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You Call This A Free World?, Want, Enflamed
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Shamanic Drugs: Natural Highs and Death Trips
Shamanic Drugs
Natural Highs and Death Trips
Back in the days of the forest camps,when small bands of concerned citizens shared extraordinary times and amazing experiences in remote mountain rainforests – to stop the logging of ancient old growth forests and the destruction of unknown species – this rambunctious heretic witnessed many strange things.
Living in the deep forests for years – even relatively human-friendly ones like the money-torn remnants of primordial Eden we have here in Oz – you tend to see and experience all sorts of things that no-one else does. It takes all kinds to make and break a world – but it takes a really special bunch of visionary people to stop the world-destroying rapists who say ‘you can’t stop the march of progress’. Most of the extraordinary forest you can see from the windows of this isolated antipodean Pentagon where my fingers dance on the keyboard has been saved – turned into unexploitable National Parks and conservation areas – but that’s a story for another time.
Today I’m reminiscing about some of the crazy needle freaks and junkies we had to share the camps and consort with, in places where any disease could easily spread through the clans of pierced ferals, peace hippies and pissed-off aboriginals assembled beneath the canopy. You couldn’t turn anyone away from the anarchic teepees of the metal-pierced, dreadlocked feral tribes. Everyone had a right to be there – and we needed everyone who could make it to the almost inaccessible areas we found ourselves in. We had to keep ourselves healthy, or lose the forest.
Some of the people arriving in the camps were trying to come down off their high habits and go cold turkey a long way from their homes, so we cooked up poppy seed juice for them to ease their discomfort – and keep needles out of the camps. After a while, poppy seeds were banned – you couldn’t buy them unless you were a commercial baker for a time – but with a little lemon juice to help break down the simmering seed stew this simple expedient helped junkies through the worst of their withdrawals.
It’s from watching the experiences (or lack of them) of others that the wise learn their lessons. As a young runaway teen I saw many friends go down beneath the magic bullets of the ongoing opium wars. I saw the needle and the damage done. They dropped like flies all around me or were horrendously crippled in a multitude of ways – and this particular hermetic hermit always avoided needles as a result.
Besides, the Goddess gave us great filter systems – lungs and digestive organs – to take our drugs with. It’s foolish and greedy to bypass the filters and go straight for the mainline – particularly with something that’s recently been handled by some junkie’s sweaty fingers. As the hippies always said, avoid the powders – don’t panic if it’s organic.
A couple of guys in particular stick in my mind now – gents and wimmin who will remain nameless (until the story’s told in detail at some future time), who tried everything under the sun, moon and stars. You may not be aware that many ‘intravenous drug users’ – as ignorant bureaucracies love to call needle freaks, regardless of whether they’re shooting stuff into their veins or eyes or muscles – will go on using needles even when they have no drug to put in them.
Over the decades I’ve seen desperate smackies shoot up water, wine, spirits, various other beverages including mentholated spirit and Pepsi, bong water, vegemite, battery acid, bleach, shoe polish, soap – the list goes on and on (Don’t try this at home, kids). Many needle users are addicted to the implement, the device, the fit, the sheer rush of invading their own bloodstreams - and will fill a hypodermic and their organs with whatever they can squeeze through the rectum of any available syringe.
But the prize for brazen consumptive appetite (and not a little stupidity) goes to the guys who were connoisseurs of snake venom– ‘the ultimate death-trip high’, as one dreadlocked dreamer called it in the forest camps. They’d catch venomous snakes on the fringes of the rainforests around the protest camps and milk them for their venom. Perhaps you can guess the rest, but I’ll tell you anyway.
“Getting the dosage right is the hard part,” one of them said to me once. “You don’t want to go to all that trouble and not use enough.”
The strange congruence of hollow needle and hollow fang really got them going – but they didn’t take the stuff direct from the snake (well – only one guy, anyway); they measured and mixed the destructive proteins with other drugs, shooting the venom directly into their veins. And they mixed various venoms together in different proportions as well. Everyone’s fear of ‘deadly’ snakes was somewhat allayed by watching the results – which is to say that miraculously, none of them died; not on my watch, at least, and not that we heard of. Not from shooting up snake venom, anyway… not straight away.
They had visions and nightmares, deliriums and wild rapping poetry sessions that continued in polluted streams of consciousness until they rocked themselves into shivering trances beneath the primordial canopy. Some kept on tripping all night, delivering missives from the Other Side to those assembled around the fires and firestick twirlers. I won’t divulge which particular venoms did which (they’re all destructive poisons, remember), and besides – after the needle-freak ferals had tried each in turn they started mixing even more arcane cocktails. There are much better drugs, folks, that don’t come with the same hefty price tag.
Oz has many snakes; around here we have the friendly pythons and other harmless tree snakes aplenty, but where the trees are decimated there are many poisonous black snakes – red-bellied, yellow-bellied and pure black, all races of a single species; ‘deaf’ death adders, who are not really deaf – a relative of the rattler; venomous browns and king browns, impressive cousins of the cobra; toxic ‘bandy bandy’ banded snakes with fascinating stripes; the sometimes aggressive beautifully striped tiger snakes; tiny, beautiful, deadly western taipans, and many other lesser-known breeds.
As in most ancient cultures, the serpent is a symbol of the energies of Mother Earth for the Aboriginal people here – and the serpent dancer is a respected shaman in many cultures as well, even represented in the Western constellations as Ophiuchius, the snake dancer (not serpent slayer, as some erroneous texts suggest). The Rainbow Serpent is a major feature of many creation legends in parts of the Great Southland.
Almost no-one actually dies of snakebite unless they’re very old, very young, pregnant or sick. No-one is bitten unless they first molest the snake in some way – picking it up, trying to move it, attacking it or playing with it. Around here there hasn’t been a fatality for over a generation. Nonetheless, when you walk barefoot in this rugged country you watch every step for a number of reasons. “Every step is a prayer,” as the aboriginal elders are often fond of saying in their double-meaning, straight-talking manner. After a while you understand why we all used to sleep with our babies.
This experienced bushwalker usually watches every step.
Now I can tell you from first-hand experience what snake venom can be like, when directly injected by fang. Aye, this hermetic heretic became a little too lackadaisical this week and trod on one of the poor wee beasties while walking barefoot a couple of klicks from home, on a rugged mountain slope. The small jet black serpent turned and nipped me between the toes and then slithered out of sight. It’s the third time a snake has bitten me – but the other two were non-venomous pythons.
When you’re bitten you’re supposed to stay still and not pump he venom around your system. Above all, you don’t panic – blood-pumping fear can jet the toxins around your bloodstream even more quickly. It’s said that with many snake-bites, the poison won’t kill you but the panic will. If possible, it’s a good idea to apply a pressure bandage; a tourniquet is dangerous, particularly if you’re alone.
None of these options were really available to me, except for the ‘not panicking’ part; alone on a mountainside, nothing to use as a bandage, out of range of all technological communication gear (which there’s no point having out here anyway) and with Wonder Boy due back on the school bus in an hour, there was little choice but to saunter back while my legs were still working.
By the time my foot reached the little wooden shack at the bottom of the valley it was swollen, red and painful and my leg was stiffening up slightly, but my heartbeat was still pretty normal. My vision was just a little blurry. There was enough time to lie down and relax for ten minutes and have a hit of fresh cherry guavas, collected from trees lining the paths on the way back.
No point in alarming Wonder Boy or my friends and neighbours – and I judged the effects to be merely painful, not really life threatening. Yoga, alternative medicine training and meditation can help you differentiate between the various effects and happenings in your body, which soon ceases to be unfamiliar territory after a little practice, visualisation and study.
The previous night I’d just finished recording my shamanic death experience at the age of seventeen in glorious psychedelic Technicolor (posted athttp://
So in order to penetrate the veil of mystery that protects the fearful from knowledge of themselves and the beyond, I guided my confused and concerned body and mind through the brainstorm of warning imagery that guards the gate to the Other Side of this life.
For a while I was trying to work out the origin of the strange radiating circular patterns superimposed over my vision. A green many-pointed star hovered in a purple field with curving lines radiating out from it. Trying to count the points of the star, my inner perception turned around the star, trying to count the points – but as I counted them they shifted and I soon realised I was viewing a stereo image made of the confluence of two different shapes – the blind spots where the optic nerves enter the back of my eyes and the bundles radiating out from them.
Beamish Boy’s mother is a vet who has had occasion to speak with other people who’ve been bitten by blacksnakes. “They described it as a complete trip,” she says. “One girl told me it was the strongest psychedelic she’d ever experienced – and she’d experienced a lot.”
Wonder Boy’s mother, a Shiatsu practitioner, had another take; “The native people say when you’re bitten by one of those you gain some sort of special healing ability.”
The venom made for a very colourful and psychedelic experience.. Half-way through the peak, O’Grady asked a question out of the blue that led to a very long spiel; “What do you think happens when you die?”
Well, friends, it’s a question that seems particularly prominent at the present time – and not simply in my life, here in a remote rainforest. All over the world, many, many people know – or suspect – that something big in the way of megadeath is coming. Many put the feeling down to the impending realities of climate catastrophe, or to the stark realities facing most of the world’s ripped off ‘underprivileged’ people, as they stumble from one day to the next without real food or pure water – or the time, energy or training for the reflection and self-examination required to change themselves and the world. With free time people can transform themselves and the planet into something far closer to the ideals glowing in every human heart. Without it, humans are simply slaves in an open prison.
Others fear the Day of Judgment, the Wrath of God, the Return of Planet X, tidal waves, earthquakes, megastorms, a new ice age, all of the above or their own private, personal extinction in a world that doesn’t teach children what lives inside their skin and brain.
Some go the other way, preferring to see the coming changes as the birth of a New Humanity, a new star-child emerging amid the paroxysmal birth-pangs of planetary transformation. Some see rapture for themselves and their ‘chosen elect’ friends, or an en masse species transit to ‘higher’ dimensions.
But wherever you go, there you are.
Rather than repeating my reply to O’Grady here, I’d rather ask you these questions; how do you know you’re alive now? How do you know the difference between life and a particularly vivid dream? Is there a difference? Who are you, really? What do you need, and why?And why are you reading this, hearing this questioning message from your inner self?
The hard part of surviving the future is not coping with death or extinction or nuclear war or asteroid strikes – the real challenge is to work out what LIFE is for, here and now, and to learn how to keep living in a world that we won’t leave behind, where we really have to clean up our mess or suffocate in our own shit and chemical debris – regardless of whether we’re heating up the biosphere or not. The challenge is the same old story – how do we have a good time with all our brothers and sisters without trashing the Tree of Life that is home to us all? How can we be wise, honourable, integral custodians of Planet Earth?
The challenge for the humans of the New Aeon is to recreate our birthright – the Paradise planet, the Garden of Gaia – and to stay here to enjoy it!
Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to by those who still get away with stealing the wealth and knowledge of the Earth (and everywhere else) for themselves – are you?
Turn on. Tune in. Opt OUT of the world-destroying treadmill!
Money does NOT make the world go round – it makes it go down! Find the only things that matter – your true self, true friends and loving family. Together we create reality with the combined inspiration of our shared dreams and actions. Let’s build a better future – from the inside out.
What’s inside? Who are you? Why are you here? What’s outside, behind the screen and the wall?
Take a good look.
- R.Ayana
From The Her(m)etic Hermit @http://hermetic.blog.com/2008/03/16/shamanic-drugs/
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Falling Angel, Fauna, Forest Pix(ie)
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Homing Instinct - Wild Life 13
Homing Instinct
Wild Life 13
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The original Nexusmobile survived only a few years carrying heavy cargoes of
alternative magazines around the Great Southern Land. Even before the shaman had
acquired it, the battered van bore deep scars inflicted by innumerable heavy steel
safes, transported between warships and storehouses for its previous owner, the
Royal Australian Navy.
The Nexusmobile trundled all over the continent, carting
magazines and books from mazes of urban back lanes to unmarked dirt tracks in
remote bushland, en route between every newsagent, bookshop, health food store
and hippy head shop in the Great Southern Land. The six wheeled Mazda -
sporting double rear rims - bore its burdens well, regardless of manifold surface
nicks, bumps and scars. The workhorse finally came to grief during the fateful weekend
the shaman decided to buy the deed to a parcel of paradise from an old friend.
The landholding was halfway
between the two largest cities on the Pacific coast, situated as far as possible
from what passed for civilisation in the salubrious easterly fringe of Oz. The
shaman prince had travelled northward from the Emerald City, distributing
magazines to sundry outlets by day and making love with his girlfriend Reema on
a comfy bed in the back of the cluttered van each night.
They wended a northerly course
through towns and villages, zigzagging across the main highway to reach
disparate little settlements until they exhausted their supply of the latest
editions of Nexus New Times, the Permaculture Journal and Internal Alchemy. On the second day of
the return journey they picked up a pair of young hitchhiking travellers – Ona,
a quietly spoken willowy blond Scandinavian girl and Mark, her partner and guide;
a curly-haired Austrian roughneck who filled the rollicking miles with sly questions
and dry jests.
After a couple of smokes and a
feast of chocolate coated macadamia nuts, Ona divulged a heartfelt wish to see
a real antipodean rainforest. With only a few days left in the country, she
sorely regretted the fact that her visit had been spent almost exclusively in
cities and towns, or on touristy stretches of nearby white sand beaches. When
apprised of the distributors’ destination the couple happily agreed to come
along and inspect the remote, steeply inclined two hundred acre wood that
reared up and up from the banks of a dazzlingly beautiful crystal clear stream.
The land was way off the beaten
track. Ona had rarely been out of an urban centre and Mark reckoned he’d never been
inside a real rainforest. They were all keen to see an actual subtropical
jungle and inspect their driver’s prospective new home. Not long after they
ventured off the highway and began bouncing down a long and winding dirt road
the visitors saw their first real, live kangaroo in its native habitat. The
bounding marsupial kept pace with the Nexusmobile for a handful of heartbeats
before bouncing up the side of a nearly sheer cliff on the edge of the road.
Ona gasped while Mark’s ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s drowned out the squeaks and rattles of
the aging van.
The block was unoccupied when they
arrived, with weedy grass growing shaggy and wild as the shamanic driver’s hair.
Until a few weeks earlier, Ram’s erstwhile spouse – an illegitimately noble
Japanese woman with whom he’d earlier lived for several years - had cohabited the
unpretentious little cabin with Ricco, a lofty wisecracking hippy who
originally hailed from Chicago. Aussie-born ‘Asian Zsuzsi’ (as the local
hillbillies knew her) had swiftly hooked up with Ram’s old friend a few months
after their surprisingly mature and amicable parting. The shaman had visited the century
old shack in one hardworking little van or another many times, while wending
his way around the countryside distributing the latest issues of Nexus New Times Magazine and its
prototype, Maggie’s Farm. The
isolated, nearly self-sufficient couple were always glad to see him (or just
about anyone else) pull up on the hairpin bend of the dusty track that followed
the course of a serpentine stream.
The landscape surrounding their primitive
little home was unbelievably beautiful. During his travels throughout much of
the island continent Ramses had never seen anywhere to compare with the land
where Ricco and Zsuzsi lived an ideal life in a perfect climate on the banks of
their pretty little stream, surrounded by vast slumberous forests.
Their small cabin was a durable,
hand wrought hardwood cattle shed that had been cool enough to reliably set and
separate cream in the warm subtropical climate, back in the days when dairy
farms filled all the eastern valleys - before the small milk farmers went bust
and freed up vast acreages of suddenly inexpensive land for hordes of hippies who
craved escape from the urbane inanity of an old Cold War.
