Shark Island, Part 1 (Men to Anthro-Shark Girls TFTG) (Patreon)

Enjoy the start of this new ongoing TF story!

By FoxFaceStories

A Commission for BobbyBoi105

When a group of four college men on holiday end up stranded on a deserted island because of a freak storm, rescue seems hopeless. Thankfully, there is plentiful fruit on the island for them to eat, but the more they eat, the more they start to change: first becoming women, and then becoming a lot more suitable for the water. Will these new sharkgirls embrace their new forms or try to escape them?

Next Part

Shark Island

Part 1: Stranded

The ocean was blue and the sky somehow bluer. Peter’s grin was so wide that it was starting to hurt as he took in the beauty of the tropical environs around him, and the ultra-expensive private yacht he had found himself on. The young man had grown up poor and always been very reserved in his spending, working as constantly as he could so he could pay off the debt for his marine biology college course, which he was soon to graduate from. One could almost tell his background just from his appearance: Peter was always a little scrawny, his brown hair a little shaggy and unkept, and he was only 5’6 in height, a result of not getting the nourishment he needed when he was a young child due to his family’s destitution.

“And now I’m here,” he whispered to himself, leaning his hand against the mast and enjoying the cool breeze of the ocean air.

It wasn’t because of his own efforts that he was here, however. Peter hoped to become successful in his career, but he was still saddled with debt and two jobs, one of them overnight at a gas station, just to make ends meet. But by sheer happenstance, he’d had the good fortune to become friends with Lachlan Becks in his marine biology class, a blonde-haired and quite muscular man with expensive taste in clothes. They’d hit it off immediately, both of them sharing a love of the ocean and exploration, and even a love for schlocky eighties horror movies. It was only after Lachlan had invited Peter to come around to his house to catch up that Peter found out his new friend was seriously loaded. Incredibly loaded. As in, his father was the founder of a multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical company. That type of loaded. 

“Trust me, you never get sick of it!” Lachlan exclaimed, slapping his hand against Peter’s shoulder.

Peter smiled at his friend. “And you take this yacht out whenever you want?”

“Absolutely! Perks of being rich as fuck, man! Isn’t that right, fellas?”

“Damn straight,” Tyson said, holding up a mimosa as he lounged on a deck chair. 

“You’re welcome to share that wealth around, you know!” Diego added, adjusting the sails a little.

They were Lachlan’s other friends, and now they had become Peter’s friends too as of the last few weeks. Tyson was a childhood friend of Lachlan’s, an African-American man with tight black curls and a deeply masculine jawline. He came from good wealth himself, but the man was a damn talented football player, and the NFL was practically throwing offers at him already. Meanwhile, Diego had a lot more in common with Peter, given that he was technically employed by Lachlan’s wealthy family for the purpose of sailing their yacht for them. He was a handsome-looking Hispanic man with wavy black hair, and apparently had a reputation with the ladies, one he didn’t deny. Still, he had told Peter that he was grateful to have someone else who “didn’t come from money” around, particularly since he was still expected to do a number of the jobs on the yacht while the rest partied more easily.

“I’ll share it around alright,” Lachlan said to his friend/employee, “so long as you give us the grandest tour of this Caribbean stretch imaginable!”

“Yes, sir,” Diego said, giving an over the top salute. “Whatever you say, sir!”

“That’s the spirit!” Lachlan laughed. “I’m getting a beer. Anyone else want a beer? Pete, hurry up and have a beer, man!”

Peter grimaced a little. He struggled to take advantage of the many amenities and niceties that Lachlan was supplying for them all. He was used to repaying debts, living cheaply, and certainly not being spoiled like this.

“I, um, I’ve already had one!” he said.

Diego chuckled. “He won’t let you just have one. Trust me. I know. He won’t even let me pay through it in my check.”

“Only an asshole would do that,” Lachlan said. He gestured to Tyson. “What’s up with these guys, huh?”

“Blue collar folk,” Tyson said. “Real salt of the earth types. Can’t relax because they never did growing up. Don’t tell me you’re so rich you don’t know this, man.”

