Rockauthor
TMF Master
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2001
- Messages
- 815
- Points
- 16
MADONNA
Starring in
Pacific Island
(A ticklish celebrity fiction request)
Six o’clock in the evening, Los Angeles time. A luxurious private jet carrying the Material Girl herself, Madonna, lifts off the lighted runaway, heading towards the open arms of mother nature in the form of a gorgeous California sunset. Along with a group of about forty people that included publicists, various assistants, back-up dancers, and flight crew, Madonna’s destination was the land “down under”. Sydney, Australia to be exact - where a benevolent G’day awaits to greet all, and at least one shrimp is always left on the barbie for ya, as they say. Madonna was to perform there for two sold-out shows.
About six hours into the flight, the pop singer pulled up the plastic window shade on her left, only to receive the aloofness of the night sky’s anonymity. A few of her back up dancers, Ruthie, Persia, Melinda, Adrian, and Rob were all sitting around, teasing Tricia, one of the new girls, about a sexual incident she encountered back in L.A..
“Hey, Trish, I got a Dramamine if you think you’re gonna puke,” joked Madonna, who got a few snickers and giggles from the others.
“Tricia never gets sick on a plane. She only pukes when she gives a guy a blowjob,” interjected Melinda.
“Fuck you, man! Don‘t even go there,” scolded Tricia.
“Tricia! You might wanna take a Dramamine the next time you give a guy oral,” teased Ruthie.
“That poor guy must’ve been horrified when you hurled on his cock, huh?” asked Madonna.
“You guys are so cruel,” whined Tricia.
“Maybe put some honey on it, so it’ll taste better,” giggled Madonna.
“Okay, I threw up on the guy’s dick! So what? I hate giving oral! It totally grosses me out! I don’t like it!” Tricia rebuked.
Suddenly, the plane Madonna was flying on experienced an episode of heavy turbulence.
“Shit! What the fuck was that?” Madonna shouted, with a frightened gasp.
The voice of the pilot coming out of the speakers provided slight comfort when he immediately announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain! We’re flying through an unexpected tropical storm, so we’ll be experiencing some turbulence for a while. I assure you there‘s no reason for alarm.”
“Thank you. Just keep your eyes on the road,” Madonna joked, trying to settle the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.
She raised the plastic window shade again, and saw a tremendous downpour of rain slam against the airplane’s window like a car going through a car wash; the rain poured so hard it obstructed her view of the night sky completely.
“Oh my god! Look outside, you guys,” Madonna shouted, prompting everyone with a window seat to raise their shades while the others rushed over to see it, too.
“Wow! You can’t even see, it’s so much rain out there,” Ruthie said.
There were gasps and confused, worried chatter about the cabin.
Suddenly, the seemingly-threatened airplane was hit by another episode of turbulence; this one slightly more fierce. The fuselage was jolted, then everyone felt the plane plunge twice. The girls screamed in panic. Melinda and Tricia clutched onto Rob for security.
Madonna interjected, “Someone should go and find out what’s going on?”
Almost as if the pilot had heard her request, the voice of the captain came out loud and clear over the P.A. system. “Ladies and Gentleman, this is the captain again. I must ask all of you to return to your seats and fastened your safety belts at this time.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Tricia shouted.
More turbulence rocked the plane. The interior lights flickered. As everyone rushed to return to their seats, the oxygen masks dropped from their ceiling compartments.
“Oh my god! Oh my god!” Madonna shouted.
The lights flickered in more extended intervals now, causing longer periods of darkness inside the cabin. Scattered screams and rapid, panicky breaths rang eerily in the pitch black room. Everybody felt the plane plunge into a rapid descent, and their hearts sank into the pits of their stomachs.
“Oh shit!”
“Oh my god, what’s happening?”
“Please God, don’t let us die!”
“Oh no!”
“Are we fucking crashing?”
“Aw shit, what the fuck, man?”
Then suddenly, there was a powerful impact that rocked the fuselage like nothing before. Bodies were slammed against the walls and the seats throughout the cabin. Madonna was knocked to the floor; she groaned in pain. She felt a flood of water rush over her body and realized that the plane had crashed into the Pacific; the impact had made a hole in the fuselage, and water was quickly seeping in. Madonna got to her feet hurriedly; she looked out the slightly illuminated windows and noticed waves passing back and forth as the plane was submerged in the ocean about halfway up the windows. There was utter chaos on the plane; the unstoppable flow of water was rising fast inside the dark fuselage.
Madonna heard the desperate cries of terror from the others; she herself began to panic as the water had reached up to her chest now. She felt all sorts of objects in the water as she tried to swim to an exit. a cup, a neck chain, a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, were all in her path. Suddenly, she remembered the safety lecture that always proceeds every flight and that part where one’s seat cushion could be used as a flotation device. She then took a deep breath and dove under the water to look for one.
