to the sailors. Their meeting appeared to have been preconceived as the locals joined the small groups now spreading out into the rainforest.
She could hear them calling. Her ears perked at the name they were bellowing out into the forest; ‘Jameela!… Jameela!…’ they were searching for her; the white skinned wild girl.
Jameela’s instincts told her to stay well away. No good could come of contact with those mariners, she thought. She ruled out returning to the safety of her hidden coastal treehouse as they would immediately look for her there. She had no choice but to keep her eyes and ears tuned to the searching sailors from afar.
“Jameela” was of course, not her birth name. The Swahili word meaning “beautiful girl” was bestowed upon her by her adoptive Mijikenda mothers who cared for the adolescent shipwrecked orphan several years prior.
She kept the moniker when she decided to live independently from her fellow tribespeople, in solitude along the African coast. Over time she was immersed into local legend as “Jameela of the Jungle.”
The search party were also calling another name; the name of someone from a past life, someone who died albeit symbolically with the rest of the ship’s crew in that fateful storm; ‘Charlotte!… Charlotte!…’
Jameela hadn’t heard that name in seven years. As it infiltrated her ear drums, memories came flooding back.
Prior to the sinking of the HMS Worthy, she had lived another life as the daughter of Royal Navy Commander Ernest Weber.
After her mother succumbed to tuberculosis, “Charlotte” fought deep depression and anxiety in a miserable, mundane existence as an awkward step daughter to a wealthy, vindictive governess and four spiteful, sniveling siblings. Her well-to-do London lifestyle was a facade; in it there was nothing “well” or “to do”.
‘I don’t want to be here anymore,’ she had cried to her father. They were the least frightening words she could think of to convey her urge to end her own life. Commander Weber interpreted it instead as a request to board his frigate with him and set sail for East Africa.
So her bags were ordered packed by the servants, and before Charlotte knew it, she was watching the wind fill the sails of the HMS Worthy. Doom and destiny awaited the ship and its crew around the other side of the Cape of Good Hope.
All the way around the Dark Continent they sailed, stopping along the way to plunder the colonies, and fill the hold with riches. Charlotte was disgusted by the sight of her father and his crew taking advantage of the people of this wild and wonderful land. They ate and drank, they stole, they raped, they burned and destroyed, they laughed… all at the expense of the African people. She felt heartbroken and ashamed to be a part of it. She felt as much a prisoner of a toxic lifestyle aboard the Worthy as she did in London.
Her only confidant was Lord Anthony Bailey, a Royal Navy lieutenant who was as kind and compassionate to the young, smitten Charlotte as he was strikingly handsome.
Lord Bailey did not engage in the corrosive antics of the rest of the Worthy’s crew. He was a smart, morally sound gentleman who had taken the reserved, red haired teenager under his protective wing at sea.
‘Each new day is a gift,’ he would tell her, as they read books at sundown in his quarters and chatted philosophically about life by candlelight, ‘Treat every moment like an opportunity, Charlotte. Always strive for what you think is unachievable. You are worthy of your beautiful life.’
Anthony was her mentor. He was also like an older brother, who fiercely protected her and taught her how to survive and thrive on a naval vessel, and in life in general.
But Charlotte thought of Anthony (as he preferred she call him) as so much more. Even years after his untimely death she still fantasized about him courting her, and taking her hand to be his wife.
In her treehouse bed, shrouded by mosquito nets in the twilit coastal humidity, Jameela would touch herself while daydreaming about Anthony. She visualized him covering her smooth neck with soft kisses while slowly removing her dress, and sliding his warm, manly hands up her delicate thighs to peel off her silky stockings. She could almost feel his moist tongue gently licking her nipples and the perspiration on her naked, supple young breasts. She would writhe passionately from orgasm after orgasm as she masturbated, imagining the feeling of his heat and sturdiness between her legs as she invited him in to put a baby inside her. Their baby.
Tragically, fate sentenced the fantasy to sadly remain as just that: a fantasy. The ship succumbed to a violent storm off the coast of East Africa, not long after they set sail from the port at Zanzibar. All but one aboard were claimed by the sea.
The hold, heavily laden with bushels and crates of gold, jewels and tons other plundered possessions was the catalyst of the sinking. The weighed down ship sat so low on the sea and took on so much water during the storm that it could no longer stay afloat. The wind and waves battered the fat frigate to death as its crippling weight dragged her down to a watery grave. HMS Worthy was as much a victim of its own gluttony as it was of the merciless storm.