Lachlan shrugged. “I know it, I just don’t fucking understand it. Just have a drink, man!”

Peter moved to help Diego with the sail. He’d done his best to try and repay Lachlan for spruiking them all on this surprise Caribbean cruise, but he constantly felt a need to help out and try and prove that he had a right to be here, and that he wasn’t taking advantage of his rich friend. But Lachlan just chuckled at this. 

“Peter, man, you are having a cold one whether you like it or not.”

“Just - as soon as I’ve finished helping Diego here.”

Diego smirked beside him. “It won’t work,” he said in his lightly accented voice. “Lachlan’s a great guy, but he has yet to learn how to take no for an answer.”

“That sounds right!” Tyson chuckled, before lying back to enjoy the sun. “Beer me, dude! I’m over mimosas! Time for a man’s drink!”

Lachlan threw him a bottle and he caught it easily, cracking it open and taking a deep drink. Peter gave a gesture that said ‘in a moment, in a moment!’ as he moved with Diego to observe how he adjusted the large yacht’s course.

But then Lachlan had a funny idea, or at least one he thought was funny. He reached into the cooler and grabbed a bottle of pale ale and proceeded to toss it straight at Peter.

“Quick catch!” he yelled.

Peter turned too late, the bottle flying through the air straight toward him. But Lachlan was no athlete - that was Tyson’s shtick - and the arc of the bottle went wide. It smacked against Diego’s temple with a solid CRACK, and the only man capable of actually sailing the ship properly went down like a sack of potatoes.

“Holy shit!” Peter said as the man fell back into his arms. “Dude, what the - whoa!”

He slipped over, the bottle having smashed at his feet. Glass shards embedded in his heel, causing him to howl, and as he fell back he grabbed the ship’s steering wheel, which turned it heavily to the starboard side. The sail swung rapidly, just as Tyson was running up to try and help. If anyone else had been in his place, they would have been fine, but the dark-skinned man was a massive 6’4 in height, and the beam of the sail collided against his chest, knocking him to the side and cracking several ribs. He fell down the stairs and slammed his head against the railing, and in moments he was out cold too.

Lachlan gasped, and Peter could see he clearly had no idea what to do. Unfortunately, with the blood going everywhere and his feet radiating pain due to the deeply embedded shards of glass, he too was growing faint. 

“I don't f-feel so good,” he managed, before slipping again on his own blood trailing and falling back into the yacht’s cabin. He started crawling painfully to the emergency supplies within, but he was starting to get faint and groggy. The last thing he heard before he fell into unconsciousness was a very confused Lachlan shouting: “Oh fuck!”

***

Stormy waves lashed at the side of the ship. Peter woke suddenly. His feet were bandaged, and it took him a moment to remember why: he’d gone in and out of consciousness and had to render first aid on himself, because sheltered Lachlan had no idea what to do. The soles of his feet were still in agony, but that seemed to be the least of his problems, because the yacht was being battered by the waves, tossing and turning the cabin and causing the contents of shelves to fly everywhere.

“L-Lachlan?” Peter managed. “Lachlan!?”

“Thank Christ! Peter! Get up here! Diego’s still out and I can’t wake him!”

Peter winced as he put his feet down upon the floor of the yacht, but he had no choice. Water was leaking into the ship from above, and when he managed to stagger up the stairs he could see that the sky was a horrid black-grey, the sea a frightening churn of waves that were threatening to tear the ship apart. The sail caught heavy wind and pulled the yacht to one side, and Peter was nearly flung overboard. A rather hapless, far less cool Lachlan was at the helm, trying to steer the ship and seeming unable to commit to a single heading.

“It’s a complete fucking nightmare!” the man declared, his sunglasses lost to the wind, his blonde hair whipped about in the forceful gale. “I’ve managed to wake Tyson but his back is all fucked up! But Diego is still out cold, man! He’s the only one that can pilot or steer this ship or whatever the fuck you call it, and he’s unconscious!”