She swam a few feet and instead found the opened door of the private plane and quickly moved toward it. Madonna was now outside the aircraft. She reached the surface of the water and took a deep breath into her oxygen starved lungs. Miraculously, she spotted a seat cushion floating by that somehow had been detached by someone and had made its way out of the plane; she grabbed onto it fast. Madonna was now experiencing the full effect of the intense storm that came out of nowhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean: the heavy rain showering down on her head; the aggressive waves that rocked her about mercilessly.
Madonna clutched the floating seat cushion so tightly it wasn’t going anywhere. Her eyes were fixed in the direction of the sinking airplane which was now mostly submerged in the ocean, only the tail and the rear of the fuselage were visible to her. The rising of the waves in front of her frequently obstructed her view, but when the waves fell she could see that there were others that had made it out of the doomed aircraft, too.
“Rob. . . Adrian. . . Melinda. . . Persia. . .Melinda. . . Tricia. . .Rob. . .” Madonna shouted in a frantic tone.
The waves had shifted her even further away now, but the Pop diva could hear the faint cries of her road people. Marshmallows floating in a swaying cup of Pacific Ocean cocoa they were, confused, terrified, trying as best they could to survive. Madonna strained to listen and try to figure out what the distant voices were saying that were now even further away. Help me, did she hear someone shout? I see you? Over here? I think I can hold on? In a strange way it was like one standing in their front yard and hearing the conversations at a party three or four houses down the street.
Soon, Madonna was too far away to even hear them. Her voice had become hoarse from all her little-league-baseball-parent screaming, trying to reach the others. Now they were nothing more than little specks in the dimly illuminated night’s sky. Her subsiding adrenalin rush and her growing sense of hopelessness made her head heavy, pulling it down to the soft cushion of the floating seat like a reluctant piece of metal being pulled to an insistent magnet.
Where the storm was taking her she didn’t know...nor did she care; in fact, she wasn’t concerned about a lot of things at the moment: the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the ocean, her only friend in the world being an over-popped fluff of popcorn. Was she doomed to drown if a granddaddy of a wave came crashing down and knocked her off her floating friend...or worst...get eaten by a shark? Eaten by a shark? Thank goodness that horrible thought never paid a visit to her psyche.
No.
There was only a broken record inside her mind that was asking the same question over and over again. What the hell just happened here...What the hell just happened here... Trying to solve that puzzle was the one thing that sustained the little bit of strength she had left to hang on and survive. It was almost like a dream. Hours went by as the hypnotic reiteration of the ocean waves under the moon’s passive glow provided a consoling soundtrack like serene music at a movie’s end credits.
***
It was daylight now. Madonna was waking up. She felt the warmth of the tropical sun, the orange glow of sunlight under her eyelids. Her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the light. She felt something damp and gritty against her face. Madonna realized she had washed ashore somewhere. But where was this somewhere? She spit out some sand that had washed onto her lips just inside her mouth. She sat up and looked all around at the beautiful island that worried her with its bleak peacefulness.
That broken record was playing again in her head. What the hell happened...What the hell happened...She thought about the tragedy the night before, and how she had survived that awful plane crash. But she wondered what happened to all her people who she remembered making it out of the fuselage. Were they still alive? Why didn’t they wash ashore on this island as she did? She thought about her family. Her husband and her two children. And what they might be going through once they learned the news.
Madonna did a lot of thinking now. All she had was time on her hands, staring off into the distance, watching the tide roll in as a constant reminder of hopelessness and loneliness. She felt so cut off from the world. But for some strange reason, she couldn’t shake off this weird feeling deep down inside that she wasn’t alone on this island. That someone was hiding somewhere, watching her from a distance.
As the day went by, Madonna waited. Perhaps a rescue party is on its way, she hoped. But if not, then what? What if this was some uncharted island that no one knew existed, and she was marooned here for the rest of her life like something out of a movie? Oh no, they have to find me. I must get back home. I have a life and a family who’s probably worried sick. Oh my god what am I going to do? It was going to be dark eventually and once again Madonna pulled herself together and went into survival mode.
She was kind of getting hungry now and went to hunt for food. Madonna was cautious making her maiden journey around the island. There were a couple of papaya trees just around the bend near the rocky slope of the mountain. She climbed up the tree and onto a branch. Carefully, she pulled two off and let them drop to the ground. Madonna heard something rustling in the bushes that startled her.
“ *gasp* Who’s there?” she shouted.
There was no reply.
That feeling of being spied-on was back again. She hesitantly made her way back down the tree, still suspicious and on guard. She took one of the papayas and banged the end of it against the rocky wall of the mountain to open its hard shell. It was a rigorous effort that tired her like nothing before, but finally the Material Girl was able to open the shell of the tropical fruit and drink its milk, quenching her thirsty mouth.
Later, Madonna returned to the beach. She had collected some of the smaller tree branches she pulled from the trees and put them in a pile on the sand. She grabbed one and broke it in half over her knee. She groaned in pain and rubbed her knee a bit. She heard something off in the distance, rustling in the bushes again. Madonna froze and turned her head.
“Is someone there,” she shouted again.