As the ship broke apart in heavy seas, mayhem ensued. Crew members that weren’t thrown overboard were drowned below deck, including Commander Weber.
Lord Anthony somehow found Charlotte thrashing in the churning waters and swam her perilously toward an overturned dinghy. As the small capsized craft drifted away from them, Anthony stretched his exhausted arms to get the drowning girl as close as he could to it before it was too late. ‘Reach, Charlotte! REACH!!’ he screamed at the commander’s crying daughter as she clawed and clung to the wooden underbelly of the rowboat. That was the last time she saw Lord Anthony. That was the last time she heard the name “Charlotte.”
Jameela knew why the Royal Navy had come. She had made a routine hobby of diving almost daily to the nearby wreck of the Worthy to salvage shiny trinkets and pretty gemstones from the shallow sea floor. She had stockpiled an impressive fortune of valuable jewels and gold over seven years… millions of pounds worth. Some local tribespeople knew what she was up to, and after guesstimating the value of her secret cache, they had worked out a deal with the British; sunken treasure in exchange for tribal power and dominance in the colony.
However, Jameela was the only one who knew where the loot actually was. She wanted to keep it hidden from everyone as badly as the Royal Navy wanted to snatch it. In order to find it, the Navy needed to find this “lady in leopard print”… this “Jameela of the Jungle.”
‘Savages,’ she muttered with contempt at the approaching sailors. Seven years and ne’er a soul came in search of her, or Anthony, or her father or any of the Worthy’s crew. Only when the stench of wealth filled their nostrils did they come calling. For seven years they’d cared nothing for poor shipwrecked, well-to-do Charlotte until they found out she was fabulously, filthy rich.
Different voices pierced through the trees, growing louder and louder. They weren’t human voices. They were the barking and howling of hounds. The jungle girl wasn’t merely being sought, she was being hunted.
Jameela panicked. If those animals picked up her scent, they’d lead the searching seamen right to her. She had to flee. Far and fast. The search parties were starting to encircle the anxious jungle girl on both flanks.
Her only option was to retreat directly west into an area of the jungle that the Mijikenda called the “Deep”; a treacherous, swampy low land filled with venomous snakes, and hidden quagmires of sticky tar seeps and sucking sand traps. Locals say it was inhabited by the souls of the damned; bound by bog for eternity and hungry for the flesh of the living. Legend claimed that far more had entered the Deep than had ever returned from it.
She would have to take her chances with sniping slitherers, spooky spirits and sinky sludge pits. The alternative would be at the very least capture and most likely rape and torture at the hands of her former countrymen.
Jameela broke out into a sprint when she reached the jungle floor. As fast as her long legs could carry her, the fleeing, feminine forest dweller flew headlong into the Deep. Her bare feet sloshed and splashed in the sandy muck, splattering her elegant legs as she leapt over leafy plants and dodged downed trees.
She knew if she made it far enough into the dreaded swamp that the hunting dogs would cease their pursuit. Most humans and animals besides serpents had an eerie aversion to the Deep; it was as if they instinctually sensed the danger. Jameela sensed it too, and was running straight toward it.
The ground rippled and shook queerly under her scurrying feet. Plants and bushes bobbed and heaved around her when she passed by as if they were floating on waves. The danger lied beneath, and Jameela knew she had found it the very moment her legs plunged into it.
Syrupy sand gave way to Jameela’s calves, opening up like a mouth to swallow her legs. Gritty goo poured in and gripped her as she sank, clutching her with a sinister, inescapable suction. Jameela struggled desperately, pumping her stuck legs but only sinking deeper. As her knees disappeared, so did her hope of the trap having a shallow bottom.
‘Quicksand!’ gasped the exhausted jungle girl, as the Deep’s swallowing sand slurped down her tired thighs. Jameela labored in the mire, moaning in protest as she fought to escape the sucking sand. The howling hounds yipping and yelping in the distance were the least of her worries now. She was trapped, and ceaselessly sinking into the sticky swamp.
‘Oh!’ whimpered the red haired beauty, vulnerable and victimized by the devouring Deep, ‘I can’t escape!’ Thick, gooey quicksand gurgled gruesomely around Jameela’s hips as they were engulfed by her oozing adversary.