Ricco had lived there a dozen
years; with Zsuzsi for almost two. They seemed utterly happy together, even
though the much younger woman was occasional riven by bouts of semi-hysteria in
the face of unaccustomed isolation; she was consequently oft compelled to visit
the city for various forms of diverting entertainments. A score of moons before
Reema filled his nights and days with wry observations, excruciating puns,
unique insights and athletic sex, Ram’yana had been Zsuzsi’s most enduring
divertissement for several eventful years.
The shaman visited whenever he had
the chance, quietly envying the wonderfully peaceful life his friend and former
lover were building. They were slowly constructing a two storey masterwork of
brick and timber in a hidden valley, preparing to grow older together in the
approaching dawn of the new millennium.
He couldn’t believe Ricco would
ever contemplate selling up and leaving the place.
One dark windy night of that
strangely mild winter, an unexpected marauder arrived in the quiet little vale.
A home invader decked out in dark leather and a black woollen balaclava turned
up and kicked their ramshackle door from its hinges. He held the hastily
wakened couple hostage with Ricco’s own loaded rifle, which he’d found behind
the unlocked door. He tied the lanky Yank to a chair and forced Zsuzsi - naked
and terrified – up a ladder at gunpoint after gagging his victims. Then he hogtied
the gorgeous young woman onto her wood-framed futon bed in the couple’s cosy
loft. Ricco struggled to extricate himself while Zsuzsi’s muffled cries mingled
with grunts, creaks and sounds of slapping flesh as an even more hideous
invasion transpired upstairs.
After an excruciatingly long time the
sated burglar climbed back down the makeshift ladder. He untied Ricco and marched
his captive into the hidden valley, where he tied him to a gum tree and began a
violent interrogation. He bashed the peaceful hippy with his own rifle butt
until the battered Yank was convinced to hand over his stash. The gunman’s last
words – delivered in an obviously faked Shwartznegger accent along with the
rest of his curt commands – were “Get out of the valley - or else.” A few hours
later Ricco set himself free and untied his distraught young Japanese princess.
They swiftly departed and decided
to sell up and leave their home the very next day.
A few months later Ram’yana
arrived with giddy young Reema and the pair of wide eyed hitchhikers. The shack
was half hidden behind head-high grasses when they pulled up in the overgrown
driveway. “It’s so green!” Ona exclaimed as she picked her way through violet
flowers of wild vervain and tall stands of Stinking Roger.
“Always is, hereabouts,” Ram told
her. The shack’s only door had been hastily repaired and the small building was
securely locked, so the foursome shared a fine picnic on the banks of the
pristine stream.
“What are you looking for?” Reema
asked, watching her mate shield his eyes as he stared into the glittering
waters.
“A tortoise,” he told her.
“There seem to be plenty…”
“A particular tortoise…” He finally spied a familiar white cross
painted on the back of what appeared to be a swimming rock and pointed it out;
“ ‘X’ marks the spot!” he announced. “Still here…”
“What is?” Ona asked.
“It’s a long story…”
“It’s a long day,” Reema pointed
out, so the shaman told them the story of the tortoise that had first brought
him to this deep swimming hole in the bend of the serpentine creek [See Wild
Life 12: ‘Second Chance Tortoise’].
After a huge picnic lunch they
wandered through a few cool acres of recovering subtropical rainforest,
feasting their senses on old buttressed trees and tangling vines. The strangely
aromatic woodland was festooned with bird’s nest ferns, Elkhorn, Staghorn, wild
tree orchids and Old Man’s Beard. Myriad colourful avian creatures flittered
about in the shaded heat of a perfect summer’s day.
The couples meandered hand in
hand, taking their time exploring the unfamiliar bushland and frequently
drawing apart to stop and explore each other more intimately. Wallabies thumped
away from the urbane clumsiness of their footfalls and unknowable marsupials
and reptiles rustled through impenetrable thickets of imported lantana and
spikier native vines.
While their guests disappeared
beneath the shadowy canopy of the wild arboretum, Reema and Ram doffed sweaty
clothes to cuddle and kiss in a perfectly circular black basalt pool. They
climbed from the pool naked and dripping and made love beneath a small tumbling
waterfall, caressing and moaning, fucking and sucking in sheeting cascades of
crystalline water; eager flesh slapping and thrumming and drumming to the singsong
accompaniment of raucous birds and resonant frog calls.
When they heard the others
returning the lovers donned their clothes, and they all walked further together
through miraculous growths of forested groves and engaging gorges of
water-carved stone. By the time they finished wandering round the more easily
accessed bits of the vacated block daylight was fading fast, so they decided to
visit an acquaintance who’d invited them to stay overnight in another tributary
of the convoluted river system. They clambered into the Nexusmobile and bid the
land adieu as the van was enveloped in a dusty cloud of eroded dirt road.
“Where is it?” Mark asked a half hour later, when they stopped on the bank of
a surprisingly wide stream in a nearby vale. The van’s bright lights cut twin swathes
through the gathering gloaming. “Just over there, out of sight,” Ram told him,
“around the next bend on the other side.”
“And this is the way across?” Mark asked, eyeing the river with a furrowed
brow. “You’re certain we can make it?”
“Sure.” Ram’s wink met Reema’s
dubious stare. He tried to fill his deep voice with a resolute confidence he
didn’t quite feel, while his eyes scanned the creek for a sign of the largely missing
causeway; “I’ve been across here a dozen times.”
It had been a particularly wet
year and the river had altered its course. Nonetheless, when he climbed down to
assay the gravelly ford that led to his friend Grey’s small house he judged it
passable in the dimming light, and climbed back into the cabin to gun the
engine. Yet when they crossed the watercourse and reached the middle, the
channel proved unexpectedly deep where the swollen river had gouged away a deep
stretch of river bottom in a recent flood. The Nexusmobile wallowed and shifted
as it struggled for purchase on the loose muddy bed. At one point it lifted
clear of the muck-covered gravel and the engine revved wildly as the vehicle
freewheeled in surprisingly deep water before gaining a fraction of traction on
the far muddy bank.
They barely made it up the other
side. Grey, their host, lived alone in another isolate wood, dwelling in the only
house on the far side of the unpredictable river. His identical twin brother Pale
dwelt on the more populous side of the valley, in a slightly better-appointed
old farmhouse with mains power and sundry mod cons like a fridge and TV.
Grey was glad of the company and
feted his visitors with all manner of treats while they filled his small wooden
house with welcome gossip, news and the boisterous gaiety of itinerant young
lovers. The walls were decked in Rastafarian posters, tricoloured flags and Himalayan
artefacts. Rainbow glades of crystals, gemstones and colourful bric-a-brac
inhabited all available surfaces and fruit bats filled the night with chirrups
and screeches as rainclouds rolled in from the west.
The voices of Bob Marley and Peter
Tosh boomed from a small set of low voltage speakers powered by a solar powered
amp and their host’s herbal supplies were second to none. Grey was a
near-constant international traveller on a short break in his humble home,
readying himself for another pilgrimage through India and Nepal. In the latter
years of the last millennium he was truly a dreadlocked head of his time.
As the van was still partly filled
with returned unsold magazines, Reema and Ram took a bed in the flood-prone
house, sharing a large spare room with the other lovers. The room was spare in
more ways than one. Glass doors opened onto a small sward of lush grass before
a wall of dark forest. The only furnishings were a bed and a second mattress
arrayed on a raised section of wooden flooring. As they lit a large handmade candle
and a cracked kero lantern, a barrage of rain began thundering down on the chamber’s
roof, drowning the speakers beneath a thunderous roar.
“The room isn’t quite finished,” Grey
said by way of apology for the muddy dirt floor, “but you’ll be high and dry in
here,” he assured them, pointing to a broad raised section of wooden floorboards.
“You’ll have to decide who the queen of the castle is, though.” He bid them a
hearty “Goodnight!” before adding; “I may have to start the pump soon – hope
you don’t mind…” He tidied up a few stray items and lit a handful of joss
sticks while Reema pulled Ram to the wooden floor and threw him onto the
squeaky bed. She drew the cover across them both before tugging his shirt off,
and pulled her loose summer dress over long golden hair.
Mark and Ona seemed unencumbered
by notions of modesty and hurriedly stripped off all their clothes in the damp
subtropical heat. Even before Grey left the room they began making love atop
their bedding on the nearby mattress. Their boldness inspired Reema to unpeel
the thin blanket and bedsheet from her naked body in the flickering lamplight.
She mounted her lover’s stave with a heartfelt sigh and began riding him with
brazen pride, keeping her eyes on Ona’s man while rising and falling with accelerating
abandon. Mark climbed atop the winsome Scandinavian girl, who wrapped lean brown
legs around his waist and moaned his name aloud. He pounded her into the
mattress beside Ram’yana, matching Reema thrust by thrust.
Thunder cracked in the
lightning-rent night and Grey cranked up the Reggae beat; Reema’s deep throated
screams soon surmounted the roaring storm and the wailing Wailers, but Ona’s
cries were even louder.
Rain beat down on the broad iron
roof, drumming the corrugated metal with ten thousand hammers. A few minutes
after their host left the horny couples in each other’s arms - amidst fragrant clouds
of smouldering sandalwood to offset the odour of kerosene - water began to pour
in beneath the walls, and rise through
the lower reaches of the half-finished chamber.
“Don’t worry!” Grey’s voice
intruded through the din; “I’ll just start the pump!” He splashed through ankle-deep
water to a darkened corner and began tugging on a starter rope. “Haven’t… uhh… quite
finished the… unhh… drainage…” Reema didn’t miss a beat. Mark hunched down to
conceal Ona’s breasts with his body as a deafening roar filled their ears.
“Sorry,” Grey said as he edged back out of the water and back through the
doorway. “I’ll have to fill it later…”
The lovers spent a surprisingly
pleasant sleepless night in the half-built, half-flooded house – their
sleeplessness only partly due to the room’s lower reaches being filled with so
much water that Grey felt obliged to keep the amazingly noisy pump going all
through the hours of darkness.
Every two hours the lone bushman reappeared
to refill the pump with fuel when it ran out – and managed to catch one or both
of the lovemaking couples in flagrante
delicto each time he entered. “Lonely out here in the bush,” Reema confided
to the other girl while they shared an intranuptual smoke. After two such
occasions the lovers ignored his intrusion; there was no way to sleep while the
pump was making its unbelievable racket and they all took advantage of the long
hours alone to enjoy their time together - interspersing bouts of wild or
gentle coupling with glasses of wine and joints of fine heads while the pump
rumbled and grumbled and rain thundered down.
During the midst of that long damp
night, Ree propped herself up on both elbows while Mark and Ona screwed slowly beside
her. Her hair enveloped Ram’s face as the thought that had been preying on her
mind emerged in a breathy whisper; “Zsuzsi’s such a babe – a real peach.” Her
index finger circled his nipple and she contracted around him until he gasped. “So
what happened when the gunman took her upstairs? I heard…” Reema’s tongue paused
to whet her lips. “…did he…” Her eyes glittered in the guttering light as she watched
Mark’s muscles swell and contract a scant distance away. Then she pushed down even
closer, tighter, hotter. “I mean…”
Ram’yana thrust upward to fill her
belly and riveted every iota of her vagrant attention. He cleared his throat
and fondled her slightly mismatched breasts while he glanced over her shoulder
to the place where Ona and Mark were a slowly moving hump of tangled limbs,
half concealed beneath the girl’s unzipped sleeping bag. “I only know what one
of the neighbours told me…” he whispered.
“How would they know?” Ree hissed.
“They said Zsuzsi told them...”
“Told them what?” She squeezed him tight,
inside and out. “Tell me…”
“Uh… mm… I don’t know if…”
“Tell me!”
So he did.
“Zsuzsi said he tied Ricco to a metal chair and gagged him with a strip of rag
while she huddled under the bedding,” he told her in a hushed voice, while
Ona’s slitted eyes glittered at him sidewise. He watched the girl’s firm round
breasts describe figure eights as they rolled around on her slender ribcage.
Her star spangled eyes roamed Reema’s nakedness while her regular moans rose in
volume in response to Mark’s rhythmic mechanical plunges. Her man buried his
face in her long blonde tresses while she feasted dilated eyes on a candlelit view
of the other young woman’s sweat-lathered body and strove to eavesdrop on their
conversation.
“I know that,” Reema said. Ram held her even closer, filling her mouth with
a writhing tongue as her breasts pressed down upon his chest. He hoisted her
all the way up to the top of his pole when Ona’s mouth opened wide with a
hearty groan. Ree’s mouth slipped off his tongue. “But what…” she started to ask even as the ring
of her other lips squeezed around his fleshy crown. He forestalled the question
by pulling her down ’til her groan echoed Ona’s – but Ree continued after only
a moment; “…nghh…mmm… uh… Did he…”
“He dragged her out from under the
quilt,” the shaman relented in a quiet voice, “and pulled her off that new brass
bed in the big room downstairs…”
“The one we saw through the window
today?” He nodded and her hips nodded back with delicious and familiar ease. “I
thought that was where…”
“No, not there. It happened up in the loft…”
He didn’t relish the notion of making love in the place where that had happened, and intended to get
rid of the upstairs bed when he took possession of the shack. “He stripped away
the sheet she’d wrapped round herself and grabbed her by her hair…”
“She has really long hair…”
“…and pulled her to her knees in
front of Ricco. He told them both to shut up while he jammed the rifle into her
back. Then he growled ‘Don’t try anything!’ to Ricco in that fake German accent
and started dragging Zsuzsi across the floor.”
Reema’s mouth gaped partway open
and her fingers wrapped around Ram’s arm with a slowly tightening grip, mirroring
the squeeze of her loins as he interrupted the tale. “I don’t know if we should
make love while…”
“Don’t be such a pussy.” Her body
arched around his cock and she wrapped her body right around his. “Go on –
don’t stop.”
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered while her
talented musculature masticated his manhood. “All right… he poked Ricco’s rifle
into her back and dragged her by her hair while he prodded her toward the other
small room – to the ladder up to the loft. He manhandled her onto it and made
sure she didn’t try to escape by keeping the gun barrel up between her legs while
she climbed.”
“So I guess she couldn’t just kick
him in the head and jump off the balcony…”
“No way. Zsuzsi was always nervy –
really easily spooked - and she said she was shaking so much she could hardly
make it upstairs.” When he stopped talking and reached for his stash Reema
frowned and turned to watch the rapid rise and fall of Mark’s buttocks. “I
guess there’s no close neighbours there,” she whispered.
“Not close enough to hear anything
– except maybe a gunshot – and he made sure Zsuzsi couldn’t scream. Not loudly,
anyway, though apparently she tried. He gagged her at first, just like Ricco.”
“And tied her up on the bed?”
“The wooden one, aye. Hogtied her,
she said.” He began rolling a number in the flickering light. “I think I’ll
burn it.”
“You could tie me to it first,”
she said through a leer as she stroked his chest. “But don’t burn me up, except
like this...” Her hips rose and fell with a languid motion. The moments ticked
on, punctuated by nearby rasps of rapid breathing and the slippery slap of
mating flesh - sounds almost drowned out by the roaring engine and driving
rain. “And?” Reema insisted, fucking slowly for them both while he licked the
papers together.
He stopped what he was doing and
lifted his eyes to meet her stare. “What do you think?”
Reema’s eyes twinkled at him. Her
fingers grabbed his forearm and stroked it suggestively as one side of her
mouth curled into a smile. “I know what I’d have done with that sweet little Asian
pussy. I hear she gets off on being tied up…”
“Not like that,” he replied with a
frown.
“Did she like being tied up and
fucked when you were with her?”
“Sometimes – but not like that.”