Maybe it was a bird. Or a small animal. She just couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was another person on this island watching her, with dubious intentions. When her racing heart calmed, moments later. her focus shifted back to those two sticks which she proceeded to rub together briskly. It would be dark soon and Madonna wanted to get a good fire going before sunset. She struggled for what seemed like an eternity to get some smoke out of those two sticks. Madonna was absolutely exhausted and her muscles ached tremendously, but she was determined.
Ultimately, Madonna was successful in getting a fire started by nightfall, blowing on the smoke to spread it around the pile of wood. It was becoming good size fire, too. She felt so happy and so rewarded by her effort. She was definitely a survivor. Then she spotted something moving along the beach just as the last gleam of sunlight peaked over the horizon. It was a crab making his sideways trek along the sand. Madonna’s eyes were wide with delight, seeing that there was something to have for dinner after all.
She then picked up one of the leftover rocks that she had gathered to surround the campfire and began stalking the crustacean. The marooned Pop singer slowly advanced on the crab from behind. The brightness from the campfire was just enough for her to see it clearly, and she wanted to reach it before it was veiled by the dimmer moonlight. Madonna was focused as if she were about to go onstage to perform in concert. She was completely oblivious to everything else around her; all that existed were the crab and she with rock in hand.
She suddenly felt a sharp pain on the back of her head and was rendered unconscious.
Hours later.
Madonna again awakened to the orange glow of sunlight under her eyelids. It was again daytime and her eyes had adjusted to the light when she realized something very alarming. She had been buried in the sand on the beach, with only her head and her feet exposed; she couldn’t see her feet because of the huge mound of sand piled before her, but she could feel the cool island breeze sweeping over them.
Now she knew for sure that she wasn’t imagining things when she had that unshakable feeling that she wasn’t alone on this island, and that she was being watched from afar. Madonna was absolutely terrified. Here she was the Queen of Pop, stranded on some island in the middle of the Pacific, thousands of miles from home, being held captive by a faceless madman.
“Help...somebody help me...wh-wh-who are you...why have you done this to me...I meant no harm...please don’t hurt me!” Madonna was inadvertently slipping into her affected British accent as she made an appeal to her mysterious captor with panicked breath.
Shortly after, a figure peaked over the mound of sand in which the Material Girl was trapped under. Madonna gasped; the unexpected appearance startled her. It was a man. He was an older man, his face haggard, his hair and beard were grizzled and unkempt, his clothes tattered and torn. He looked at her with a creepy eagerness about him, his smile showed a set of teeth that had been apart from their dentist for a very a long time.
“You sure are just the prettiest little thing I ever laid eyes on,” he said.
“Please, let me out of here. Who are you? Why did you bury me in the sand like this?”
“I’ve been on this here island for nearly thirty years, and never even so much as seen another soul until now.”
“You poor man,” Madonna tried to console.
“I was a top executive for an electronics firm, on my way to Melbourne, when my plane got caught up in this terrible storm. I don’t even know what happened to everyone else after the crash. All I know is somehow I survived and washed up on this blasted island...I’ve been here ever since.”
“I survived a plane crash, too,” an anxious Madonna beseeched. “I’m a famous singer, my name is Madonna, I was on my way to Sydney to perform at a concert. I don’t know what happened to everyone else on my plane either. I don’t even know how I got here. Oh please dig me out of here, Mister, I assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The gaunt man stared blankly at the Pop diva for a moment, then disappeared behind the mound of sand Madonna was buried under.
“Where are you going?” she inquired.
The castaway lay at Madonna’s bare feet which stuck out of the sand, helplessly confined and exposed; he admired the beauty of the woman’s feet which were well-manicured, smooth, and very sensitive-looking.
“I had a wife, also...she was almost just as pretty as you are...I always wonder what she might look like now...we had so much fun together...we’d go to the beach sometimes, and I’d bury her in the sand just like I buried you...then I’d play with her feet like this.” He then proceeded to drag his index finger up the sole of Madonna’s left foot, making it jerk violently under his touch.
She gasped and shouted, “What are you doing?”
He dragged the same index up the sole of her left foot, causing the toes to curl in the cutest way.
“Don’t touch my feet, that tickles!”
“You’re ticklish,” he cheered, “My wife was very ticklish, too. I miss tickling her, it was so much fun.”
“No! Please! Don’t tickle my feet. I’ll scream if you tickle my feet!”
This only encouraged the man even more; he chuckled sinisterly; ignoring her plea, he continued tickling Madonna’s foot bottoms, deftly scratching his index fingers along both soles.
“AAAAAAAAAAAGH! STOP! DON’T! I CAN’T TAKE THAT! AAAAAAAAGH! OH MY GOD! HEEHEE HAHA! AAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEH! *gasp* OH MY GOD! STOP IT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEEEEEEE! *gasp* OH MY GOD! I CAN’T TAKE IT! AAAAAAAAGH! MY FEET ARE REALLY TICKLISH! STOP!”
“I’ve been waiting to do this for nearly thirty years,” mentioned the unnamed man. He then grabbed the toes on Madonna’s right foot and stretched her sole taut; his fingers danced across her baby soft sole, lingering along her instep; he switched back and forth from right to left foot, driving the Material Girl wild.