Her heart pounded in her chest. The Deep continued to suck her helplessly into its depths. Sopping wet sand inched up her waist, as she wiggled to no avail. She bit her lip and whimpered again at the slow realization that this bog would not have a bottom.
Even if she could escape, where would she go? Further into the devious Deep to meet another fathomless fate? Or backward into the talons of the Navy search party to be subjected to lewd and heinous sexual abuse, or worse by a mob of sadistic, salivating seamen?
Jameela was giving up hope as her breasts began to dip into the hungry quicksand. She sadly feared that she would have met a grizzly demise no matter which path she chose. She started to cry as bubbling, liquid sand oozed over her chest. Maybe this was her destiny, she considered. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she thought of Anthony.
‘You are worthy of your beautiful life.’
Anthony’s voice echoed hauntingly in Jameela’s mind. He was there for her at crucial moments in her life. He wanted her to live. He helped her to live. He was helping her now.
‘Always strive for what you think is unachievable.’
Jameela looked around. More than an arms length away was a sturdy looking root sticking out of the quivering quagmire. It didn’t shiver and shake like the rest of the floating plants. It was protruding from a nearby tree. She reached for it. Her action caused her to sink disturbingly deeper. Soupy silt licked her chin as she extended her finger tips. The root was just out of reach.
‘I..I can’t!’ cried Jameela, as the quicksand slurped sickeningly at her pretty face. The belching bog was mere moments from completely engulfing her hopeless body, ‘I can’t reach it, Anthony!’
She closed her eyes and focused. She relaxed her body. Last chance, she thought. One more try. She would not go without a fight. With what could have been imaginary but felt like someone pushing her from behind, Jameela extended her arm outward, as straight and far as she possibly could.
‘Reach, Charlotte! REACH!!’…
The Royal Navy schooners had barely rounded the cape when the landing parties touched the shoreline of what is now modern day Kenya. Half a dozen dinghies landed on the white sands of the British East Africa Protectorate, where a contingent of British sailors and a handful of civilians made their way toward the dense tree line beyond the beach.
‘Pirates,’ hissed Jameela, as she spied on the invaders from a towering acacia tree. Her strong, slender legs straddled a giant limb as she propped herself up on her trim, muscular arms.
It didn’t matter that the ships were sailing under the Union Jack; for the resentful, reclusive jungle girl, the only factor differentiating the Royal Navy from other pirates was a crown.
The observant young girl knew enough about naval landings to perceive that this was a search party. They were looking for something… or someone.
Several tribespeople unfamiliar to Jameela appeared from under the jungle canopy and met up with the officers in charge on the beach. They shook hands and appeared to be offering guidance to the sailors. Their meeting appeared to have been preconceived as the locals joined the small groups now spreading out into the rainforest.
She could hear them calling. Her ears perked at the name they were bellowing out into the forest; ‘Jameela!… Jameela!…’ they were searching for her; the white skinned wild girl.
Jameela’s instincts told her to stay well away. No good could come of contact with those mariners, she thought. She ruled out returning to the safety of her hidden coastal treehouse as they would immediately look for her there. She had no choice but to keep her eyes and ears tuned to the searching sailors from afar.
“Jameela” was of course, not her birth name. The Swahili word meaning “beautiful girl” was bestowed upon her by her adoptive Mijikenda mothers who cared for the adolescent shipwrecked orphan several years prior.
She kept the moniker when she decided to live independently from her fellow tribespeople, in solitude along the African coast. Over time she was immersed into local legend as “Jameela of the Jungle.”
The search party were also calling another name; the name of someone from a past life, someone who died albeit symbolically with the rest of the ship’s crew in that fateful storm; ‘Charlotte!… Charlotte!…’
Jameela hadn’t heard that name in seven years. As it infiltrated her ear drums, memories came flooding back.
Prior to the sinking of the HMS Worthy, she had lived another life as the daughter of Royal Navy Commander Ernest Weber.
After her mother succumbed to tuberculosis, “Charlotte” fought deep depression and anxiety in a miserable, mundane existence as an awkward step daughter to a wealthy, vindictive governess and four spiteful, sniveling siblings. Her well-to-do London lifestyle was a facade; in it there was nothing “well” or “to do”.
‘I don’t want to be here anymore,’ she had cried to her father. They were the least frightening words she could think of to convey her urge to end her own life. Commander Weber interpreted it instead as a request to board his frigate with him and set sail for East Africa.