“I saw those velvet ropes she kept
tied to the legs of your bed. How did she like it? Do you think she wanted him to…”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?” A rumble of thunder
shivered the bed, overwhelming the roar of the pump and Ona’s escalating cries.
Reema’s fingernails scraped a path down his chest and continued onward, lower.
“Come on, tell me…” Her fingers reached past his pubic hair and closed around the
base of his swollen hardness. “I promise I won’t breathe a word.” Soft lips
touched his shoulder and began gliding toward his nipple while her hand gripped
his shaft more tightly, pulling his length up inside her sweet quim. “Oh fuck… come
on… what did she say happened?”
“I don’t think I want to tell you
while getting off like this…”
“Why not?” she asked his nipple as
he recommenced rolling.
“Mm… not healthy…” he murmured, “…and
I don’t know if I want you to be thinking of that when we go there again…”
“If we move out there together,
you mean.”
“That too.”
“That’s why I need to know…” Her
mouth slid up along his neck while her fingers cupped his scrotum to hold him
immobile. “Come on… get it off your chest… tell me… what’d he do to her?”
“He trussed her up like an animal and
fucked her mercilessly while she tried to scream for help,” he said into her
hair. “There, is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Sh…” Her shush made him he
realise how loudly he was speaking. The feel of her labia’s sudden downward
glide round his length would have utterly silenced him even had her mouth not
closed over his. He glanced aside to see Ona writhing beneath her man on the
uncovered mattress beside them, long brown legs wrapped round Mark’s paler
torso as he thrust into her with repetitive enthusiasm. The young woman’s
shrieks were a siren song that made both men harder than ever and horny as
hell. When Reema came up for air she started speaking immediately; “Did he tie
her to the bed or just tie her up?”
“Both, I heard,” he said with a
sigh. “For quite a while.”
“Did he beat her up?”
“No. He didn’t leave any obvious
marks - except for the rope burns.”
“How was she when you saw her
last?”
Visions of Zsuzsi’s sweet silken
body paraded before Ram’s eyes as the last candle guttered out. They’d made
love at least ten thousand times during the several years they abided together.
Every millimetre of her gorgeous form was engraved in his soul and the feel of
her silken skin was indelibly imprinted upon his more hirsute Caucasian flesh –
the same flesh Reema was using to pleasure herself while he lay back to light
up the joint. The match illumined a stark scene of lust being enacted beside
them, casting a flare of tallow light on the glistening pole that thrust in and
out of Ona’s roundly stretched sex as she bucked beneath Mark’s thrusting body.
Both he and Ree were mesmerised
into silence by the vision – but only for the moment it took to puff the spliff
alight. She climbed astride his hips while he inhaled sweet smoke, and started to
milk him for more than just information. “Tell me,” she demanded with a greedy
clasp, her eyes fixed on Ona’s expressive face. “Tell me…”
“She seemed fine,” he finally replied through
a dense cloud of smoke as the match flickered out. “A bit rattled, of course…”
“Then it can’t have been that bad.” Ree’s intent features lit up in
the dim orange glow as he puffed on the joint. “She always screamed like a
banshee when you fucked her anyway.”
Ram squinted at her through the
smoke as she reached for the joint. “How…”
“And she really loved fucking,”
she said before filling her lungs. He started again to ask how she knew, but she
breathed a cloud across his face and posed another question; “So who was it –
who did it?”
He grabbed both her roundly spread
cheeks and pulled her all the way down around him; Ree’s answering gasp
interrupted her next puff, and when she coughed her entire lithe body spasmed
around him. “The neighbour told me a lot of people around here thought it was
me…”
“You?” She held the number to his
lips while Ona’s orgasmic cries masked her words. “Why would they think that?”
The tourist’s screams went on and on, rising in volume with a quickening tempo.
“They said I wanted Zsuzsi so much
I’d do anything to get her back.” Reema listened intently as she stared past
the joint and into his eyes. When Ona’s shrill shrieks devolved into moans
Ree’s hips began to slowly roll around his rigid fulcrum. “She was very beautiful,” she said while her
fingernails walked across his chest. “I can see why you’d do it.”
“Uhh… very funny. When they realised the guy looked nothing like me
– he was much taller, for a start – some of them apparently decided I must have
paid him to do it.”
“Are you sure you want to buy the
place?” Reema asked as she held the joint to his lips. “What was she like to
fuck, anyway? I’d like to find out for myself, but she isn’t around. What did
she feel like? What did you do to
her?”
“I’ll show you…”
When they awoke in twinned tangles late the next morn the Sun was high in
the sky, but the river had risen appreciably overnight. They washed the sticky
caked detritus of the night’s sweaty strivings away in the swollen stream and
partied the latter hour of morning away with their amicable host. “You should
be able to make it back across by noon,” he assured them. “But stay as long as
you want!”
When midday arrived with a
sweltering blast of summery heat they elected to wait another hour before
giving it a try. Grey directed them onto a better course but they floundered
and wallowed midstream once again. The Nexusmobile barely made it back across –
and unbeknownst to the driver, the van’s radiator had been slashed open when its
plastic fan deformed due to water pressure when it entered the midst of a
scarily deep pool. The radiator emptied almost instantly and with no internal
pressure the temperature gauge showed no problem whatsoever as they trundled
along the winding dirt road that led to toward the highway.
The smell of burning oil ought to
have alerted Ram’yana as they approached the nearest tiny town, thirty klicks
distant, but he’d spilled a little on the engine when he topped up that morning
and thought little of it. The tape deck filled his ears with Ree’s choice of
Annie Lennox compilations and the couples were in high happy spirits as they
wended their way past forested riverbanks through picturesque vales. After thinning
stands of battered trees had given way to grassy paddocks they pulled up to the
kerb on the main street of the little village - and the Nexusmobile stopped with
a hideous metal-rending squeal amid belching gouts of greasy black smoke that
enveloped the vehicle’s shuddering body.
At first the fact that they’d
broken down directly outside the only garage for an extremely long distance
seemed particularly fortunate. When it became obvious that the van’s problem
was probably severe the hitchhikers bid Ram and Reema a warm adieu and thumbed
their way off toward the coast while mechanics perused the damage.
Unsurprisingly, the prognosis wasn’t pleasant and Reema suggested they go back
to Grey’s place for the duration.
Their host was glad of the company
and – after picking them up from town and ferrying them across the river with
sundry supplies – made them heartily welcome.
“I hope Zsuzsi gets in contact soon,”
Grey said between pulls on the helmeted head of his Ned Kelly bong when they’d
settled into the converted sunroom kitchen. “I have to tell her about her cat.”
“You mean Bast?” Ram’yana well
remembered Zsuzsi’s Siamese; two of her kittens awaited him back home in the
Emerald City. “What about her?”
“She left her here with me when
she and Ricco had to split,” Grey sputtered through a cloudy stream of cremated
bush buds. “But she came on heat and ran away into the bush. Haven’t seen her
since.”
“She loves that cat. I’m surprised
she didn’t take her.”
“She couldn’t – not overseas on a
holiday – and when she went on heat…”
“You can’t control a Siamese on
heat,” Ram’yana commiserated.
“Or a Japanese,” Reema assured
them. Her jest was rewarded with frowns.
A few days later the mechanics in the little village’s ancient, crumbling, barely converted
wooden smithy finished rebuilding the engine and the lovers drove the Nexusmobile
back to the Emerald City during the next long moonlit night. At first nothing
seemed amiss, but after less than an hour a strange background noise suddenly
rose in volume. All the way home to Delta House, Ram’yana wondered why the
motor was making such a godawful racket. He stopped to inspect the engine at
three different petrol stations but found nothing obviously amiss, except for the
ongoing clattering noise that originated somewhere beneath the alloy head.
His usual mechanic back in the Big
Smoke delivered the bad news, preceded by a question; “How far did you say you
drove it after they changed the head gasket?”
“Oh, about five hundred klicks.”
The mechanic wiped his hands on greasy overalls and rolled his eyes at his
offsider. “No way,” he replied. When he saw Ram’s querulous expression he
continued. “Not possible.”
“What? Why not?”
“Whoever butchered your engine did
such a bad job they put some of the parts in upside-down…”
“An’ ’ey left other buts out
completely,” his Kiwi assistant concluded. “No way et made et five hunnerd
kays.”
The battered van – which had
already been deformed by years spent in service to the safe building company,
whose hard metal constructions had torn away all the interior padding and
irreparably dented the bodywork – lasted another full year. It finally gave up
the ghost back on the block of land whose title deed Ram’yana ultimately purchased
from Ricco (decades later the Nexusmobile still subsides there, a rusting hulk
slowly disappearing into the black rainforest topsoil).
As a result of the van’s
unavoidable demise, Ram had to return to the Big Smoke to buy a new second-hand
Nexusmobile – and his desperado neighbour C.C. had offered to give him a lift
along with an associate (who was doubtless travelling to the city in search of
higher grade heroin than was available in the remote villages servicing these wild
men of the bush – a common problem for smackies, junkies and addicts of most
kinds in those ancient days).
When they arrived in the Emerald
City, Ram’yana bid the pair farewell and was pleasantly surprised when he
bumped into gorgeous red haired Andrella soon after. The next day C.C. phoned Andrella’s
place - where Ram was staying - to offer a lift to the nearby Great Dividing
Range, where he said he knew of a van for sale.
C.C. hired the cheapest transport
available for the journey – a three cylinder belt-driven Russian Lada – with
the explanation that his smacked-out companion needed their other car to sleep
in. The Lada was a tinker-toy whose buttons and handles all snapped off at the
lightest touch; strangely, they seemed designed that way, and could easily be
snapped back into place.
When they finally arrived at the
top of the mountain it transpired Ram’s neighbour was – unsurprisingly - in
pursuit of some heroin after all, and a van had never been part of his plan; he
was just worried about dealing out large sums of money alone.
C.C. had thrashed the Lada
mercilessly as he raced up the mountain and managed to stretch the little
vehicle’s rubber band gear train; unaccountably, he’d managed to hire a
belt-driven car. They barely made it back to town. Ram’yana silently fumed
almost as much as the tiny two-seat car and fixed his gaze on the passing
scenery. C.C. dropped him off at the door to Andrella’s apartment block, idly
noting the address. He left in a fuddle of pin-eyed apologies and promised to not
bother Ram’yana again before driving off to return to his associate, who awaited
promised opiates in the hatchback he’d parked in a nearby park.
The next day Ram found the new Nexusmobile – a
diesel powered commercial van covered on all sides with the worlds ‘Effective
Damproofing’ – in an auction yard, and drove back in triumph to the Redhead’s
door.
He hadn’t told Andrella any of
this. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now, judging by the expression on her face,
he never would.
*
A true story
Continues…
- R.A.
Images –
author’s
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True Tales of a Wild Life See
AND SEE
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From The Prince of
Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
↧
Arrival, Mountain Maid, Crystal Vision
↧
↧
Drug Company: Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 28
Drug Company
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 28
It was grinding,
gruelling and relentless - a pointless,
antiseptic, primitive, anodyne wasteland of abysmally boring straightness. Two years? The question resounded through
his mind, smothering the drily salient words of Mister Smithers. Two
years… a mind-numbing echo that drowned the alphanumerical drone of Joe, the
old, half blind clerk he was to replace. Two
years?
The young
shaman had endured the day with a calmness that almost unnerved him. When the
lunch bell rang, even a call to his probation officer had seemed easy and
straightforward. He sat back and observed another, more officious persona
speaking into the phone’s black Bakelite mouthpiece, replacing his usual laid
back demeanour and making arrangements with the inofficiously pleasant woman –
just like the responsible adulterated dolt he resembled in his grey suit and
paisley tie, with his hair and brains and gumption tied back in a long neat
ponytail.
That other
him had pulled it off with effortless aplomb, and when the handpiece dropped
into its cradle a measure of weight had lifted from his overly encumbered soul.
Now all he had to do was allow the same persona to face the curious probation
officer the next day.
Two years? The young Centraxian shaman had already been a neophyte in the magic
group for almost as long. He rued the looming likelihood he’d be trapped in the
Emerald City for another two years…
“Sure you don’t want a smoke?” Joe asked from the doorway.
“No thanks – I only smoke herbal cigarettes.” Joe nodded with a crumpled
expression – part frown, part smile, part knowing suspicion – and shuffled through
double glass doors that bore the acid-etched drug company seal within scratched
varnish frames. Ram’yana never smoked tobacco – never even allowed a crumb of
the stuff to slip into a joint he was rolling, and could almost invariably tell
if a smoke was contaminated with nicotine long before it reached his lips. Two years?
A lilting voice turned him around. “You can smoke them here if you like.”
Rose was a ray of heaven projected into drab, linoleum-lined concrete purgatory.
“So long as they don’t smell bad.” As his eyes met hers she turned away and took
a quick puff on a Benson and Hedges. Her pink painted lips curled up into a
smile before they disappeared behind an umber cascade of waist length hair.
When she turned to follow Joe downstairs he noted (not for the first time)
that Rose’s burnt orange miniskirt-like dress (little more than a brief
sleeveless tunic emblazoned with a single classic yellow hippy daisy) barely
covered a perfectly pert athletic bum encased in a pair of barely visible pink
panties. Unlike all the other women here, she wore little makeup, her legs
weren’t sheathed in sheer plastic hose and her long glowing hair wasn’t covered
with lacquered layers of toxic hairspray. She stood out a mile.
She must know how she looks… Rose was an amazingly beautiful and apparently
warm hearted doe-like nymphette, and the only other young person working in the
entire office. Joe had introduced the youngsters at the first opportunity and had
subsequently told him that Rose was a year younger than he (her seventeenth
birthday was coming up soon, Ram’s new mentor had divulged as he toted up
strings of numbers).
Meeting Rose
(and this brief little comment from her as she left for lunch) were the only
high points to his working day. He glanced down at the cumbersome, clunky
adding machine and noted it would soon need a new roll of paper. His scarified
desk was littered with a clutter of lists and invoices that hadn’t yet made
their way from the IN to the OUT trays flanking the outmoded machine
- which added, subtracted and multiplied perfectly, but was a little too dim to
divide. Two years of this?
Fluorescent
tubes hanging from the ceiling in sentinel mimicry of the regimented desks below
cast a sickly green pallor on an already grim milieu. Daylight beckoned through
a long expanse of barred windows in the adjoining workspace where the Accounts ‘girls’
toiled – where Rose learned her trade from kindly women old enough to be her
grandmothers.Two years… As he arose behind the
desk his chair abruptly rolled away and bumped into the wall. An image of
Rose’s long tanned legs supplanted the echoing words that had buffered his mind
against the harsh realities of the day. His teenage imagination toyed with
lustful notions as he followed in the girl’s perfumed wake, leather soles of his
black leather shoes clacking noisily down the ever present linoleum cascade
that smothered the wide wooden stairs.
When he
reached the foot of the staircase he stopped in a small foyer and looked down
the hall leading to the entrance. He was just in time to see Rose step around a
low ornamental brick wall that separated the asphalt yard of the company’s
territory from the asphalt footpath beyond. She was an amazingly attractive
girl, and extraordinarily nice; Maybe too
nice for someone who’s lived on and beyond the fringe for years, he
conjectured. His body actually leaned in her direction before he turned himself
around and walked toward the loading dock at the rear of the building, where
his father had worked for several years.
The way to
the dock led through ceiling-high stores filled with everything a pharmacy (a
chemist shop or drug store) might stock. He walked between tall steel shelves
filled with all the perfumes of Araby - essential and synthetic oils and
perfumes, shampoos and conditioners, haemorrhoid creams, hairnets,
toothbrushes, hair sprays, spray and stick deodorants, toothpastes, antiseptic
toothpicks, steptic pencils, pink zinc sunshield cream, packets of Bex, all
manner of prophylactics, ointments and tonics - and every pharmaceutical drug
commonly and uncommonly available in the late 20th Century.