Peter gripped the front railing. Everything was a nightmare; a sensory overload of tempest and storm. “How long was I out?” he cried, screaming into the wind just to be heard.

“I don’t know! Like an hour! Maybe more? I was too busy trying to take control after you fucked everything up!”

Peter gave him a look. “I’m the one who fucked everything up? You’re the one who threw a bottle at Diego’s head!”

“Yeah, and you knocked yourself out because Tyson was trying to save you!”

“From what you caused - where the hell is Tyson?”

“He’s there!”

Lachlan pointed to the man, who was slumped back in a chair on the deck, gripping the railing beside him for all it was worth to avoid spilling over the side.

“The hell!? He needs someone to rescue him!”

“Be my guest, man!” Lachlan shouted. “He’s a giant sack of meat! Get Diego awake already! He’s back in the cabin! I’ve got no idea what the fuck I’m doing!”

That much was clearly true. Peter could see it in his rich friend’s eyes; this was the first time he’d ever actually captained the ship himself, and he was way over his head. The fact that he still had the sail at full mast was insanity, especially since he was tacking into the wind.

“Try to turn us around while I see to him!” Peter shouted, but Lachlan was in full panic mode, and Tyson was groaning out loud in pain upon the deck.

“Just g-get me out of here! I’m too fucking young to die, dudes!”

Peter almost slid down the stairs again. His feet were in so much pain it was difficult not to go faint again, but at least he’d done a good job with his own first aid. He suspected the discarded bandages on the floor were Lachlan’s initial failed attempts to see to him before he had driven the whole group into a storm and shifted his priorities.

“Nghh!” the young man grunted, pushing past the pain. His skull whined in pain; clearly he’d hit it harder than he thought. He ignored that for now and found Diego, who had slid half out of the bed Lachlan had put him in due to all the rocking of the boat.

“Diego! Hey, Diego! We need your help!”

He pushed his friend’s body, but the Hispanic man only winced a little, remaining otherwise unconscious. Thinking quickly, Peter grabbed the emergency medical supplies, rifling through them until he found what he was looking for: not bandages this time but instead the powerfully scented smelling salts. He opened the lid and placed it beneath Diego’s nose, and the effect was practically instantaneous: the man sat up coughing and spluttering, eyes wide as if adrenaline was coursing through his veins.

“Dios mio! Mierdas! What - what the fuck is going on?”

“Lachlan threw a bottle at your head and you’ve probably got a concussion, but the boat is in the middle of a storm and we need you to-”

Peter didn’t even get to finish his sentence, because Diego was already running up to the ship’s wheel. 

“Idiota!” he yelled. “You fool! Where have you taken us!?”

“I don’t know!” Lachlan said. “I have no idea-”

“Go fucking secure Tyson! I’ll try to get us out of here and -”

Peter saw it at the same time Diego did; an enormous wave that rose above all the others, barrelling straight towards their ship.

“Oh God,” Peter gasped. “What do we do!?”

“Hold on tight!” Diego yelled, turning the ship to push against the wave head-on. “We might not make it!”

Lachlan screamed. “WHAT!?”

“Just see to Tyson!” Diego cried. “Make sure he doesn’t go overboard!”

“No way, man!” the footballer cried from the deck. “No fucking way! NO FUCKING WAY!”

The wave was upon them, magnified by the sleet and the gale. Peter gripped the railing, but his feet slid out from under him, wracked with pain even as the enormous tidal wave crashed upon the yacht and then lifted it up and up and up and up. All four friends screamed in horror, sounding more like terrified children than grown, college-aged men. But no one could blame them; the forces of nature had scooped up the ship with ease and were carrying it right to the apex of the wave. For a moment, Peter was hopeful that they might even break through the wave, but all of his hopes were dashed when he saw Diego’s resigned face, his teeth gritted as he held the wheel.

Peter didn’t even have time for last words as the yacht was enveloped by the way and then turned over. He along with his friends was tossed into the churning void of the sea, crying out for help from on high before being cast into the deep below.

Once again, Peter fell unconscious.