“OH SHIT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHA! OH SHIT! NO! *gasp* DON’T! AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! STAAAAAAAAAAAHP! I HATE BEING TICKLED! PLEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEASE! WOOOHAHAHA *hiccup* AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEK! *gasp* CUT IT OUT!”
He then started stroking underneath Madonna’s ultra-sensitive toes, kneading between their tender crevices.
Madonna went berserk!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! *gasp* FUCK! STOP IIIIIITT! OH! MOTHERFUCKER! HEE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *gasp* NO PLEASE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! OOH! OOH! PLEASE, MISTER! *groan* I CAN’T TAKE IT! I’M TOO TICKLISH THERE!”
But the man refused to let her go; there was nearly thirty years of pent up sexual fetish frustration, and he was much too content tickling the Evita star silly. He dragged his nails down the sides of her feet repeatedly and scrabbled his digits more in her EXTREMELY TICKLISH arches.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! FUCKING STOP! *gasp* HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! YOU’RE TORTURING ME! STAAAAAAAAAAAHP! HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA! *hiccup* WAIT! LET ME CATCH MY BREATH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! NO! STOP!”
Madonna was trailing off into silent laughter, her face flushed and sweaty; she was completely exhausted, but her feet were still kicking frantically under his touch. It was all too much for the beautiful, blue-eyed diva, and after almost an hour of ruthless foot-tickling, Madonna finally passed out.
***
The Material Girl was regaining consciousness. She was briefly disorientated then realized that she was no longer buried in the sand, but she was still in captivity. She was facing the beach in a standing position against a palm tree. Her arms were tied high above her head with some kind of vine around her wrists and around the trunk of the tree; her ankles were also immobilized in the same fashion. And what was worst of all, she was completely naked. Madonna struggled vehemently to free herself, but to no avail.
“OH NO! *gasp* WHAT THE FUCK! *gasp* NO!”
The man came from behind the palm tree and stood in front of Madonna, looking at her with that same creepy, eager smile.
“NO! DON’T TICKLE ME ANYMORE, YOU BASTARD! I HATE YOU! GO TO HELL!” she rebuked.
“I’m sorry, Madonna, but I just can’t help myself...I love to tickle you...I used tickle my wife all the time, and it was just so much fun...I mean, being cooped up on this island for all these years, dreaming about tickling her, and then you come along...and with those smooth, hairless, milky-white underarms....oooh...” He appealed as he reached his hands out, once again ignoring Madonna’s adamant objections, and planted them in the deft curves of her armpits with another tickling onslaught.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OOOH OOOH! STOP! DON’T AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! MOTHERFUCKER! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *gasp* YOU MOTHERFUCKER! AAAAAAAAAAAAGH! OH SHIT! *gasp* FUCK! HEE HAHAHAHA HEEHEEHEEEEEEEE!”
Madonna’s armpits were terribly ticklish, and she threw her head back and forth in ticklish agony, then the man momentarily abandoned her underarms to focus on the Pop singer’s susceptible sides, especially the fleshy part around her waist.
“AAAAAAAHHH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAAA! OOH OOH STOP! AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEHHHH! OOH! SON OF A BITCH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAGH! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! STOP TICKLING MEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE!”
The eccentric man did give Madonna a small break to allow her to catch her breath; she was immensely fatigued. If it weren’t for the vines holding her up, she would have surely dropped to the ground. Madonna felt the cool tropical breeze sweep over her and gradually rejuvenate her. She stared into the distance, the sunlight dancing across the surface of the ocean like glitter. She then noticed there was a flat, black speck floating just above the horizon. She couldn’t take her eyes off it; Madonna was like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
It was a ship.
A cruise ship? An oil tanker? An aircraft carrier?
She didn’t know.
But she was ecstatic. Madonna had never been this excited since she signed her first record deal.
“A ship!” she shouted “Oh my god, it’s a ship! Oh, Mister, look! There’s a ship just above the horizon! I can see it!”
The man darted an almost disappointed frown at the bound woman then turned around, looking in the direction of the ocean.
He stared for a while and then groaned, “I don’t see anything.”
“Really, there is! Oh, you must believe me...hey, if you untie me now, we can both get a campfire going and try to send a smoke signal or something...maybe if it gets close enough we can get someone’s attention...then we can get off this island and you can go back to your wife and I can go back to my family and my fans.”
The man thought about it for a moment then turned back and worried Madonna with his usual Jack Nicholson as The Joker grin.
“Argh, who cares about being rescued. Now that I have you here to be my tickle toy, I may never want to leave this island.”
Madonna had a horrified expression on her face as this lonesome, determined man, who had occupied this eerily gorgeous paradise of solitude for so many years before her, came at her like a 3-D movie and tickled the Material Girl in her ribs with pianist-like know-how; the poor woman again erupted in gales of hopelessly ticklish laughter. She wondered if this tickle freak would ever stop tormenting her, but what she loathed even more was entertaining the thought that she could be stranded on this island with him for a very long time.