Almost a
year after his drug bust, Ram’s new probation officer had insisted he take the
job at the drug company where his father worked; “You need something now, and
this is available now. You can find something else later if you really don’t
like it.” But then Mister Smithers had insisted he stay for at least two years
if he took the job. Two years…
Ram’yana
was surrounded by substances many of his wilder contemporaries would kill to
gain access to - drugs scrupulously counted, regularly weighed, carefully measured
and wholly out of his reach despite their unguarded proximity; if any went
missing he’d be the first or only suspect. He walked between rows filled with
bottles of aspirin, hypnotic Myfakwelin, Mandrax and Rohyptonol sleeping pills
(Mandies and Rowies), opium tinctures and ephedrine pills and all manner of
barbiturates and speedy concoctions, to the bench where his father sat with
friends and ate lunch in the shade of a sun baked iron roof. A single, dying,
drying tree struggled through an expanse of cracked concrete that covered the
acre of Gaia behind the long brick building.
“Here,” said
his father, “your lunch - Racheal made it for you last night.” His paramour had
been asleep when he kissed her goodbye. He’d covered her soft skin with a sheet
and blanket before leaving her titian body draped across his narrow childhood
bed. “These are the fellows you have to meet,” Genius said, before introducing
several relatively hard-bitten men - young, old, and every age between - who
worked with him at the rear of the premises.
“You’ll
like it here,” a younger man who introduced himself as Luke assured the
teenager, while he mopped his steamy unseamed brow with a huge blue
handkerchief; “Working upstairs is a piece of cake.”
“A
cakewalk, matey,” an older man named Fred agreed. “An’ if yeh stick with it yell
be head pricing clerk in no time flat – two years at most!”
Two years…
“An’ of
course yell be joining the union,” said Fred.
Two years… When they saw his distracted,
frowning expression they began to discuss incomprehensible unionist matters and
allowed him to eat in silence while he watched clouds drift between and beyond tall
brick chimneys and nearby buildings. After the men had chewed through their
sandwiches and downed steaming cups of company instant coffee and tea, they
left him alone with his father. The expected question appeared instantaneously;
“Did you ring the probation officer?”
“She’s
coming tomorrow, after work. I didn’t know she’d already seen the place.”
Genius
frowned. “When your mother was still alive.” He looked down at his shiny black
street shoes. The loading dock workers wore no safety boots and used no other
equipment except blocks and tackles and a few sturdy trolleys; .all their work
was manual and no-one had yet coined the phrase, ‘occupational health and
safety’. Genius spoke through his memories; “Your mother said that when the
woman saw the bookshelves in the lounge room she relaxed completely and told
her, ‘Whenever I see a house full of books I know everything’s going to be all
right.’ So – she’s coming tomorrow evening?”
“Aye.”
Genius
levelled a gunsight gaze at his eldest son. “Better tell Racheal.”
“Don’t
worry – I don’t think she’ll want to be around for that.” And I have to be on the other side of town for a ritual by ten…
Ram’yana reminded himself.
“Probably
not.” His father shrugged as his stare grew even more piercing. “So – how do
you like it?”
“ ‘Like’
isn’t exactly the word – but I can stand it for now.”
“For now –
or for two years or more? I know it’s not what you wanted, but it could be very
good for you.” He continued before his son could reply. “You know you really
have to take it…”
“I’m
here.”
“So you
say. But if you change your mind or find anything else you must tell Mister
Smithers…”
“I want to
tell the probation officer that I’m moving to our flat,” Ram’yana said by way
of changing the subject. “She doesn’t need to know I haven’t been at home – at
the house - but she…”
“Just stay
at home for now and we’ll talk about it.”
“But I’m
paying rent over there…” He had no idea whether his fellow Centraxians were
still using the apartment or had abandoned it for less salubrious squats on the
nearer side of the harbour.
“We can
arrange something.” Genius nodded at the returning workmen. “Lunch is nearly
over. We’ll discuss it later. See you after work”
This
suited his son immensely.
Before he
returned upstairs he put a call through to an old friend, using a phone pointed
out by the switchboard operator. “Squid?” he asked when the other end answered.
“Roger
dodger.”
“I’m
staying just around the corner from your place…”
“Cool!”
“…and was
wondering if Racheal and I could drop in this evening.” Aware that he may be
overheard, he kept his friendly spiel as terse and businesslike as possible.
“Cool
bananas, Ramayana. Come on over – the Doc’ll be here as well,” drawled the
voice on the line. “And you’ll have to try some of…”
“See you
then,” the young shaman interjected, and cut off the call with a thumb on the
cradle before Squid could utter another word.
Racheal will want to come… The
double entendre propelled his mind back into recent events. His body suddenly
thrummed with visceral memories engraved in flesh and thought by his stunningly
unexpected experience in the healing chamber of the magic group known as Dawn
of Ra.
“Y…you!” Her unabashed surprise
echoes through their conjoined bodies. He can tell the Lady Racheal is shocked
to the marrow; his paramour rarely drops the tribe’s demi-medieval Centraxian
argot, and her undulant motions stop with unwonted suddenness when she
recognises the smiling eyes that nuzzle betwixt her parted thighs in starlit
revelation.
Daytime
and night are utterly different realities, immiscible essences separated by far
more than the mere convenient junctures of sunrise and sunset. Sunlit workdays
and shadowy night lives, seemly or seamy, are different worlds for those locked
into checkerboard thralls of time and timing. A slow motion strobe marks
lightning-dashed strokes through illusory cycles, regarded by mortals as the
passage of time. Some live only by day and shut down at night, while others
revel in darkness and sleep away the shuttered Sun. Like the menagerie of nocturnal
and diurnal lifeforms that abound all around them, different types and castes
of humankind share the same Earthly spaces in relayed rotation.
Beyond the
shitty citified landscapes of humankind’s haphazard hivelike creation, the
wilder, wider, natural world continues to conceal untold surprises. Where the
Sun, Moon, planets and stars continue to rule time and tide and light the way,
lives of unknown beings and courses of unseen events unfold in ways barely
imaginable by domesticated primate minds.
Even the
familiar urbane landscapes wrought by the minds and hands of women and men are
very different places when curious photonic waves of pervasive light fail to
fill every nook, and crannies are become unutterably invisible. Unseen nocturnal
landscapes, sculpted by imagination and filled with every possibility of myth
and legendry, are populated by very different beings than the mundane sunlit
workaday world. Familiar thoughts, works and semblances of humanity are oft
transformed or replaced by beings beholden to ageless agendas, unknown and foreign
to .the habituated ken of night-blind daylight dwellers. And some foreigners
inhabit thoroughly familiar forms.
At Racheal’s
surprised exclamation her young shaman’s mind returns partway from sublime surrender
(lost and found in blissful lovemaking with his priestess paramour) and
emerges, riven with newer, starker sensations, into an unexpected – yet not
unwelcome - ménage.
’Tis thee… The thought isn’t his, but
theirs, together, yet his mind can’t grasp the intruder’s identity. He can’t quite
see the sight that’s so obviously evident to his recumbent Lady, but the mouth
that plays at their slippery sex most assuredly isn’t the furry countenance of
neophyte Daniel.
While a
liquid tongue and feminine lips lave the smoothly oiled membranes where their flexing
young bodies meet and mate, a ream of faces flickers through Ram’s imaginings,
providing an array of past and potential lovers to explain the brazen presence
of the unseen interloper.
He doesn’t
want to twist or turn and break their electric connexion in the storm-shot
humid darkness. The sensation is exquisite; he pauses while an unseen mouth
savours the place where his suddenly stilled shaft spreads his Lady’s roundly
stretched labia, and fingertips tickle his balls and Racheal’s perfect derriere
until their lovemaking slowly resumes.
Curiosity
wars with sensory bliss as soft strong hands massage his back and guide his renascent
undulations inside his wide-eyed, well-oiled ladylove. Racheal’s eyes and teeth
glitter when a hand propels Ram’s hips forward and he plunges all the way up
inside her. She falls back onto the futon, parts her thighs wider and sighs her
acceptance with a feral grin painted onto her shadowy features by apparently
unalloyed glee.
The other
female, girl or woman, takes her cue and a slender hand slips up between their
bodies while Ram’s skin unpeels from his priestess bride. A slick palm slides along
Racheal’s taut belly and gently cups a firm round breast as another hand tenderly
cradles her shaman’s scrotum. A liquid tongue dances round the base of his
shaft in flickering darts of ticklish flame; tricksy mouth and flexible tongue
caress wide-stretched lips that enfold his thickness when his ladylove’s membranes
and inexorable muscles forestall his next withdrawal. Racheal moans and her
head rolls from side to side in unselfconscious drunken pleasure while
fingertips pinch the rock hard nub of an oily, glistering nipple. “Io…” she
breathes, “…Io…”
He pauses,
half filling the sozzled priestess, and another set of sumptuous lips wrap
sidewise round his half exposed shaft. He balances on knees and elbows as his
right hand mirrors and mimics the other that squeezes and strokes his lover’s
breast. Racheal’s eyes shut and her mouth opens wider. When a soft cheek rubs
against her clit, her tight, hot muscles clamp about Ram’s hardness and her slick
silky thighs flex athwart his hips.
A slow
drumbeat resumes from without, below, from all around in the sandstone manse. He
can’t bear to close his eyes; all his attention is riveted to the dimly lit
sight of her barely visible glorious beauty, and the thrilling vision of his
girlfriend’s next climax approaching through the lunar paleness of her fucking,
rocking, slippery flesh. His fingers twine with the other woman’s, pressing Racheal’s
firm breasts together and sliding apart while the witch-girl’s muscles ripple
and gleam with every rolling thrust of her hips.
Her inner
caress is his greatest need and deepest fulfilment, totally enthralling and
eternally novel. Yet he finds it’s much easier to endure the sensations
bestowed by her talented body this time. Racheal’s quim is thoroughly oiled by
mingled anointments of earlier strivings and scented oils; his rapt enjoyment
is uninterrupted by concerns of coming and prematurely ending this wondrous bliss.
He proudly reams her responsive flesh to the tempo decided by their newfound bedmate,
.glad and gladdened that both women witness and want and need and use his bold hard maleness.
He pushes
another motive to the back of his mind, where it lurks and hunkers,
Quasimodo-fashion; I may yet get the
chance to bed this other female…. He
longs to see the one who pleasures their loins with such abandon, and to feel the
woman who now pushes his cock into Racheal’s quim come screaming in his arms. …may need to be hard and to last for her,
too…
“Oh, ohh!” The priestess gasps, and
begins to moan a wordless chant, inarticulate cries driven by mounting passion
and approaching release. “Uh, uh, uh, uhh, unh, uhh, unh, uhhh…” The lady
Racheal bucks beneath and all around him while the other female uses his cock
to fuck her full length with hard, steady thrusts. Drumbeats thrum up through
the hardwood flooring, the futon bed, through interlocked bodies; inside every
plunge to the blazing depths of his witch-wife’s flexing belly.
“Uh uhh,
uh uhh, unh uhh, unh uhhh…”
The other
woman surely knows how to pleasure the girl, matching each stroke to her
moaning cadence and every clasp of riveting heat that grasps the plunging lance
she wields like an orchestra leader’s baton. He sees kneading hands mould
Racheal’s firm breasts while he hangs suspended above glistening skin, allowing
the hand to guide his movements inside his lover’s clasping sex.
He glances
down to where tricksy lips and a slavering tongue fan flames of unbearable
titillation from the miniature cock of his ladylove’s rigid clitoris - yet her
loins are nearly fully hidden by a lavish mop of dark flowing hair that lashes
her belly with every lick and lash of a talented tongue.
Racheal
sings to the metronome beat of his drumming cock; “…Unh uhh, unh uhhh, ohh uhh unghh uhh, uh ahhh…” Her hips rise from
the bed and her legs slide up along Ram’s raised torso while she’s royally
fucked by the other girl-woman. Heels lock onto his meaty shoulders as she
opens fully to love’s rhythmic embrace, hanging onto her lover’s frame with a
limpet-like grasp while he raises her upward and fucks her senseless. Her
entire body clamps around his; her head lolls loosely upon the pillow and rocks
from side to side.
“…Uhh unghh ahh ungh ahhh uhh AAHH!”
All of a
sudden her moans become screams and she shrieks like a banshee, filling the
manse with flagrant sounds of complete abandon to climactic delight as all her slim
limbs lock about her mate with uncanny orgasmic strength. Convulsions writhe
through her trim meaty plasm like undulant serpents possessing her flesh, while
her lovers caress her slippery oiled body, inside and out, every seam and mound
and flexing muscle. Drumbeats match their intertwined fucking while the High
Priestess screams and fucks and fucks and screams
her raw wordless song to the whole wide world and the wild and stormy night.
Ram’yana
looms over her screaming face and his locks enshroud the silvery mantle
enshrining her thrashing head. He covers her body with his larger torso and
conceals the secret glory of her screaming orgasmic face with his long dark
hair - silently assuring himself it’s not because she’s his possession, but out
of a need to shield and protect his thoroughly inebriated lover at her most
vulnerable moment. He conceals the startling beauty of Racheal’s orgasmic
features, no longer revealed in distant faint lamplight and fainter starlight
glowering down through the tall open window. Nipples slide across his chest,
thighs and calves grip his torso and heels guide and propel the hand-girt cock
that impales her while she screams and screams.
He strives
not to come while concealing the ultimate moment of his ladylove’s completely wide
open, nakedly thrusting, utterly lusty total exposure from the prying eyes of
their unknown companion (who licks them both while she fucks her with his rigid
cock) - sheltering his girlfriend with the barest iota of unlikely privacy
amidst the stormy explosion of her unfettered drunken climax.
While
another mouth sucks at his swollen shaft and laps at her tautly stretched
labia, Ram’s lips seek Racheal’s open mouth in the lightless cave of their mingling
hair. Her mouth locks onto his questing tongue and her smoky, marinated,
flavoursome breath becomes his, and his hers, and hers his, while her tongue
fucks his mouth in time with her reaming and her screaming is muffled to rumbling
moans.
The
unknown woman uses his cock to fuck his gorgeous, wine-soaked, stoned (and who
knows what else) paramour all the way to infinity and beyond. When Racheal next
surfaces for breath she’s already screaming into Ram’s hair, and coming, and
coming, and coming again while she squeezes him into the furnace hearth of her sucking,
fucking, succulent sex. Clouds roll in on a seaward wind to cover the faintly glowing
sky and the chamber is plunged into near total darkness while Racheal’s groans
roar into the night from her deepest secret sacred core.
All this
time their unknown companion has uttered not a single word. Her face concealed
by shades of darkness, their interlocked genitals and rapturous, engorged,
hypersexual absorption, one in another, she’s managed to remain an enigma. Her
hands rove their bodies with slick familiarity and her fulsome breasts rock
against Ram’s legs while her mouth licks tracks between their loins.
All
sensation is magnified by gathering darkness. Her fingers lock around his base
and begin to fuck his writhing girlfriend with deeper, harder and uncommonly
faster plunges that stretch the teen to her bodily limits. She squeezes
Racheal’s breast up against his chest and strokes his skin with a rigid nipple
while the breathless priestess writhes and moans, fucks and groans, and
trembles to her very bones as she comes screaming again to the shrouded stars.
At the
ultimate moment Ram’s rearing manhood is shoved right up into her trembling
quick and jammed in the quivering mouth of her womb. Her eyes glow up through
total dark while the alcoholic, smoke-laced breath of her gasping scream washes
across the heated skin of his beardless face. Her body convulses around his
cock and she pulls him down onto her, into her, pressing her into the hard
futon bed. Their bodies ram and cram together as close as close can be, jammed round
the hand that flexes about the witch-girl’s anointed breast.