***

Peter coughed up water. For several long moments, he thought he might be dead, or still dying, but then he saw a little crab step into his view, and his blurry vision slowly coalesced to reveal he was on a white sandy beach, with a thick jungle treeline roughly twenty feet away. He gasped, coughing up more water until his lungs were finally empty. It was a wretched experience, but somehow he was still alive, and without even meaning to the young brown-haired man burst into laughter, cackling like a mad man and rolling onto his back to feel the warmth of the tropical sun upon his face.

“I’m alive!” he cried. “I’m alive and . . .”

He paused, the full realisation hitting him. “L-Lachlan,” he stammered. “Tyson. Diego!”

He got to his feet and cringed. God, they were in pain. He was almost certain that shards of glass were still embedded deeply within there, which was a bad sign. Still, he saw a body upon the beach and moved towards it. Lachlan had somehow lost his shirt, but his blonde hair and muscular body were unmistakable. Peter rolled him over, ready to perform CPR, but instead Lachlan groaned, clutching his head.

“Am I dead?”

“No, thank God!” Peter said, hugging his friend.

“Ow, ow! That fucking hurts, man!”

“Sorry, but we need to find the others, Lachlan. I think we’re on an island, some kind . . . deserted island.”

Indeed, it didn’t look too large, at least to judge from the central mountain that jutted up beyond the teeming jungle, and the circumference of the shore. But he could explore later: the two of them needed to find Diego and Tyson, and to Lachlan’s credit he was instantly alert and moving to find his friends.

“Fucking stupid yacht,” he whined as they searched. “Damn thing wasn’t worth the fifty million Dad paid for it!”

Peter refrained from saying anything about the bizarre catastrophe that had unfolded, even though Lachlan’s comments irked him. Instead, he worked with him to find Diego on his back in the shallows, pulling the concussed man to the shore while he cursed Lachlan out yet again, this time entirely in Spanish. They found Tyson not long after, further down the beach, a piece of flotsam beside him. He was in a bad way, conscious but breathing in a ragged kind of way.

“My legs!” he gasped. “I can’t f-feel my fucking legs! Lachlan, you fucking moron! What have you done?”

Peter could see that Lachlan was going to argue, so instead he interceded. “Just stay still, Ty. We’ll get you further up the beach and keep your back and your neck braced. I know how to do this, don’t worry. It might be shock or something else, so don’t panic. That will just make things worse.”

“I can’t feel my legs!” the man repeated. “I can’t play sports like this!”

“We’ll just get you up into some shelter, then we can figure out what to do. You probably need rest. Diego, we’ll need to get supplies that have washed ashore. Lachlan, can you try and see what’s around this island?”

Despite being the poorest and smallest (and certainly the scrawniest) of the four men, Peter found himself a natural leader in this moment, and none of the others challenged him. He’d been in emergency situations far more than the two more sheltered members of the group, and Diego was a bit compromised.

“Change of plan,” he said. “Diego, you’ve still got your concussion. Go rest up against a tree with Tyson. I’ll check out the island alone.”

A stretch of silence continued after he’d spoken, so he clapped his hands.

“C’mon, guys! Let’s move! We’ve got to get our shit together on this!”

At that, they finally began moving, and Peter set out to try and find civilisation to try and help. He didn’t tell any of them his lack of confidence in any success. Instead he just marched off, passing by a large stone obelisk on the beach, one that looked incredibly ancient. It depicted island women in its carvings, each of them dancing in revealing articles of clothing on the beach, and below them were figures that appeared to be shark-people with dorsal fins and impressive tails, each of them swimming in the water and offering gifts. The dancing women appeared to have those same gifts.

“Weird,” Peter said. “But looks like signs of civilisation. Ahh. F-fuck these feet.”

He marched on, his bandages wet but holding, and disappeared from view. He really needed to find a doctor. They all did.

***

Peter didn’t make it very far. He continued to seriously underestimate the damage to the soles of his feet, and it occurred to him long after his miraculous wakeup that there was probably a good chance they could become infected if he didn’t find a way to clean and redress the wounds.