THE END
Starring in
Pacific Island
(A ticklish celebrity fiction request)
Six o’clock in the evening, Los Angeles time. A luxurious private jet carrying the Material Girl herself, Madonna, lifts off the lighted runaway, heading towards the open arms of mother nature in the form of a gorgeous California sunset. Along with a group of about forty people that included publicists, various assistants, back-up dancers, and flight crew, Madonna’s destination was the land “down under”. Sydney, Australia to be exact - where a benevolent G’day awaits to greet all, and at least one shrimp is always left on the barbie for ya, as they say. Madonna was to perform there for two sold-out shows.
About six hours into the flight, the pop singer pulled up the plastic window shade on her left, only to receive the aloofness of the night sky’s anonymity. A few of her back up dancers, Ruthie, Persia, Melinda, Adrian, and Rob were all sitting around, teasing Tricia, one of the new girls, about a sexual incident she encountered back in L.A..
“Hey, Trish, I got a Dramamine if you think you’re gonna puke,” joked Madonna, who got a few snickers and giggles from the others.
“Tricia never gets sick on a plane. She only pukes when she gives a guy a blowjob,” interjected Melinda.
“Fuck you, man! Don‘t even go there,” scolded Tricia.
“Tricia! You might wanna take a Dramamine the next time you give a guy oral,” teased Ruthie.
“That poor guy must’ve been horrified when you hurled on his cock, huh?” asked Madonna.
“You guys are so cruel,” whined Tricia.
“Maybe put some honey on it, so it’ll taste better,” giggled Madonna.
“Okay, I threw up on the guy’s dick! So what? I hate giving oral! It totally grosses me out! I don’t like it!” Tricia rebuked.
Suddenly, the plane Madonna was flying on experienced an episode of heavy turbulence.
“Shit! What the fuck was that?” Madonna shouted, with a frightened gasp.
The voice of the pilot coming out of the speakers provided slight comfort when he immediately announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain! We’re flying through an unexpected tropical storm, so we’ll be experiencing some turbulence for a while. I assure you there‘s no reason for alarm.”
“Thank you. Just keep your eyes on the road,” Madonna joked, trying to settle the swarm of butterflies in her stomach.
She raised the plastic window shade again, and saw a tremendous downpour of rain slam against the airplane’s window like a car going through a car wash; the rain poured so hard it obstructed her view of the night sky completely.
“Oh my god! Look outside, you guys,” Madonna shouted, prompting everyone with a window seat to raise their shades while the others rushed over to see it, too.
“Wow! You can’t even see, it’s so much rain out there,” Ruthie said.
There were gasps and confused, worried chatter about the cabin.
Suddenly, the seemingly-threatened airplane was hit by another episode of turbulence; this one slightly more fierce. The fuselage was jolted, then everyone felt the plane plunge twice. The girls screamed in panic. Melinda and Tricia clutched onto Rob for security.
Madonna interjected, “Someone should go and find out what’s going on?”
Almost as if the pilot had heard her request, the voice of the captain came out loud and clear over the P.A. system. “Ladies and Gentleman, this is the captain again. I must ask all of you to return to your seats and fastened your safety belts at this time.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Tricia shouted.
More turbulence rocked the plane. The interior lights flickered. As everyone rushed to return to their seats, the oxygen masks dropped from their ceiling compartments.
“Oh my god! Oh my god!” Madonna shouted.
The lights flickered in more extended intervals now, causing longer periods of darkness inside the cabin. Scattered screams and rapid, panicky breaths rang eerily in the pitch black room. Everybody felt the plane plunge into a rapid descent, and their hearts sank into the pits of their stomachs.
“Oh shit!”
“Oh my god, what’s happening?”
“Please God, don’t let us die!”
“Oh no!”
“Are we fucking crashing?”
“Aw shit, what the fuck, man?”
Then suddenly, there was a powerful impact that rocked the fuselage like nothing before. Bodies were slammed against the walls and the seats throughout the cabin. Madonna was knocked to the floor; she groaned in pain. She felt a flood of water rush over her body and realized that the plane had crashed into the Pacific; the impact had made a hole in the fuselage, and water was quickly seeping in. Madonna got to her feet hurriedly; she looked out the slightly illuminated windows and noticed waves passing back and forth as the plane was submerged in the ocean about halfway up the windows. There was utter chaos on the plane; the unstoppable flow of water was rising fast inside the dark fuselage.
Madonna heard the desperate cries of terror from the others; she herself began to panic as the water had reached up to her chest now. She felt all sorts of objects in the water as she tried to swim to an exit. a cup, a neck chain, a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, were all in her path. Suddenly, she remembered the safety lecture that always proceeds every flight and that part where one’s seat cushion could be used as a flotation device. She then took a deep breath and dove under the water to look for one.
She swam a few feet and instead found the opened door of the private plane and quickly moved toward it. Madonna was now outside the aircraft. She reached the surface of the water and took a deep breath into her oxygen starved lungs. Miraculously, she spotted a seat cushion floating by that somehow had been detached by someone and had made its way out of the plane; she grabbed onto it fast. Madonna was now experiencing the full effect of the intense storm that came out of nowhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean: the heavy rain showering down on her head; the aggressive waves that rocked her about mercilessly.