Just as
Ram’yana draws back to regard his lover’s arousing visage, the faint glow of
reflected streetlight suddenly disappears and the chamber is plunged into
darkness so complete that not a glimmer of eyeshine nor a single glistening
ridge of oily upthrust flesh can be seen .amid stygian darkness. He lets his
weight descend on her slighter frame and savours the sensations of firm pointed
breasts rising with each fast breath, smooth, soft thighs shifting against his
sides, clasping arms and firm long legs enwrapping his lanky body; the
indescribable pleasure of being suckled and fucked by limber loins while an
insistent hand holds him deep inside her.
They lay
together in blessed union and he slowly sinks into the receptive refuge of the
Lady Racheal’s feminine flesh, his only truly welcoming anchor in the midst of
darkest oblivion.
“Superman’s a clerk, too,” his younger
brother reminded him. He watched the word twist through the younger teen’s mind
like a thought balloon hovering over his head; ‘clerk’ quickly changing to
‘jerk’.
“Is that
supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not
really.”
Racheal
forestalled any incipient argument; “I don’t wish to be here,” she announced
with a frown, smoothing her floral dress.
“Understandable.”
Ram’yana spliced his hand to Racheal’s on his ladylove’s bare knee. “She’ll
only be here for a couple of hours.”
Racheal
pulled her hand away. “I mean,” she said with a grimace, “I don’t wish to be
here at all. No more.”
“ ’Tis
only for a few days…”
“I need my
art,” she replied with an intensified
expression that was suspended somewhere between angst and anger. “And it’s so cold here – the vibes are so thick and
the place is full of spirits.” The younger boy’s eyes jerked toward her.
“What kind
of spirits? You mean – from the gravestones under the house?”
“Those,
too.” Racheal reached for her crystal goblet. “I wast not solely speaking of
vodka.”
“Does dad
know you’re drinking that?”
“He’s said
aught about it,” she replied, baring her teeth to the boy through the firewater
pouring past her unpainted lips. Ram’yana forestalled another criticism from
his brother, insisting, “You don’t have to be here when the probation officer
arrives – you can always go out for a while, and we can head back across the
harbour on the weekend.”
“I don’t
wish to stay here one more night. I’m going home – to my place.” She unerringly nodded in the direction of the tumbledown
hulk of a squat she’d occupied over the past few weeks, peering through brick
walls, trees and hillocks to the place where she’d assembled her meagre
possessions since splitting their waterside apartment.
Her beau
reached for her glass, hoping to keep her mind and emotions on an even keel.
“Mind if I have a sip?”
“Thou
canst get thine own.”
“Just a
dram…”
“Fuck
off!” she yelled, and then, in a much softer voice; “Possession is nine tenths
of the law.” Ram’yana stared into the instantly averted sapphires of her eyes.
“And of the lore,” he reminded her with an accentuated rolling ‘r’.”
“Dost
think I am possessed?” she growled.
“Whenever
not, my dove?” he said with a smile while his brother pretended to be
fascinated by the grey on grey images flitting across the TV screen.
“Insensitive
clod,” she said with uncharacteristic bluntness, leaning as far away from him
as she could and pulling her legs up beneath her on the leathern lounge. “Canst
not feel the cold of the grave biting at thy heels?”
“Hush,” he
whispered with a glance at his brother. “Dare not shush me!” she retorted. “I am thy sense and senses – thy very conscience.”
“Thou art
many things to me, love – all things save that!
My conscience and consciousness are mine own.”
Racheal
emitted a theatrical laugh, eyes flashing from Ram to his brother. “More’s the
pity.” The shaman could feel his hackles rising when a wide smile spread across
her face. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her of the invitation to their mutual
friend’s house and workshop – just around the corner from his father’s abode –
and decided to ease the tension with its timely mention. The Lady Racheal
forestalled the attempted truce with, “If thou hast no need of me I’ll not
tarry.”
She downed
the rest of the spirits and leapt to her bare feet. Her embroidered dress
swirled around long pale legs as the disarrayed garment slipped from parts of her
buxom frame. She tossed the crystal onto the cushion she’d vacated and sashayed
toward the hall. Both brothers watched the deliberate sway of her womanly hips,
the bunching rise and fall of her firmly muscular buttocks until she looked
back over her shoulder; “Fare thee well – thou knowst where to find me,” she
remarked as she swished away.
“Aren’t
you going after her?” his brother inquired when she altered course, presumably
to retrieve her bag from Ram’s childhood bedroom. The elder teen just stared at
him while Racheal’s voice overtopped the drawling television; “Of course he
isn’t! He couldn’t be bothered – not the least bit concerned with any warninghis true
love might have for him! Utterly ignorant and happily blind! Totally
unconcerned that he’s sleeping over an open grave.” Ram’s eyes held his
brother’s gaze as he cried, “Enough!”
“Thou
seest?” she demanded as she emerged through the doorway, dress rearranged
beneath a fur-edged vest and oversized velvet bag hanging from one shoulder.
“He cares nothing for me, really – I’m just a handy…”
“My Lady,”
Ram’yana interrupted, making the unmistakeable hand sign that meant ‘Be In
Role’ in the silent signalling code of the Tribe of Centraxis.
“I might
well say the same to thee,” she replied in a growl, to his brother’s
befuddlement. “If thou carest not to hear me, thine wish is my command.” And
with that she swirled off down the hall, opened the front door and slammed it
behind her. “Don’t worry,” Ram’yana said while his heart raced unheeding in his
chest. “She’ll calm down soon – she usually does. It’s just the alcohol.”
“Are you
sure? That it’s just the alcohol, I mean?” The boy’s eyes were squinting with
concern. It was obvious he was worried; Does
he think mum is still hanging around? Ram’yana wondered, and then; IS she still around?
He leaned
back on the sofa, closed his eyes and wilfully opened his Eye. He scanned the
immediate surrounds, sensing the lay of the land and feel of the house as well
as using his second sight. The buildings and trees and sundry linkages of
piping and wires all transpared to a crystalline clarity. He saw that the
landscape rose to ridges on three sides around him, forming a deep, wide bowl
with his father’s house at the edge of its base. He saw the hill sloping gently
downward, flowing toward subterranean waters that suffused the sandy, swampy
soil and lapped at the foundation stones of the old brick building. He watched
the waters pooling into a vast subterranean lake that underlay all the suburban
sprawl downslope, and his mind’s eye revealed a semi-symmetrical checkerboard
of light and darkness beneath the house, like crenulations atop a stone wall,
propping the bricks and preventing them from subsiding into the deep gloomy
slough of the pond.
The
teenage mage felt a preternaturally pervasive coldness emanating from the
ground all around, chilling the house even in the unseasonal summery evening -
like the feeling of deep, deep waters descending below, down into abyssal
depths as he bobbed above in a square brick house on the skin of the world. He
saw a circle of light that drifted across the watery surface and knew his Lady
Racheal was wandering into the Queen’s parkland at the end of the street.
But there
was no sign of his departed mother.
His
brother’s voice shattered his reverie; “If you want to go after her I’ll be
fine here.” For a worrying moment Ram thought he was referring to their mother.
“Dad’ll be home in a couple of hours, after his meeting.”
“No. Let
her go.” He retrieved the discarded goblet and bottle and climbed from the
comfortable depths of the lounge. “I think I’ll put the vodka away – and might
have a drink, myself.”
“None for
me thanks. School tomorrow – and you have to be at work.”
For two years…
A true
story
Continues…
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn
of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14
Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16
And
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Illuminati/320674219559
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright –
reproduction for non-profit use is permitted &
encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please
include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel
free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites -
you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember
attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a
comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From The
Prince of Centraxis -http://centraxis.blogspot.com
↧
Foreign Skies, Cove, Pixie Pool, Veiled Priestess,
↧
Cookie Lady: Psychedelic Water 28
Cookie Lady Psychedelic Water 28
*
The band plays on while the hermetic shaman departs the market. He passes
through rainbow archways of brilliant demi-heraldic fabrics and negotiates a
cunning obstacle course of shin-high wooden benches designed for undernourished
five year olds. The old public school - a regimented rabbit warren closed down years
ago with the demise of the Baby Boom, now taken over by a far hipper community
- occupies most of the triangular central block in the phantasmagorical little village.
The recycled wooden buildings are now filled by community
groups, studios, workshops, the local FM radio station, eateries, galleries, a kindergarten
and childminding centre, ‘youth groups’ and rehearsal spaces.
This weekend all the yards and outdoor passageways are fringed
by a market of Byzantine proportions and complexity, where any number of
useful, useless and luxurious items and substances can be found at reasonable
rates (and barter is common at Mardi Grass, during the peak of the harvest
season).
He turns onto the main drag and a hirsute Nimbin original
from the era of the original Aquarius Festival - whose family has lived in the
area since hippies first began resurrecting the cattle-devastated fertile hills
- assails him from the nature strip in mercantile greeting; “Ah, here’s someone
who’ll be interested in this new generation of alarmingly great psychedelic
t-shirts! Step right up and take a gander at these enlightening images, kind
sir!”
Cagliostro’s eyes are concealed by gilt-framed purple
octagonal sunglasses, encircled by deeply etched laugh lines that bite into sunburn-pinked
cheeks. Count Cagliostro - perfect clone of Phineas Freak (replete with a
propensity for subverting the dominant paradigm) - holds up a brilliantly
designed portrait of an elderly gent riding a bicycle through a warping field
of psychedelic flowers, the lid of his top hat blown away to reveal a
coruscating array of lights pouring into his head. Around the image the words
‘Hats Off to Hoffman!’ gleam in vibrant fluorescent dyes. “So what do you
think? Like them?”
Dr Hoffman – the ‘father’ of LSD – discovered some of the
miraculous mould’s unexpectedly extraordinary properties while riding his
legendary bike from work, where some of the compound had come into contact with
his skin. His familiar trip home became an extraordinary adventure. The properties
of time and space were fundamentally altered as his thoughts boomed through
resonant ventricles of suddenly expanding mindfulness – and the modern shamanic
Acid Trip was born.
“Fantastic!” The her(m)etic hermit is truly impressed.
“They’re the best psychedelic designs I’ve laid eyes on since the ‘80s!”
“And we print them ourselves. The technology’s come a long
way since the old silk screening days down in the Bush Factory. And cheap, too
– but fine grade cotton. For you, fifteen bucks.”
“Done.” He rummages through his hip pocket for some
brightly coloured slippery plastic currency. “You put these together on your
Mac? I recognise some of your artwork from the website.”
“That’s right,” a younger man agrees from behind the rack
of clothing, “on the Apple. How’s it going, Ramses?”
“Aloah! It’s been great, except for the drought in the
middle of the season. So you’re involved with this notorious change agent, are
you? Well met!”
“That’s right.” The second generation Nimbinite shakes his
hand, using the first three stages of the universal rainbow arch grip. “Perfect
day for it, though. No rain on the parade this year.”
“So ’twould seem – a great drying year, perfect for
curing.”
“You got it,” Cagliostro tells him, pocketing the cash. “That’s
why there haven’t been many locals around for the past couple of days – they’ve
been too busy. And here’s something else for you, if you want it – a special
bonus gift for our hundredth customer of the weekend!” He produces the small
clear phial of colourless, odourless liquid capped with a rubber eyedropper.
“How’d it go?”
Thrice in as many
days? Ramses
considers the weighty question with all the gravitas it deserves for all of two
seconds. “Perfect – but now my tolerance will probably be pretty high.”
“Burning the midnight oil does that. Well - in that case
five hundred mikes may be enough. What do you say?” The Count measures a dose
out in the dropper. “Do you want it in the eye or under the tongue?”
Ramses opens his mouth and tilts his head back in reply.
Cagliostro squirts the LSD under his raised tongue and the slightly viscous
fluid slips down his throat, clean, pure and ineffably familiar to his
experienced palate.
“I think that was more like seven hundred,” the bearded
salesman admits. “But you can handle it.” He passes the t-shirt over and the
three museketeers settle down on a narrow grassy strip alongside the concrete
footpath. “I had that much about half an hour ago and it’s coming on nicely
right about now.”
“Me too,” agrees his partner, reclining in sunshine a few
feet from the passing footfalls of a thousand strangers; tuning into the music
rolling over the landscape from the market stage. “You know, you’re not really
our hundredth customer. We’ve been doing okay, but not that well.”
“Not as well as at the Channon market,” Cagliostro
concurs. “But the website’s starting to turn them over like hotcakes and we
don’t have to store any stock – we just print them up when the orders come in.”
On the rack above their heads glowing pyramids topped with
spangled eyeball capstones hover over pentagonal dayglo symbols of the Sacred
Chao of Discordia, alongside warped and adapted reproductions of Robert Crumb
originals. A basket of Gilbert Sheldon’s Fabulous
Furry Freak Brothers comics is mounted on a small carved wooden table,
alongside hemp incense, hemp oil lip balm, cannabis massage oil and hempen
cigarette papers. “Feel like a number?” Ram’yana asks.
“I pick number twenty-three,” Cagliostro replies with
studious intent. His satisfied customer produces a long pre-rolled reefer and passes
it to him. “Congratulations! - that’s the winning number!”
They pause to watch a bevy of Ganja Faeries saunter past, nubile,
subtropically tanned bodies slightly concealed beneath green spangled bikini
tops and short grass skirts. They carry large shield-like effigies of marijuana
leaves through the passing throng, making their way to a nearby rehearsal space.
“Looks like the parade’s going to be great,” Cagliostro observes. “A fine crop
of Faeries this year. There are even a couple of males in among the dancing
girls, to seed up the crop and give the women something to look at.” A group of
citified hive dwellers pauses to surround the stall and Ram winks at the Count,
stepping away from the sudden congregation as the salesman starts spruiking his
wares.
Only a few paces up the road the shaman stops at another
impromptu stall spread out on the side of the footpath. Two boys barely larger
than infants smile up at him through gaps in yellowing milk teeth. Arrayed on a
paisley silk scarf spread on the ground before them is a carefully contrived
cluster of crystals laid out in a complex mandala. The grinning boys proudly
display the semi-precious stones to their prospective customer, who kneels down
to inspect the crystals more closely.
The change in altitude is momentarily dizzying and every
surrounding sound shifts in a weird Doppler effect. Even after he kneels he’s
still looking down at the tiny cross-legged urchins. The boys and their stall
are surrounded by a forest of dozens of pairs of legs, their glittering wares ignored
by everyone else.
“We found them all ourselves,” the sandy-haired spokesman
pipes up. A three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle of clear, citrine and milky quartz
intermingles with blue-green fluorites, subtly psychedelic agates and a variety
of less easily identified crystals form a rough circle on the concrete
footpath. Highlights glisten within the fractured fractal surfaces in the
bright midday sunlight and babbling voices weave and flow in a verbal river of
intermingling multilingual thought-forms. It
certainly is coming on fast, Ram’yana realises. And on a full stomach, too.
He notices that all the crystals have been cunningly
arranged around – and partly conceal – an oddly shaped purplish stone set in
the very centre of the mandala. Looking up at the two boys he sees a pair of ancient
wizened gnomes inhabiting the bodies of three year olds, smiling up at him and
nodding cannily. “These are really impressive!” he exclaims. “Where did you
find them?”
“Just down the hill.” The sandy haired creature points
down toward the river, hidden behind a fringe of trees that stands between the hilltop
village and the escarpment of fabled Nimbin Rocks - jutting outcrops rearing up
from the depths of a primeval volcano that was once as tall as Everest, to
guard and brood over the Rainbow Region of Oz. “We found them all down there.”