So her bags were ordered packed by the servants, and before Charlotte knew it, she was watching the wind fill the sails of the HMS Worthy. Doom and destiny awaited the ship and its crew around the other side of the Cape of Good Hope.
All the way around the Dark Continent they sailed, stopping along the way to plunder the colonies, and fill the hold with riches. Charlotte was disgusted by the sight of her father and his crew taking advantage of the people of this wild and wonderful land. They ate and drank, they stole, they raped, they burned and destroyed, they laughed… all at the expense of the African people. She felt heartbroken and ashamed to be a part of it. She felt as much a prisoner of a toxic lifestyle aboard the Worthy as she did in London.
Her only confidant was Lord Anthony Bailey, a Royal Navy lieutenant who was as kind and compassionate to the young, smitten Charlotte as he was strikingly handsome.
Lord Bailey did not engage in the corrosive antics of the rest of the Worthy’s crew. He was a smart, morally sound gentleman who had taken the reserved, red haired teenager under his protective wing at sea.
‘Each new day is a gift,’ he would tell her, as they read books at sundown in his quarters and chatted philosophically about life by candlelight, ‘Treat every moment like an opportunity, Charlotte. Always strive for what you think is unachievable. You are worthy of your beautiful life.’
Anthony was her mentor. He was also like an older brother, who fiercely protected her and taught her how to survive and thrive on a naval vessel, and in life in general.
But Charlotte thought of Anthony (as he preferred she call him) as so much more. Even years after his untimely death she still fantasized about him courting her, and taking her hand to be his wife.
In her treehouse bed, shrouded by mosquito nets in the twilit coastal humidity, Jameela would touch herself while daydreaming about Anthony. She visualized him covering her smooth neck with soft kisses while slowly removing her dress, and sliding his warm, manly hands up her delicate thighs to peel off her silky stockings. She could almost feel his moist tongue gently licking her nipples and the perspiration on her naked, supple young breasts. She would writhe passionately from orgasm after orgasm as she masturbated, imagining the feeling of his heat and sturdiness between her legs as she invited him in to put a baby inside her. Their baby.
Tragically, fate sentenced the fantasy to sadly remain as just that: a fantasy. The ship succumbed to a violent storm off the coast of East Africa, not long after they set sail from the port at Zanzibar. All but one aboard were claimed by the sea.
The hold, heavily laden with bushels and crates of gold, jewels and tons other plundered possessions was the catalyst of the sinking. The weighed down ship sat so low on the sea and took on so much water during the storm that it could no longer stay afloat. The wind and waves battered the fat frigate to death as its crippling weight dragged her down to a watery grave. HMS Worthy was as much a victim of its own gluttony as it was of the merciless storm.
As the ship broke apart in heavy seas, mayhem ensued. Crew members that weren’t thrown overboard were drowned below deck, including Commander Weber.
Lord Anthony somehow found Charlotte thrashing in the churning waters and swam her perilously toward an overturned dinghy. As the small capsized craft drifted away from them, Anthony stretched his exhausted arms to get the drowning girl as close as he could to it before it was too late. ‘Reach, Charlotte! REACH!!’ he screamed at the commander’s crying daughter as she clawed and clung to the wooden underbelly of the rowboat. That was the last time she saw Lord Anthony. That was the last time she heard the name “Charlotte.”
Jameela knew why the Royal Navy had come. She had made a routine hobby of diving almost daily to the nearby wreck of the Worthy to salvage shiny trinkets and pretty gemstones from the shallow sea floor. She had stockpiled an impressive fortune of valuable jewels and gold over seven years… millions of pounds worth. Some local tribespeople knew what she was up to, and after guesstimating the value of her secret cache, they had worked out a deal with the British; sunken treasure in exchange for tribal power and dominance in the colony.
However, Jameela was the only one who knew where the loot actually was. She wanted to keep it hidden from everyone as badly as the Royal Navy wanted to snatch it. In order to find it, the Navy needed to find this “lady in leopard print”… this “Jameela of the Jungle.”
‘Savages,’ she muttered with contempt at the approaching sailors. Seven years and ne’er a soul came in search of her, or Anthony, or her father or any of the Worthy’s crew. Only when the stench of wealth filled their nostrils did they come calling. For seven years they’d cared nothing for poor shipwrecked, well-to-do Charlotte until they found out she was fabulously, filthy rich.