Madonna clutched the floating seat cushion so tightly it wasn’t going anywhere. Her eyes were fixed in the direction of the sinking airplane which was now mostly submerged in the ocean, only the tail and the rear of the fuselage were visible to her. The rising of the waves in front of her frequently obstructed her view, but when the waves fell she could see that there were others that had made it out of the doomed aircraft, too.
“Rob. . . Adrian. . . Melinda. . . Persia. . .Melinda. . . Tricia. . .Rob. . .” Madonna shouted in a frantic tone.
The waves had shifted her even further away now, but the Pop diva could hear the faint cries of her road people. Marshmallows floating in a swaying cup of Pacific Ocean cocoa they were, confused, terrified, trying as best they could to survive. Madonna strained to listen and try to figure out what the distant voices were saying that were now even further away. Help me, did she hear someone shout? I see you? Over here? I think I can hold on? In a strange way it was like one standing in their front yard and hearing the conversations at a party three or four houses down the street.
Soon, Madonna was too far away to even hear them. Her voice had become hoarse from all her little-league-baseball-parent screaming, trying to reach the others. Now they were nothing more than little specks in the dimly illuminated night’s sky. Her subsiding adrenalin rush and her growing sense of hopelessness made her head heavy, pulling it down to the soft cushion of the floating seat like a reluctant piece of metal being pulled to an insistent magnet.
Where the storm was taking her she didn’t know...nor did she care; in fact, she wasn’t concerned about a lot of things at the moment: the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the ocean, her only friend in the world being an over-popped fluff of popcorn. Was she doomed to drown if a granddaddy of a wave came crashing down and knocked her off her floating friend...or worst...get eaten by a shark? Eaten by a shark? Thank goodness that horrible thought never paid a visit to her psyche.
No.
There was only a broken record inside her mind that was asking the same question over and over again. What the hell just happened here...What the hell just happened here... Trying to solve that puzzle was the one thing that sustained the little bit of strength she had left to hang on and survive. It was almost like a dream. Hours went by as the hypnotic reiteration of the ocean waves under the moon’s passive glow provided a consoling soundtrack like serene music at a movie’s end credits.
***
It was daylight now. Madonna was waking up. She felt the warmth of the tropical sun, the orange glow of sunlight under her eyelids. Her eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the light. She felt something damp and gritty against her face. Madonna realized she had washed ashore somewhere. But where was this somewhere? She spit out some sand that had washed onto her lips just inside her mouth. She sat up and looked all around at the beautiful island that worried her with its bleak peacefulness.
That broken record was playing again in her head. What the hell happened...What the hell happened...She thought about the tragedy the night before, and how she had survived that awful plane crash. But she wondered what happened to all her people who she remembered making it out of the fuselage. Were they still alive? Why didn’t they wash ashore on this island as she did? She thought about her family. Her husband and her two children. And what they might be going through once they learned the news.
Madonna did a lot of thinking now. All she had was time on her hands, staring off into the distance, watching the tide roll in as a constant reminder of hopelessness and loneliness. She felt so cut off from the world. But for some strange reason, she couldn’t shake off this weird feeling deep down inside that she wasn’t alone on this island. That someone was hiding somewhere, watching her from a distance.
As the day went by, Madonna waited. Perhaps a rescue party is on its way, she hoped. But if not, then what? What if this was some uncharted island that no one knew existed, and she was marooned here for the rest of her life like something out of a movie? Oh no, they have to find me. I must get back home. I have a life and a family who’s probably worried sick. Oh my god what am I going to do? It was going to be dark eventually and once again Madonna pulled herself together and went into survival mode.
She was kind of getting hungry now and went to hunt for food. Madonna was cautious making her maiden journey around the island. There were a couple of papaya trees just around the bend near the rocky slope of the mountain. She climbed up the tree and onto a branch. Carefully, she pulled two off and let them drop to the ground. Madonna heard something rustling in the bushes that startled her.
“ *gasp* Who’s there?” she shouted.
There was no reply.
That feeling of being spied-on was back again. She hesitantly made her way back down the tree, still suspicious and on guard. She took one of the papayas and banged the end of it against the rocky wall of the mountain to open its hard shell. It was a rigorous effort that tired her like nothing before, but finally the Material Girl was able to open the shell of the tropical fruit and drink its milk, quenching her thirsty mouth.
Later, Madonna returned to the beach. She had collected some of the smaller tree branches she pulled from the trees and put them in a pile on the sand. She grabbed one and broke it in half over her knee. She groaned in pain and rubbed her knee a bit. She heard something off in the distance, rustling in the bushes again. Madonna froze and turned her head.
“Is someone there,” she shouted again.
Maybe it was a bird. Or a small animal. She just couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was another person on this island watching her, with dubious intentions. When her racing heart calmed, moments later. her focus shifted back to those two sticks which she proceeded to rub together briskly. It would be dark soon and Madonna wanted to get a good fire going before sunset. She struggled for what seemed like an eternity to get some smoke out of those two sticks. Madonna was absolutely exhausted and her muscles ached tremendously, but she was determined.