“You didn’t have to dig for them?”
“Nah – they’re all right there in the river.”
The shaman jiggles a pale blue stone set beside an orange
quartzite. Both abut the strange central crystal, half concealing its perfect
purplish miniature phallic form. “These are particularly brilliant,” he says,
catching the boys’ eyes. “And they hide this one in the centre so well – the
one you don’t really want anyone to see or buy.” The gnomish lads glance at
each other and a look of pained concern passes between them. “This weird and
magical gem right here, with the strange shape.” The long sharp nail of his
little finger hovers over the central stone, not quite touching its gleaming
lustrous patina. It’s a natural talisman,
he understands, a fertility amulet
and attractive fetish – like a love potion set in stone.
A pleading look comes into the eyes of the ancient earth
sprites that inhabit the village children, their young bodies frozen in hushed
expectation as they watch the squatting hippy. But it’s not something to need or want – how can you know that a woman
loves you if you use a token like this? It’s a trap for the unwary and unwise…“Don’t worry,” he tells them, taking a clear quartz double terminator from the
edge of the stone circle. “How much for this one?”
The spokesman’s sidekick erupts in glee. “A dollar!”
“Better make it one each,” the shaman suggests, handing
over a double-headed two dollar fool’s gold coin. “Always keep the Elder’s face
up and the Queen’s face down,” he winks at the gnomes.
“Thanks, mister!” the sandy-haired youngster exclaims.
“Boys,” Ramses says, “these are really good crystals, offerings of the living Earth. You’ve done
amazingly well to find these – they’re beautiful.”
“They’re okay mister,” the gnome replies, “but we can get
plenty more.” Ram smiles, shakes their tiny hands. He rises to his feet,
tottering slightly as Doctor Hoffman’s patented potion surges to his brain. He
bows to the beaming boys and makes his way across a sea of undulating
stone-flecked concrete waves that guide him toward the centre of town.
He takes less than two dozen paces before another original
settler - an
evergreen stalwart still heavily involved in spawning the alternative society
of the Rainbow Region – stops to greet him, hugging him warmly. “You’re here
every year,” Lisa observes when she holds his whiskers at bay. Only the wild
cut of her colourful clothing appears to have changed in the last three
decades.
She looks almost exactly as she did at the dawn of the
Aquarius era that transformed the subtropics of Oz, smiling, well-tanned face
beaming with health and vitality. Good vibes, a great environment and faithful
adherence to an honourably alternate path – one she and other visionaries saw,
clearly laid out, when the hippies first discovered themselves in the fertile paradise
of this ancient volcanic caldera – have combined to preserve Lisa’s beauty,
brilliance and edge.
“How’s it going down your way?” she asks as a blonde woman
strolls toward them with a ship-shape rolling gait.
“All’s fine in the rainforest,” he replies, smiling at the
obvious impatience of the newcomer, who strives to catch Lisa’s attention while
subtly edging him aside with the personal space of her capacious aura. “We have
to get to the showground soon,” she announces in a tone of implied
remonstration.
“Of course.” Lisa glances at her watch.
“Just one thing.” Ramses feels words swelling within him, forming
somewhere beyond volition, apparently arising of their own accord from some
mysterious inner source. “Before I say anything…” he hurriedly tells them
before an unknown muse can spirit his volition away, “don’t pay any attention
to anything I say.” The blonde’s grey eyes roll and Lisa’s smile becomes a
trifle brittle - then the tidal flow is upon him; “It’s obvious there was some
friction at first, with the Permaculture village opening up on the edge of town
– many Nimbinites saw it as the thin edge of the wedge of straight
development...”
“Oh, that’s coming anyway,” Lisa interjects with a
quizzical smile. “Land prices are going through the roof…”
“They sure are,” her friend agrees with gleaming eyes and
a guardedly miniscule nod.
“…and if there’s one thing Nimbin and the Rainbow Region
need to continue as models of alternative living, it’s more environmentally
aware people – and more Permaculture, to help keep the asshole developers at
bay across the Queensland border, where they belong.”
“Maybe,” Lisa says, “but it’s put a real strain on things;
the town didn’t really want to expand in such a single huge step, without more
services being in place first.”
“Understandable – but now it’s not only a fait accompli, but a great green boon to
the place.” The shaman still wonders where all this is coming from and going to
as it pours from his mouth. “Look around - there are thousands of people here
from all over the world…” They all glance outward, away from their small
clustered circle, as a river of undulating bodies parts around them and reforms
on the downstream side. “More like tens of thousands,” the unintroduced woman
agrees, “and one raindrop raises the sea.”
“…and all these people aren’t just here for the drugs…”
“…or all the sex and rock and roll,” the blonde interposes,
eyeing the shaman with a full-length sweep of her glittering gaze.
“…they’re also here for the dream. Nimbin’s a showcase of possibility and everyone here
suspects the future that’s coming down on them is less than ideal. Most exist
in lives of apparently pointless struggle and wonder if they - or their
children - will have a future…”
“Oh, there’s a future all right,” Lisa assures him.
“The future’s so bright you’ll have to wear shades.” The
blonde smiles behind her mirrored sunnies.
“Of course – but you know what’s going on; they’re all
looking for solutions and a better life. Nimbin could do a lot worse that
grafting Permaculture onto its label; the hope of the future’s revealed in the
word. Permanence is what everyone craves, and the hope for something far more
than subsistence – the dream of a vibrant ongoing culture in harmony with the
Earth is what everyone really wants.” Lisa looks at her watch and he feels the
rushing stream of words sputter toward a halt; “And that, after all, is what
Nimbin is!”
“That’s an interesting viewpoint,” she says, not quite
meeting his eyes, “and now we’d better be off.”
“Or we’ll be late,” her white rabbit friend agrees. The sounds
of Nimbin suddenly return and increase in volume and variety, and a tide seems
to turn in the fragrant air. Echoes of drums and trumpets filter through the tumultuous
noises of the crowd and many brightly clad people seem to be making their way
toward the source of the semi-musical sounds.
“See you at the parade!”
“See you on the street,” Lisa agrees, giving him another
hug. The women wander up the road, immediately engrossed in ongoing
conversation. Ramses makes his way past the pair as he flows around an eddy
which temporarily snags them, weaving quickly through the multitude to bypass
the clotting knot of interweaving wills.
The clear bubble of LSD expands to further transform his dizzied
awareness. The shaman watches people step unconsciously from his path, a narrow
track forming before him and closing as he passes through the surging
protoplasm of the crowd. He tastes their expectancy, ambition, lust, boredom
and wonder, their dawdling absent-mindedness and tightly focused concentration,
their wary paranoia and effervescent glee as his aura touches and mingles with
the multitude.
Marijuana smoke fills the streets, an aerial mixture of
resinous scents from all over the country and the far-flung world, whose
international denizens make regular and incessant pilgrimages to this little
painted village on a nondescript ridge inside one of the largest volcanic
calderas on the land surface of the planet – long extinct, we’re told by the
science of usurping newcomers...
He unbuckles a small camera from his utility belt and
checks the battery as he stalks along the edge of the road, dodging a Jungle
Patrol clad in green and fluorescent orange t-shirts who are trying to keep the
roadway clear. His carnival garb seems to forestall any objection as his swift
passage continues unimpeded. He strides up the double-lined centre of the main
drag but soon steps to one side to observe a dynamic duo of gymnasts. A surprisingly
petite teenage girl in a blue tutu and matching sequined bikini top stands
balanced on the outstretched hand of a long-haired Germanic-looking blonde man,
who holds his diminutive partner aloft above the concrete with a studied
semblance of ease. The girl performs a pirouette on his palm to the
enthusiastic applause of a growing circle of admirers and the floppy velvet hat
at their feet begins to fill with coins. The shaman adds a jingling token and
glances up to meet the teen’s serenely smiling eyes.
The girl holds his gaze as she shifts her weight to bend
over, then places her hands upon the man’s shoulders and rises into a handstand
atop him. Their heads touch as barefoot feet arch and purple toenails point to
midheaven while her long brown hair falls down over both their faces. Out-of-it
males leer and cheer to the disapproval of envious girlfriends as the girl’s
tutu flops down to reveal slim tubular pillars of spry legs surmounted by a gymnast’s
muscular buttocks. With only a tiny G-string to preserve a vestige of the teen’s
scant modesty, nude flesh gleams and muscles bunch to flex pneumatically before
a red-rimmed beast with a hundred greedily lustful eyes.
The shaman’s gaze shifts to surveillance cameras that perch
on thin towers above her twirling form, slowly scanning the crowded street and
transmitting images to various government agencies with an abiding interest in
whatever goes on in the village of Nimbin. Ramses notes a camera tilting down
toward the upthrust girl and sees lens elements shift as it zooms in on her
near-naked body while she twirls and somersaults head over heels to land
astride her partner’s shoulders.
The crowd cheers and applauds as he turns away. A hundred
yard queue all but blocks one footpath, snaking up past the packed museum to
the only autoteller in the village; it’ll surely be emptied in a few hours or
less. A clutch of street sellers stands a few paces removed all around the
machine and a clot of enthusiastic buyers brings the plodding pedestrian
traffic jam to a standstill. Ram swerves to the edge of an opening that leads from
the narrow human aisle and pauses to avoid a police car coming the other way.
“Cookie? Chocolate?” A willowy green-gowned girl leans a naked
feminine flank against Ram’s hipbone. W when she presents a wicker basketful of
goodies he can barely see a face through her pointed hood and the serpentine
mass of long dark tangled dreadlocks that spill from it. “They’re really good –
not leaf. Here, smell this.” The name attached to the familiar voice teeters at
the edge of recall. The cookie she breaks beneath his nose releases a scent as
strong and delectable as good hashish, almost completely overpowering any other
olfactory charms the small cake provides. “Chocolate and cinnamon, too,” the
vendor informs him in a playful contralto. As she warily glances from side to
side he recognises her– a fellow feral forest blockader from rambunctious and
bucolic times shared in remote tree-canopied wilderness. “Lacy! Long see no time!” She pecks his cheek with
fluorescent lime lips.
“Now I’ve put my mark on you! Here – have half for free.”
Amanda pops a crumbling brown mass into his mouth and in a breathtaking pause the
rich redolence of well-isomerised cannanibols fills his awareness, just as a
squad of riot troopers swaggers past. “I recognised you by your winged hat.” She
tosses her hood back and smiles through a suddenly revealed and alarmingly dense
barrier of sharply pointed facial jewellery. “You look like the parade’s about
to start! Oh look – there’s Joel!”
The feral girl climbs up onto the towbar of a handily
parked van and waves across a multitude of heads. He can’t resist staring at
the smooth brown legs that rise up and up until they disappear into an artfully
torn ultrabrief leather skirt, scant inches from his nose, and wonders at his endless
propensity for primate longings.
He looks away and espies deep ranks of merrymakers sauntering
beside and along the road. Most wear sunglasses and disport an array of private
surveillance devices – mostly digital but a few film cameras remain, still and
video, and a few audio recorders as well as the ubiquitous cell (damaging)
phone cams. “Good to see you again, Ramses,” the young woman yells over her
shoulder. Not a girl any more… He
corrects his earlier appraisal, recognising signs of an undeniable passage of
time since last they met and mingled. “See you in the Rainbow later, okay?” Her
eyes glow greenly luminous through the long dark dreadlocks pouring from her hastily
replaced hood.
Images of their last trysts well into his awareness,
erasing the living present with memories graven into his heart, mind and loins –
fond recollections occasionally resurrected from the vault of time across a hand
span of flowering years. The sight of her face coming and coming again, screaming
wide-eyed while her body keeps relentlessly, automatically, unendingly bucking
and fucking beneath him, when he lays her down in the moonlight beneath dappled
shadows of a vast primeval forest canopy; the first time they truly met…
Bobbling breasts, taut and firm in his hands as he tastes
her nipples while she presses his flesh into a soft carpet of yielding moss by
the side of a rock-strewn waterfall in dazzling sunlight…
The sensation of her luscious lips sliding over and around
his quivering glans as he hardens inside her mouth and slides deeper into her
throat; the sweet, salty taste of her quim on his tongue while soft, smooth,
slender thighs press against his ears and feminine hands inflame his naked body
with intimate caresses…
The image of the beautiful grrl's post-orgasmic expression as she lies half
submerged on a smooth bed of pebbles, massaged by the ever flowing waters of a secret,
perfect, pristine rainforest rock pool, inciting him to higher, further, deeper
pleasures…
Past gives way to present and her eyes seem to be delving
into his thoughts when awareness returns. He’s certain she can see – and feel –
a semblance of his imaginings when a corner of her lips quirks upward. He can
still feel her loins wrapped around his length, squeezing as he moves through
her, even as they’re jostled by strangers in the crowded street…
“I’ll hold it to
you,” he says with a wink, speaking around the delicious consolation prize of
her cookie before noticing his tongue-tied slip, and swallows the gift before
returning her widening smile. He toys with the notion of dallying with her through
the rest of the day, in hopes of experiencing more exemplary, untrammelled,
uninhibited and unencumbered sex with the gorgeous young woman - but he can see
she has other things on her mind.
As she turns away she keeps his dreams smouldering with a
laugh, a light slap on his chest and a phrase; “I’ll keep a spot warm for you
then. Later...”
His thoughts begin to boom and echo through the cavernous
ventricles of his mind as he hurries away, and he turns to continue up the
street unimpeded by Jungle Patrol members who direct most others from the road.
Bright protest banners and rainbow flags wave high in the distance, held
proudly aloft to proclaim the ever-approaching End of Prohibition. Next Year Jerusalem…
“Ah!” A jubilant voice drawls a path through the sardonic
thought. “We meet again… already!”
“And you still haven’t come down?”
The Alchemist’s eyes roll in their sockets while his skeletal
body reels round socketed hips. “The time will come the wall rose bled, to peak
- and peek - at many things.”
“Uhuh…” The shaman’s mouth opens and words pour forth; “of
Jews and slips and seething flax and carriages of bling? And when, pray tell, will
this auspicious creature come and sing?” he asks in response as huge winged
creatures pass above, pummelling swathes of air with resonantly beating wings
that perfectly match the rhythmic
cadence of a hundred intermingling drumbeats and the beating of his expectant heart.
A True Story
Continues…
- R.A.
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
↧
Chrissie's Present, AbsOrbed, Orgasmic Angel, Centraxian Revelry
↧
↧
Tit for Tat: Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 28
Tit for
TatSex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 28
*
When the newly initiated High
Priestess staggers toward the dazzlingly bright kitchen seeking another refill
of wine, a wordless inner voice prods her onto a different course. Following an
intuitive urge the proudly naked young tripper pauses at the shadowy foot of the
stairs, where she balances against the doorframe to collect her disparate
selves before venturing back into the gloomy longhall.
Raucous
sounds from a resurgent tide of swelling revelry seem to pour directly into the
Lady Racheal’s mind as her tribal initiation party continues apace without her.
Swirling shapes surround her head and a bevy of transparent deep purple bats flit
around the margins of her vision. The wooden doorframe is a carved limb of living
flesh that bends to her touch and the rug beneath her bare soles slithers about
like a skittish skateboard..
Her eyes
adjust to guttering candlelight and she catches sight of the glazed haze of the
tribal initiation mirror, where her own dim reflection stands above strange serpentine
shapes twisting in fire-fringed shadows. She’s instantly transfixed, shocked by
the vision of her own amazingly perfect hourglass figure, and absorbed in the
swirling patterns that swim across her glowing white skin. That’s me? Racheal marvels, and the thought resounds inside her
skull; …me… me… me… Her eyes light up
like Catherine wheels. Can I be that…
that… She feels a blush rush up her throat: …thatgraceful swan?