Different voices pierced through the trees, growing louder and louder. They weren’t human voices. They were the barking and howling of hounds. The jungle girl wasn’t merely being sought, she was being hunted.
Jameela panicked. If those animals picked up her scent, they’d lead the searching seamen right to her. She had to flee. Far and fast. The search parties were starting to encircle the anxious jungle girl on both flanks.
Her only option was to retreat directly west into an area of the jungle that the Mijikenda called the “Deep”; a treacherous, swampy low land filled with venomous snakes, and hidden quagmires of sticky tar seeps and sucking sand traps. Locals say it was inhabited by the souls of the damned; bound by bog for eternity and hungry for the flesh of the living. Legend claimed that far more had entered the Deep than had ever returned from it.
She would have to take her chances with sniping slitherers, spooky spirits and sinky sludge pits. The alternative would be at the very least capture and most likely rape and torture at the hands of her former countrymen.
Jameela broke out into a sprint when she reached the jungle floor. As fast as her long legs could carry her, the fleeing, feminine forest dweller flew headlong into the Deep. Her bare feet sloshed and splashed in the sandy muck, splattering her elegant legs as she leapt over leafy plants and dodged downed trees.
She knew if she made it far enough into the dreaded swamp that the hunting dogs would cease their pursuit. Most humans and animals besides serpents had an eerie aversion to the Deep; it was as if they instinctually sensed the danger. Jameela sensed it too, and was running straight toward it.
The ground rippled and shook queerly under her scurrying feet. Plants and bushes bobbed and heaved around her when she passed by as if they were floating on waves. The danger lied beneath, and Jameela knew she had found it the very moment her legs plunged into it.
Syrupy sand gave way to Jameela’s calves, opening up like a mouth to swallow her legs. Gritty goo poured in and gripped her as she sank, clutching her with a sinister, inescapable suction. Jameela struggled desperately, pumping her stuck legs but only sinking deeper. As her knees disappeared, so did her hope of the trap having a shallow bottom.
‘Quicksand!’ gasped the exhausted jungle girl, as the Deep’s swallowing sand slurped down her tired thighs. Jameela labored in the mire, moaning in protest as she fought to escape the sucking sand. The howling hounds yipping and yelping in the distance were the least of her worries now. She was trapped, and ceaselessly sinking into the sticky swamp.
‘Oh!’ whimpered the red haired beauty, vulnerable and victimized by the devouring Deep, ‘I can’t escape!’ Thick, gooey quicksand gurgled gruesomely around Jameela’s hips as they were engulfed by her oozing adversary.
Her heart pounded in her chest. The Deep continued to suck her helplessly into its depths. Sopping wet sand inched up her waist, as she wiggled to no avail. She bit her lip and whimpered again at the slow realization that this bog would not have a bottom.
Even if she could escape, where would she go? Further into the devious Deep to meet another fathomless fate? Or backward into the talons of the Navy search party to be subjected to lewd and heinous sexual abuse, or worse by a mob of sadistic, salivating seamen?
Jameela was giving up hope as her breasts began to dip into the hungry quicksand. She sadly feared that she would have met a grizzly demise no matter which path she chose. She started to cry as bubbling, liquid sand oozed over her chest. Maybe this was her destiny, she considered. As tears rolled down her cheeks, she thought of Anthony.
‘You are worthy of your beautiful life.’
Anthony’s voice echoed hauntingly in Jameela’s mind. He was there for her at crucial moments in her life. He wanted her to live. He helped her to live. He was helping her now.
‘Always strive for what you think is unachievable.’
Jameela looked around. More than an arms length away was a sturdy looking root sticking out of the quivering quagmire. It didn’t shiver and shake like the rest of the floating plants. It was protruding from a nearby tree. She reached for it. Her action caused her to sink disturbingly deeper. Soupy silt licked her chin as she extended her finger tips. The root was just out of reach.
‘I..I can’t!’ cried Jameela, as the quicksand slurped sickeningly at her pretty face. The belching bog was mere moments from completely engulfing her hopeless body, ‘I can’t reach it, Anthony!’
She closed her eyes and focused. She relaxed her body. Last chance, she thought. One more try. She would not go without a fight. With what could have been imaginary but felt like someone pushing her from behind, Jameela extended her arm outward, as straight and far as she possibly could.
‘Reach, Charlotte! REACH!!’…