Ultimately, Madonna was successful in getting a fire started by nightfall, blowing on the smoke to spread it around the pile of wood. It was becoming good size fire, too. She felt so happy and so rewarded by her effort. She was definitely a survivor. Then she spotted something moving along the beach just as the last gleam of sunlight peaked over the horizon. It was a crab making his sideways trek along the sand. Madonna’s eyes were wide with delight, seeing that there was something to have for dinner after all.
She then picked up one of the leftover rocks that she had gathered to surround the campfire and began stalking the crustacean. The marooned Pop singer slowly advanced on the crab from behind. The brightness from the campfire was just enough for her to see it clearly, and she wanted to reach it before it was veiled by the dimmer moonlight. Madonna was focused as if she were about to go onstage to perform in concert. She was completely oblivious to everything else around her; all that existed were the crab and she with rock in hand.
She suddenly felt a sharp pain on the back of her head and was rendered unconscious.
Hours later.
Madonna again awakened to the orange glow of sunlight under her eyelids. It was again daytime and her eyes had adjusted to the light when she realized something very alarming. She had been buried in the sand on the beach, with only her head and her feet exposed; she couldn’t see her feet because of the huge mound of sand piled before her, but she could feel the cool island breeze sweeping over them.
Now she knew for sure that she wasn’t imagining things when she had that unshakable feeling that she wasn’t alone on this island, and that she was being watched from afar. Madonna was absolutely terrified. Here she was the Queen of Pop, stranded on some island in the middle of the Pacific, thousands of miles from home, being held captive by a faceless madman.
“Help...somebody help me...wh-wh-who are you...why have you done this to me...I meant no harm...please don’t hurt me!” Madonna was inadvertently slipping into her affected British accent as she made an appeal to her mysterious captor with panicked breath.
Shortly after, a figure peaked over the mound of sand in which the Material Girl was trapped under. Madonna gasped; the unexpected appearance startled her. It was a man. He was an older man, his face haggard, his hair and beard were grizzled and unkempt, his clothes tattered and torn. He looked at her with a creepy eagerness about him, his smile showed a set of teeth that had been apart from their dentist for a very a long time.
“You sure are just the prettiest little thing I ever laid eyes on,” he said.
“Please, let me out of here. Who are you? Why did you bury me in the sand like this?”
“I’ve been on this here island for nearly thirty years, and never even so much as seen another soul until now.”
“You poor man,” Madonna tried to console.
“I was a top executive for an electronics firm, on my way to Melbourne, when my plane got caught up in this terrible storm. I don’t even know what happened to everyone else after the crash. All I know is somehow I survived and washed up on this blasted island...I’ve been here ever since.”
“I survived a plane crash, too,” an anxious Madonna beseeched. “I’m a famous singer, my name is Madonna, I was on my way to Sydney to perform at a concert. I don’t know what happened to everyone else on my plane either. I don’t even know how I got here. Oh please dig me out of here, Mister, I assure you there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
The gaunt man stared blankly at the Pop diva for a moment, then disappeared behind the mound of sand Madonna was buried under.
“Where are you going?” she inquired.
The castaway lay at Madonna’s bare feet which stuck out of the sand, helplessly confined and exposed; he admired the beauty of the woman’s feet which were well-manicured, smooth, and very sensitive-looking.
“I had a wife, also...she was almost just as pretty as you are...I always wonder what she might look like now...we had so much fun together...we’d go to the beach sometimes, and I’d bury her in the sand just like I buried you...then I’d play with her feet like this.” He then proceeded to drag his index finger up the sole of Madonna’s left foot, making it jerk violently under his touch.
She gasped and shouted, “What are you doing?”
He dragged the same index up the sole of her left foot, causing the toes to curl in the cutest way.
“Don’t touch my feet, that tickles!”
“You’re ticklish,” he cheered, “My wife was very ticklish, too. I miss tickling her, it was so much fun.”
“No! Please! Don’t tickle my feet. I’ll scream if you tickle my feet!”
This only encouraged the man even more; he chuckled sinisterly; ignoring her plea, he continued tickling Madonna’s foot bottoms, deftly scratching his index fingers along both soles.
“AAAAAAAAAAAGH! STOP! DON’T! I CAN’T TAKE THAT! AAAAAAAAGH! OH MY GOD! HEEHEE HAHA! AAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEH! *gasp* OH MY GOD! STOP IT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEEEEEEE! *gasp* OH MY GOD! I CAN’T TAKE IT! AAAAAAAAGH! MY FEET ARE REALLY TICKLISH! STOP!”
“I’ve been waiting to do this for nearly thirty years,” mentioned the unnamed man. He then grabbed the toes on Madonna’s right foot and stretched her sole taut; his fingers danced across her baby soft sole, lingering along her instep; he switched back and forth from right to left foot, driving the Material Girl wild.