A flock of
words pours through the air, too swift to catch or understand. While she tries
to disentangle rumbling music from highly spirited exclamations and less
audible murmurs of conversation, the pale reflected shapes at her feet slowly
resolve to a pair of slim feminine limbs. Fernlike patterns illumine the snaky
forms from within and spread through the hall, extending to unseen horizons. Though
certain she doesn’t move at all, Racheal’s face nods and winks back at her from
the looking glass and she turns away to focus on her own side of the mirror.
When she
peers down at the legs that twist near her feet flamingo-pink ethereal flames
engulf the low couch and conceal all details with dancing veils that shift
through violet and purple. She sways and raises the cup to her lips to down the
dregs of the oversweet mead and a foxfur coat brushes past her back as her
naked hip bumps against another’s, encased in rough rasping denim. She absently
drops the mug on the rug and steps from the draughty doorway, emerging into
firelit exposure in the tribe’s crowded longhall.
Racheal
instantly feels attention strike her
with probing thrusts, hooking barbs and questing tastes of myriad eyes that fix
upon her blatant nudity from candlelit nooks and deeper shadows. The swaying priestess
averts a warping gaze to focus on the bed where she’d so recently left her shaman
lover. In another few moments, while high-pitched music spears through her
brain and flashes of light erupt in the night, she recognises the familiar musculature
of Crystal’s long white legs limned in fluorescing orange fire. The rest of the
redhead’s rocking little body is concealed by a larger, hump-backed, white delphinine
mass that moves across her smaller frame in undulant rhythmic waves.
Through
swimming vision she watches the younger teen’s thighs enwrap and flex around an
equally pale naked torso suffused with living, pumping, glowing colours, and sees
the girl’s calf muscles swell as she draws her mate closer. That isn’t Arné… the tripping hippy
witch girl realises, and when firelight flares and she sees who plunges between
Crystal’s spread thighs, the Lady Racheal’s swaying knees drop to the gritty
rug and her hands fall onto the edge of the mattress.
A huge hand
settles onto her bare shoulder and gives her a squeeze while pressure builds
behind her blinking eyes. “You okay, lovely?” The masculine voice is completely
unfamiliar, grating down from the darkness while colourful Aztec motifs flare
in her retinas. “Need anything?” Rough fingers shift to stroke a lock of her
hair, twisting a golden strand before blurred eyes that remain fixed on Crystal’s
partner. Another large hand presses between her shoulder blades and her hackles
rise as the stranger begins stroking her skin with a slippery palm. “Need a
hand?”
A wave of
rage bursts upward though her and in the next instant she launches herself back
up onto her bare feet and sways, dizzied, in semidarkness. The massive hand
keeps stroking her back and slides further downward as a muscular arm surrounds
her naked waist, tickling her midriff with a wiry mat of fuzz – but the
importunate contact is scarcely distracting before the swelling rush of jealous
anger that strangles a rebuke before she can utter it.
The
stranger obviously takes silence for assent and pulls her closer. Evidence of the
night’s passions slithers down her inner thigh as she staggers away and totters
against the edge of the stairwell. She shakes medusa strands of snaking hair
from her shuttered eyes and feels the growl swell in her throat until it bursts
from her lips.
“Leave me
be!” she warns as the hand slips lower, but her half-withheld shout is drowned
beneath a rumbling squall of heavy metal. She knows she can call any man in the
tribe to come to her rescue any time she chooses – most are still awake and
present in the Centraxian stronghold – but is fain to betray her position to
the rutting teens just beyond the threshold. Twisting aside doesn’t help; the
sandpaper fingers slide around to lightly cup her bare buttock, and despite her
best intentions Racheal’s body trembles with an inconvenient shock of
undeniable drunken arousal.
You’re free as a bird…. a booming
inward voice intones; and so is he… Shocked
at the thought, she drifts away and watches herself from a nearby distance; faintly
surprised her hair’s still so straight, disturbed by her strangely slowed
reflexes, filled with scorn at the helpless lust that flares in her animal body
at the simple trigger of a tickling finger. The meaty hand seems content to
stay where it is without further manhandling, so she decides to ignore the
intrusion for the moment and concentrates on seeing through the brick wall that
stands between her and the longhall.
The living
image of her smiling prince instantly fills her eager mind in a draught of revivifying
elixir. His long hand beckons and his full red lips say something inaudible as
she slips back into her body and prepares to lean around the doorjamb to meet
his emerald eyes in the flesh. A shocking thrill rushes up through her spine
when the sliding hand slips from her cheek and dandles her tailbone, but she’s so
thoroughly drunk, drugged, angry and jealous she can’t be bothered giving much
of a damn about this annoying new violation. She needs to know – to be certain
her eyes aren’t playing tricks and leading her astray into fearfully insecure delusions
– so she resolves to ignore the hand when it starts stroking her flank and
circling round to finger her belly.
Far too
much has happened in all too short a time for anything so minor and meaningless
to distract her at such a pressing moment. A pair of street urchins rushes past,
delaying her for another few infuriating seconds before she takes a slow motion
step into the bathing heat of the firelit longhall. She steels her nerve for
the scene that awaits, already etched in her blinking eyelids. Her tormentor
pursues her with an arm that slithers around her waist.
When she takes
a deep breath and gazes down on the low couch she sees the lovers have
exchanged positions. Crystal’s fey shape is starkly outlined by an orange glow from
the resurgent fire. The inebriated priestess’s treacherous body threatens to
crumple back onto the floor beside the squeaky mattress when she sees her
lover’s rigid cock – her cock! - stretching the younger girl’s pink lips wide. Fury
fills her and she turn around to face the nearest light, twisting out of the anonymous
slippery grip as she strides toward the kitchen. Brilliance blinds her dilated
eyes and a rasping crackle announces the advent of another track from the
overhead speakers;
*
“I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever you’re around…” +
*
A barking
laugh escapes her lips when Racheal steps into stark blinding light and hears
the lyrical lyrics. Her bare soles slide in a pool of spilled wine and she literally
glides across the room on a chequered expanse of slippery linoleum. Two bearded
hippies gape and ogle her naked body with unsuppressed surprise and dawning admiration.
Two sets of hands start to rise to catch her as she reaches between the
goggling men to steady herself - and incidentally grabs an apparently abandoned
goblet from the mantle in a single fluid motion.
“Milady,”
a voice entreats as she raises the clay vessel to her lips. She spins about to
see a familiar figure bow and doff his feathered cap. “Awa Ken, Milord Marco,”
she replies with a curt little nod as his eyes stroke the length of her body.
“I’ll fetch thee a stronger tipple,” he says with a wink, “and thy robe while
I’m at it.” He strides out of the room with a flap of his cape, closely
followed by young Princess Moonshine (clad in fishnet stockings, high black
boots, a short fur jacket and little else) who flounces past a hulking onlooker
that lurks in shadows, watching from the foot of the stairs.
*
“Oh baby, when I see your face, mellow as the month of May,
Oh darlin’, I can’t stand it when you look at me that way
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever
you’re around…”
*
The tribal
High Priestess spots a slightly older woman in a polka dotted dress and
matching headscarf, staring at her naked body with approbation glittering in
slitted brown eyes. She stares back until the woman looks away, then spins on
her heel and gives the half-crowded kitchen a good look at her posterior as she
slides back toward the longhall.
*
“Ooh darlin’, when you’re near me and you tenderly call my name
I know that my emotions are something I just can’t tame…”
*
Her glide
is interrupted when she bumps into the unmoved but animated Lady Ringell, whose
extraordinary guffaw further delays her return to the orgiastic scene that
still hovers before her eyes. “No,” Fifi is saying to a glaze-eyed Li Po, whose
golden arm drapes over an equally drunken Freedom’s shoulder. “I shan’t be
going north tomorrow after all – I have another engagement…”
“Singing?”
Freedom asks with a reverent expression.
“Not this
time my dear, ’tis an acting part. Mayhap ye’d like to accompany Li Po and Arné
on Kha-Aan’s expedition to evict Captain Kell and reclaim the stronghold…
Milady!” she exclaims when she turns about and sees Racheal’s pinkly bobbing
breasts. “Taking them out for a stroll, are we?” Racheal glances down and
shrugs. Her eyes bore into Fifi’s while an unplanned decision pours from her
lips fully formed; “I’ve a mind t’ take thy place on that trip… if there’s space.”
“Another
trip so soon?” Ringell’s eyes twinkle as her cheeks deeply dimple. “The boys
will always make room for thee - our grand,
beauteous and unsurpassably wise High Priestess! But they’ll be leaving not
long after dawn, my dear – wilt stay up through the rest of the night?”
“Just
watch me,” their new High Priestess answers as she shoulders her way through
the group, heading toward rising sounds of merriment.
“Why not?
No doubt everyone else will,” Fifi observes while Freedom releases a suppressed
giggle.
*
“I just
a-lose control down to my very soul
I get a
common cold all over, all over…
I feel the
earth move under my feet
I feel the
sky a’tumbling down
*
The shadowy figure no longer bars Racheal’s
path when she returns to the shadows. She pauses at the foot of the
staircase, lifts the goblet to her lips and finds it half filled with spicy mulled
wine. A strange gritty texture pursues the lukewarm drink down her throat while
a cool draught from the open back door pimples her perspiring skin. The teenage
witch steels herself with another gulp, certain she’s inured to the sight of
her lover disporting with the other girl again. Then she enters the gloomy
longhall and suddenly halts at the expected spectacle that nonetheless confronts
her with stunning lividness.
The last
of the sweetly strong drink spills down her chin and splashes from her breasts
to cascade onto Ram’s undulating spine and bunching buttocks. She watches him
jerk with surprise between Crystal’s thighs “Fuck this!” she yells through the
party’s ebbing tide in the dimly lit longhall. “’Tis my party and I’ll have whom I want, too!”
Ram’yana
freezes inside Crystal’s spry body, poised atop her and halfway withdrawn. The
little pixie lies beneath him with her heels in his hocks, still and unmoving,
her breath withheld as she peers through his hair and over his shoulder. When
his glance inevitably follows the red haired girl’s he’s rewarded with a
memorable tableau. His Lady’s statuesque silhouette steps from the doorway and
enters the hall, striding right past their interlocked bodies. Her white skin
flares with a flaming liquid sheen as she passes through the large shadowy
chamber and boldly faces the shadows within.
Though he’d
been certain few strangers and fewer Centraxians remained in the hall, it seems
as if a multitude of glittering eyes swivel and flash to the stark naked
teenage High Priestess when her bold declaration reverberates from the
graffito-clad walls; “I am what I am!”
“And we
love what you are!” yells a voice from the pack, fast as a shot with echoes of
laughter.
“Take me or leave me!” The priestess’ cry twists in Ram’s mind like a
multilayered oracle as Chrissie’s hands grip his shoulder blades to pull him
closer. An instantaneous hubbub greets Racheal’s invitation as half a dozen
male voices shout or grunt or call out in wry reply. His beloved stands out as
a shining beacon in turbulent night and, along with everyone else in the hall, Ram’s
eyes are riveted to her utterly nude flame-tinted young body.
A slender Goddess
naked and white as the last flaming candle that laves her form with licks of
light she twists and sways, slowly aglow in the magnetic midst of a bombed out
ruin, and intones as she twirls; “I call on a knight in the long dark night…”
Her voice is uncommonly husky and deep, vibrating right through the crowded
room. The new High Priestess spins on the spot like a swivelling lighthouse,
arms akimbo with long blonde hair streaming in living flames in a vortex that
threatens to fly apart. “…a champion waiting t’ enter my sight…” she slurs as
she spins to a halt.
Firm
nubile breasts bounce unerringly skyward and the prince can’t help notice his
paramour’s nipples are hard and erect as she moans her spiel to the rowdy crowd.
Her huge wide eyes flash with sapphire brilliance as a blue glow lights her high
pale brow, and her alluring figure seems surrounded by another, larger form
that shines with an unearthly pulsating aura. “…an’ join with me t’ show his
might…”
She swirls
between the lover’s bower and the rest of the hall, and doesn’t even glance in Ram’s
direction but slows to meet the stares of everyone else in the chamber with a
flashing white grin. He watches her profile as glinting eyes rove the darkness to
spy Arné’s unmistakeable naked body, half sunken into an oversized lounge
chair; the young monk appears to have crashed out after his impressive exertions.
“…enflamed on th’ pyre ’f love’s delight…”
Ram’yana
is sure he can see her mind working behind her showy rhythmic spiel, writ clear
as words in flitting masks that flutter across her familiar face; I’ll have her man, and see how she likes
it - I can soon rouse him, she seems to decide on the nonce while he stares.
As she strides further into flickering rays from the fading fire – the only
remaining bright flux of light -the naked teenager’s slim naked body, all aglow
in the swelling dark, is surrounded by shadows that close in around her,
eclipsing her flame-edged form from Ram’s sight.
The
longhall steams with sweltering heat. “My sleeping knight, so filled with might,
to waken thee’s a boon by right…” her lover hears the witch girl declare, and
feels Chrissie’s body contract around him as a viridian wave of possessive jealousy
jolts through both their spines. He stares across her flaming mane with watery
eyes, transfixed by the show with most everyone else at Racheal’s surprisingly
boisterous party. “…to have an’ hold
’til daylight bright…”
Each
stanza evokes a hypnotic parade of illustrations that pass though Ram’s mind
while he watches her sway before Arné’s sealed eyes, scant inches from his idle
hands and an arm’s length from the corralling crowd. When the priestess kneels
between Arné’s knees and leans across his generous lap, her lover turns to the unmoving
drunken pixie whose boyfriend Racheal now wakes with caresses and kisses and
intimate touches that twist the girl up in Ram’s close embrace. “…and flee with
me on thy northerly flight…”
Crystal’s
eyes are gleaming liquid pools.in the flicker-shot dark. He feels her mind
cringe along with her body, feels her relax as the thought arrives with Free
Love’s bold entrained refrain; I don’t
own him…
“…that we
may do this f’r a month of nights…”
And I don’t own her… Chrissie’s
mouth opens and she pulls him down onto her, all the way into her, and sighs.
“An’ I’m having you,” she slurs into his hair. She starts to move him deep inside
her, guiding his hips with all the strength of her rolling pelvis and limber
young legs, propelling his hardness with both bony heels.
Yet he
can’t shake the visions that mar his awareness – the stark vivid image of Joe’s
stout black baton reaming his lovely blushing mate (or was it a dream?) even burns through the stupendous reality of beautiful
Crystal’s slippery labia wrapped tightly right around him, fucking him as if
there were no tomorrow. Next he sees – or thinks he sees -a roused Arné Stook
lifting his Lady Racheal’s fine
slender frame up astride that buff body and cramming her down athwart his thick
member, stretching her wider than ever before as he fills her womb with sticky
gouts of his swarming sperm while
cheers and jeers erupt all around.
The
cheering and jeering is already too real and liquid thumpings of slapping flesh
come from various humping shapes in the dark. The longhall seems to pump and
thrum with the seamy, steamy, swelling heat of impending eruption, and a voice
begins to toll in his mind like a resonant bell; Be… Here… Now…
Then a
group of cloaked and hooded figures - all using Racheal’s body at once - bursts
into Ram’s befuddled mind with the sudden recall of her recent admissions. He
drives them away with Crystal’s kisses and tries not to remember his lover’s
confession of guiltless pain; The reason
for this, her strange behaviour, he assures himself while he strokes
Chrissie’s breast and stokes her afresh.