“Why didn’t I send Lachlan to go look around the island?” he huffed to himself. But he knew the answer already: his friend was kind, witty, and confident, but he’d already proven that he was hopeless in a real life stress scenario. Peter had to do this himself. 

But unfortunately, he couldn’t. There was no way to circumnavigate the island entirely and find evidence of civilisation, so he simply had to rely on common sense and guile to help him. The geography of the area suggested it was a small island, perhaps only several miles across. There was no smoke upon the horizon, or over any of the hills, and the lack of any evidence of human existence other than the strange runic carvings of the women and the shark-people (of which there were many, strangely enough) made it clear that this place had long since been abandoned.

There was just one thing that was an interesting curiosity: a large purple fruit somewhat shaped like a pineapple, only without the hard exterior: its hexagonal pattern was actually a segmented series of buds that looked ripe and full of juice. Peter was no idiot, he had no plan to eat it, but he lugged one bag anyway, carrying it under his arm.

In the end, that would have to be enough. He returned cautiously, wiping away tears of pain due to the damage in his feet, and collapsed before the rest of the group. They were a wretched bunch. Diego was still unconscious, and the throbbing wound on the side of his head where the bottle had gotten him made it clear his concussion was even worse than Peter had assumed. Lachlan’s normally composed face was dirtied and exhausted, his expression just short of panic. Tyson, on the other hand, looked utterly furious. There were tear streaks down his cheeks, and the man was sitting up against a tree, curling his fists over and over again.

“It’s my spine,” he said. “My goddamn spine. I can’t move my legs. Anything below my waist. Tell me there’s a goddamn medical clinic nearby, dude!”

Peter swallowed. He was so parched. All of them were. But he still had to deliver the bad news.

“There’s no one nearby,” he said. “We’re on a deserted island.”

“What!?” Lachlan screeched. “What are we going to do? How are we going to survive?”

Peter was about to say that he wasn’t sure, but then he took notice of what Lachlan’s was slumped up against, Diego sleeping on the ground before him. It was another carving on a great flat stone, and it showed a beautiful woman holding up a fruit of some sort, sort of like a pineapple. The same kind he had taken with him. A sharkgirl in the water was doing the same, and both had beaming smiles. 

“We’ll just have to hope we get rescued,” he said. “But as for surviving . . . this fruit looks to be edible. Maybe that can help us?”

Lachlan frowned, unsure. Tyson was despondent. Peter took the initiative again and broke off a large, juicy bud and ate it. The juice that erupted in his mouth was perhaps the most pungent, flavour-filled, and utterly delicious tropical fruit he had ever consumed. Hell, it was perhaps the best thing he had consumed period.

“Oh my God, guys. You’ve got to try this! It’s wonderful.”

“Don’t wanna,” Tyson said, melancholic.

“There was a carving back there that showed a woman with a busted leg eating the fruit and becoming healed,” Peter suggested.

Cautiously, the potentially paraplegic man took a bud and began to eat it, the juice pouring down his chin. He instantly perked up.

“Hot damn, that is delicious.”

Lachlan was soon singing its praises as well, and wondering if his father’s business could expand to this area, but Peter was quick to remind him they had other priorities, like feeding Diego. Lachlan blushed and took a bud, then opened Diego’s mouth and squeezed some of the juice in. The man made some contented noises, which they took to be a good sign.

“Hopefully, we can sleep here, eat the fruit, and get rescued soon,” Peter said.

“Get me some medical attention after that, ASAP,” Tyson added, reaching for another fruit which Peter had to pass him.

“I’m sure it’ll be alright, guys, Lachlan said. “We’ll all look back on this and laugh. And hey, at least we’ve got this delicious fruit now, right?”

If only any of them could read the runic carvings on the stone, they would know that the fruit was called, in that ancient tongue, the Fruit of the Sea Beauties. ‘Eat and be changed. Become anew, neither woman nor shark but part of each, in glory to great Hawavu.’ But none of them could read the carvings, and so they saw only the fruit. 

Which meant their fate was now sealed.

To Be Continued . . .