“OH SHIT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHA! OH SHIT! NO! *gasp* DON’T! AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! STAAAAAAAAAAAHP! I HATE BEING TICKLED! PLEEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEEEASE! WOOOHAHAHA *hiccup* AAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEK! *gasp* CUT IT OUT!”
He then started stroking underneath Madonna’s ultra-sensitive toes, kneading between their tender crevices.
Madonna went berserk!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! *gasp* FUCK! STOP IIIIIITT! OH! MOTHERFUCKER! HEE HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *gasp* NO PLEASE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! OOH! OOH! PLEASE, MISTER! *groan* I CAN’T TAKE IT! I’M TOO TICKLISH THERE!”
But the man refused to let her go; there was nearly thirty years of pent up sexual fetish frustration, and he was much too content tickling the Evita star silly. He dragged his nails down the sides of her feet repeatedly and scrabbled his digits more in her EXTREMELY TICKLISH arches.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! FUCKING STOP! *gasp* HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! YOU’RE TORTURING ME! STAAAAAAAAAAAHP! HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA! *hiccup* WAIT! LET ME CATCH MY BREATH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! NO! STOP!”
Madonna was trailing off into silent laughter, her face flushed and sweaty; she was completely exhausted, but her feet were still kicking frantically under his touch. It was all too much for the beautiful, blue-eyed diva, and after almost an hour of ruthless foot-tickling, Madonna finally passed out.
***
The Material Girl was regaining consciousness. She was briefly disorientated then realized that she was no longer buried in the sand, but she was still in captivity. She was facing the beach in a standing position against a palm tree. Her arms were tied high above her head with some kind of vine around her wrists and around the trunk of the tree; her ankles were also immobilized in the same fashion. And what was worst of all, she was completely naked. Madonna struggled vehemently to free herself, but to no avail.
“OH NO! *gasp* WHAT THE FUCK! *gasp* NO!”
The man came from behind the palm tree and stood in front of Madonna, looking at her with that same creepy, eager smile.
“NO! DON’T TICKLE ME ANYMORE, YOU BASTARD! I HATE YOU! GO TO HELL!” she rebuked.
“I’m sorry, Madonna, but I just can’t help myself...I love to tickle you...I used tickle my wife all the time, and it was just so much fun...I mean, being cooped up on this island for all these years, dreaming about tickling her, and then you come along...and with those smooth, hairless, milky-white underarms....oooh...” He appealed as he reached his hands out, once again ignoring Madonna’s adamant objections, and planted them in the deft curves of her armpits with another tickling onslaught.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OOOH OOOH! STOP! DON’T AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! MOTHERFUCKER! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *gasp* YOU MOTHERFUCKER! AAAAAAAAAAAAGH! OH SHIT! *gasp* FUCK! HEE HAHAHAHA HEEHEEHEEEEEEEE!”
Madonna’s armpits were terribly ticklish, and she threw her head back and forth in ticklish agony, then the man momentarily abandoned her underarms to focus on the Pop singer’s susceptible sides, especially the fleshy part around her waist.
“AAAAAAAHHH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! HAHAHAHAHAHAAA! OOH OOH STOP! AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEHHHH! OOH! SON OF A BITCH! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! AAAAAAAAGH! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! STOP TICKLING MEEHEEHEEHEEHEEHEE!”
The eccentric man did give Madonna a small break to allow her to catch her breath; she was immensely fatigued. If it weren’t for the vines holding her up, she would have surely dropped to the ground. Madonna felt the cool tropical breeze sweep over her and gradually rejuvenate her. She stared into the distance, the sunlight dancing across the surface of the ocean like glitter. She then noticed there was a flat, black speck floating just above the horizon. She couldn’t take her eyes off it; Madonna was like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
It was a ship.
A cruise ship? An oil tanker? An aircraft carrier?
She didn’t know.
But she was ecstatic. Madonna had never been this excited since she signed her first record deal.
“A ship!” she shouted “Oh my god, it’s a ship! Oh, Mister, look! There’s a ship just above the horizon! I can see it!”
The man darted an almost disappointed frown at the bound woman then turned around, looking in the direction of the ocean.
He stared for a while and then groaned, “I don’t see anything.”
“Really, there is! Oh, you must believe me...hey, if you untie me now, we can both get a campfire going and try to send a smoke signal or something...maybe if it gets close enough we can get someone’s attention...then we can get off this island and you can go back to your wife and I can go back to my family and my fans.”
The man thought about it for a moment then turned back and worried Madonna with his usual Jack Nicholson as The Joker grin.
“Argh, who cares about being rescued. Now that I have you here to be my tickle toy, I may never want to leave this island.”
Madonna had a horrified expression on her face as this lonesome, determined man, who had occupied this eerily gorgeous paradise of solitude for so many years before her, came at her like a 3-D movie and tickled the Material Girl in her ribs with pianist-like know-how; the poor woman again erupted in gales of hopelessly ticklish laughter. She wondered if this tickle freak would ever stop tormenting her, but what she loathed even more was entertaining the thought that she could be stranded on this island with him for a very long time.
THE END