Even as
Crystal moans into his hair when he pounds her body down into the mattress;
even as he spreads firm cheeks wide and jams her closer with both large hands, more
than filling her tight little pussy with rampaging, thrusting, pulsing man-meat;
even as her soft, tight, surprisingly full and swollen breasts mash and slide on
his smooth hairless chest; even as the clasping, grasping teen’s unclipped nails
rake strips from his shoulders and her slippery tongue crams into his mouth -
he sees Racheal’s climax writ on her
face, feels Racheal’s ecstasy respond
in her body, feels Racheal’s
encouraging heels on his flanks and rides Racheal
into a screaming, steaming, molten mass of orgasmic fucking femaleness.
He makes
ungentle surrogate love with his beloved High Priestess, willing her to feel his cock fucking her through the sex
magick medium of Crystal’s sympathetic femaleness – transmitting his intent
through the other girl’s body and willing himself to ride inside the male who
pleasures his beloved like a puppet master, that he might be the one to truly bring her to ultimate ecstasy.
And all
the while an inner bell tolls; HERE… NOW…
while slow opening strains from the overhead speakers lead up to the line that
already sings an harmonic refrain in the far flung boondocks of Ram’s flaring brain
- ‘Love the one you’re with!’
His hands
grasp her breasts and he holds on tight, pressing the girl right down through
the mattress. He pounds and plunges and rides their wild tide of mutual lust to
the heartfelt encouragement of strident screams that resound from Crystal’s
wide open throat, almost drowning the staccato sounds of slapping flesh and
horny cries that emanate from the other end of the suddenly populous longhall.
He slides his hands beneath girlish hips, grabs two firm cheeks and pulls the pixie
up off their bed while four slim limbs grip his rigid frame and lock him close
inside her. “Oh, Ram,” she pants
inside his hair, “oh God…”
Strident screams
of impassioned sex pour through the hall and his Lady Racheal’s unforgettable voice
resounds from the walls – rhythmic cries echoing regular slaps of firm young flesh
that bespeak her penultimate pleasure. Ram’s eyes are slitted and totally blinded
by turbulent passion, livid desire, jealous rage and dazzling light. The hall
is displayed in brilliant flashes that paint the walls with unforgiving
brightness, revealing cracks and smudges that despoil the pilaster and dispel
the romance of firelight. Someone’s
turned on the strobe…
He squints
right over Crystal’s head, propelling the smaller teen up and down with her
vigorous aid, aroused and vital and vainly jealous beyond all human measure. He
blinks through shadows and blinding light to peer past a grove of sapling legs
that conceals a scene already stark in his lustful imaginings.
There on the lounge betwixt
looming shades his Lady has found her chosen knight on this, her greatest
night of nights. Ram’yana freezes in Chrissie’s embrace as Racheal’s sleek body
bucks and bounces, jolting and flopping in fitful flashes espied between gaps
in the shifty crowd. She jerks in a cascade of frozen images, wanton expressions
lit bright and white and lividly vivid in the stark blinding light of the racing
strobe. He watches her mount her chosen male, riding Arné’s fat cock on the
padded chair, rising and falling in a broken string of bright serried images;
framed by admirers, a crowning jewel in a bracketing brace of coupling couples,
drunken, stoned, tripping – at least - and utterly shameless.
And her eyes… As she rides astride Arné and twists
right around to face the crew that surrounds her display, those beaming
searchlight sapphire orbs pass through the onlookers, one by one, blinking and
shining and glowing with joy, widely open and obviously unseeing as she screams
a wordlessly rhythmic refrain.
Arné’s
grin is a feral leer of emboldened release, the mask of an orphan freed to
escape to the fantasyland of a cherished dream. He fucks like a satyr, lost in
throes of blind lust born of longing - and of Mandrax, grass, acid and alcohol
mixed with the essence of dreams. The huge boy’s hands grip the curving hips of
his long sought lover and lift her up to mash her back down, tossing her body
around on his lap like a slippery doll of white silk and plastic. Her breasts
roll around in a figure-eight, bouncing and rolling in time with her cries
while he licks her long neck and sucks at her shoulder. Sheer sexual ecstasy
transforms their faces with the glorious glamour of wanton desire, all captured
in glimpses of gasps and moans, wide eyed bliss and wide mouthed cries that burn
Ram’s eyes and ring in his ears like clanging chimes.
He vaguely
notes he’s mimicking their vigorous and rhythmic play, using Crystal’s small
frame - her avid responses and whole hearted pleasures - as a surrogate for the
lover he craves. “Oh yeah!” the girl
moans as he jerks her body round and about, back and forth, up and down while he
watches his beloved’s face and imagines it’s he who fills her eyes with blinding desire and unleashed grace.
He’s wondrously lost in dimensions of lust, bold as a lion and strong as a bear;
Just like Arné… a little voice tells
him; This is what he feels right now, as
he uses her as his fresh new silk-lined blow up living fuck toy...
Chrissie swoons
in his arms and her taloned hold and scissor grip unlatch away from his rocking
frame. Her breathless cry is almost a whimper; “Oh yeah, o fuck, like ’at, like that!” Her upper body falls away like a raggedy doll’s to hang from
Ram’s grip and wood-hard lance as he uses her flesh with merciless zeal. Just like Rache… He lifts her high and
pulls her close, inspired by voluble cries of assent from near and afar. She’s light as a feather, he wonders
anew as he uses the girl’s entire body to stroke and suck and pleasure his
cock, thrusting and fucking her back and forth round his swollen, rigidly horny
cock while she growls like a kitten, screams like a woman and cries his name
with unmistakeable unstopped notes of matching insatiable teenage desire.
And all
the while he watches his true love fucking his hearty comrade and friend, and
faithfully copies their frenetic efforts to make her come and come again, over
and over before shadowy strangers and peers of the Court. The young shaman knows
the spell will continue ’til the first rutting male blows his swarming seeds
right up into a wide open womb and loses the unspoken contest - and Ram suddenly
sees the primordial program that’s actually driving his unfree will and fucking
flesh through Crystal and Racheal and all the fertile fields of womanhood in
the vast blue-green realm of the Goddess Gaia. An endurance test, a primitive duel, witnessed by all the females here
to prove our fitness to endure…
Some of
the onlookers have turned about to face the prince and his sexy kitten,
occluding all sight of his paramour’s beauty just as she reaches the summit of
climax. When Racheal’s orgasmic scream fills his ears he closes his eyes and
pulls the girl’s body up against his, determined to savour every slick inch of Crystal’s
silk skin and the fabulous heated vice of her pussy as though it were Racheal’s
own.
He buries
his face in fragrant hair, inhaling the teen’s unique spicy scent to help
banish the flagrant tormenting visions that dance through his brain – and in a
few more moments of absorbing fucking he’s genuinely amazed by the uncanny quality
of the slim fey creature who’s chosen to bless him with her most intimate charms.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she pants and calls
beyond upthrust breasts when he pulls her away to regard her beauty; “O yeah, o fuck, o man, o God!”
Goddess, the prince belatedly
realises, staring into the teen’s shining face; She’s absolutely fucking wonderful! And though he knows he’s already
bedded the girl once before, this time it’s somehow for real.
Yet he
can’t bring himself to lift his face from her hair and once more glance across
the longhall. Several looming forms have approached to surround them in any
case, blocking the scene of Racheal’s strobe-lit public initiation. “Ooh,
look!” A high-pitched voice squeals. “More fucking hippies!” He sees slender
feminine braceleted ankles, the calf-length boots of would-be cowboys,
flip-flopping thongs gripped by hairy toes and fish-netted legs perched on
white stilettos – a quartet of voyeurs all watching his cock slide in and out
of the gorgeous young runaway, who stares right back and bucks and screams and
comes for them all in a gasping display, breasts upthrust for their
predilection and obviously proud of their focused attention.
Her
screams and grunts of abandoned lust encourage Ram’s own innate prideful
exhibitionism. He plays Chrissie’s perfect miniature body like a highly strung
instrument for the looming onlooker’s vicarious amusement - stroking her skin and
stoking the furnace of her fur-lined loins again and again with unquenchable
need, thrusting and fucking her rag-doll body even after all her cries cease
and she hangs from his cock, unmoving once more and almost insensate.
It’s only
as his own climax approaches that the drunken, tripping, lust-lost prince finally
realises what he’s doing. He slows his movements and hoists the floppy teen’s light
little body up once again, close to his chest to limit the sozzled girl’s total
exposure to the giggling, grunting, commenting strangers – and buries his face
in her thick red hair when he totally fills her tight gripping pussy with long hard
cock and groans gouts of jism up into her womb.
He reels
on his knees, barely able to stay erect while his newfound playmate moans with
joy as his seed pumps into her tautly trim belly. Her lips grip his shoulder
and slide along the nape of his neck while she squeezes him inside and out. “Don’
worry,” an obviously inebriated female voice whispers into his ear while ragged
applause pours down on their bodies. The fluttering butterfly of another small
hand settles lightly on his shoulder. Crystal’s chin slips over the strange
little hand and her entire body starts insistently fucking his come-slicked
cock afresh.
He knows she’s
watching Racheal – and Arné – through the veil of his mane, and even though the
strobe has been suddenly extinguished and darkness fills most of the hall, he’s
sorely tempted to twist about to follow her gaze to where sucking, slapping,
moaning sounds rise from several matched pairs of undulant bodies. At that very
moment a silken sweep of long flowing hair and a soft pair of lips brush
against Ram’s cheek. He turns and slips into a full throated kiss from the
surprisingly libidinous and uninhibited Princess Moonshine, and feels her other
hand start stoking the place where his body meets Crystal’s.
Is she trying to distract me from Racheal? He hasn’t
lain with the exemplary girl since the Lady Racheal moved into his bed a few
months before, when Moonshine had seemingly lost all interest in pursuing him (or
a likely threesome). Are both of them? It occurs to the befuddled prince that
this surely seems a perfect time to reacquaint himself with the generous teen’s
lustrous young body. There was a time, not long before, when they spent entire fornicating
days and nights in each other’s eagerly willing company, and Princess
Moonshine’s twinkling eyes assure him she’s not forgotten a whit.
The moment
their kissing begins afresh there’s no turning back. All three teens are
equally stonkered and blown away by copious drink, powerful smoke and even
stronger LSD and all inhibitions have left by the back door aeons ago in the
mists of time. He’s soon enthralled by both girls at once, barely able to
distinguish between one pair of lips (or rumps or breasts) and another in the
occasionally flash-lit darkness. Even the light in the kitchen is out, leaving
them bathed in a liquid darkness that’s fully populated by ravishingly
salacious images which echo flagrant realities being enacted throughout the
Centraxian stronghold.
So blown
away is the shaman prince he doesn’t even imagine that he’s making love with beloved
Racheal while the twinned young beauties share him between them, in turn and at
once, for an immeasurable interval of wheeling stars and succulent tactile labile
delights.
Even when single
- but no less blinding - flashes erupt in the darkness (attesting to Vostra’s
attempts at candid photography, presumably in role as Tribal Scribe), he barely
turns to watch his ladylove disporting with his friend for more than a few
seconds at a time. He concentrates on emulating the rocking rhythm of Crystal’s
hips while sucking Moonshine’s outthrust tongue and exploring her interior
alongside Chrissie’s sticky little fingers while they all rock and roll to the rock
and roll that blares through the longhall and guides their flesh – all joining
in a sacred choir of harmonised molten bliss.
Some while
later Ram’yana emerges from rapturous joy. A short sharp glance informs the
prince that a closely packed enthusiastic scrum of shadowy figures still surrounds
the seat where Arné was so hastily wakened – and is doubtless now well past the
point of pleased surprise, if Racheal’s full-throated cries and flashing
glimpses of her naked white body bouncing athwart a masculine torso are any
guide.
As he’s
about to turn back into Moonshine’s arms he spies the half-clad figure of Lady
Ringell squat over Arné’s hulking reclining body. She moves in a pool of
lambent streetlight on the bottle-strewn floor, slowly grinding down on the lad
she knows so well right beside Racheal’s feet – and Ram’yana understands what
he’s seeing; his beloved is allowing another
man to take her on her makeshift throne before a gaggle of other willing males,
who move in to surround her more closely as he watches. One by one, each in turn, or all at once? he wonders while at least
half a dozen men and women start tentatively stroking his beloved’s body and
sucking on her flesh,; closing in around her until he can hardly see an inch of
her pale glowing skin.
He tries to
tell himself not to be concerned, but can’t look away even when Moonshine
kisses Crystal’s breasts while he keeps nailing the redhead to the floor.
Moonshine rubs her sex against the smaller girl’s hipbone and they both bring the
dark haired teen off with busily twining fingers while Chrissie twists and
squirms on the bed beneath them. Ringell
will watch out for her, he tells himself when the Centraxian princess cups
his scrotum and drives his shaft up into Chrissie’s trim belly. And so will Arné… With that thought he
returns to the task at hand and begins licking both girls’ tongues inside Crystal’s
open, quietly moaning, ever so sweet little mouth.
A single last
glance at the flashbulb-lit scene reveals Racheal’s riveting upturned face through
an orgiastic crew of allies and strangers. The sight of her wide open eyes staring
directly into his while she moans and twists in manifold hands is weirdly
arousing and petrifying. Actinic afterimages of his Lady Racheal’s enraptured expression
thrum through his mind with stroboscopic intensity even as Crystal fucks
herself with his suddenly immobile rigidity; even when the teenage mage regains
enough presence of mind and body to kiss one comely girl while screwing the
other; even while each teen takes turns fucking the other with his rampant
staff; even as he caresses a breast of each girl while they stroke and suck and
stoke each other to mind blowing climax, again and again, while he mounts them
with satyric glee – even, especially, when he comes inside the screaming, madly
gyrating body of Princess Moonshine, Racheal’s gloating, red-rimmed eyes continue
to fill his vision.
It’s as if
they’re all one fucking feline female in multiple forms. He comes inside her, and
inside her, and inside her, in varied permutations and positions while the party
slowly thins out in ember-lit darkness. But each time it’s Racheal’s trim belly he fills with hot white jets of fertile jism –
every time he hears her scream out another mind-blown orgasm from the other end
of the longhall in the arms of yet another stranger or tribal sister or brother
or other, it’s Racheal he feels
convulsing beneath and around him.
His Lady’s
cries only fade with his dimming awareness when his mind slips away in the gathering
dark.
*
A True Story
- R. A.
Continues…
Images – Author’s
+ I feel the earth move under my feet – lyrics by Carol
King (Copyright)
Further
true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
\
Sex & Drugs & Rock ’n’
Roll 28 – Tit for Tat
AND
And for
further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
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comment – and thanks for reading this far…
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↧
Sandy, Beached, Riding Trip
↧
After Noon, Delight: Shaman of Centraxis 28
Shaman of Centraxis 28
*
“So
good,” she says before her eyes prise open, “…even better’n… than…”
“Practice sex?” her boyfriend suggests. Natasha tongues liquid
saltiness that drips from her nostrils and dribbles from her lips and chin in
sticky, torpid runnels. Her sozzled mind riffles through blurring lexicons
while unfocused hazel eyes prise open into rays of slanting sunlight.
“Better than being…” He almost says, “rudely interrupted by
your brother?” but stops himself, unwilling to remind the breathless girl of
her intrusive sibling. She attempts a frown and continues as though she hasn’t
heard him; “...than the firs’ time… first time y’made me come…” Her eyes drift
to his. “…back at camp… ’member?”
“Every moment,” he avers, watching her eyes blink open;
making an effort not to slur his words in drunken mimicry of the gorgeous
girl’s mumbles while he admires the smooth, angular perfection of her aristocratic
features. “Random access memory,” he reminds her while childhood recollections heave
and toss like the roiling sea nearby. “But that wasn’t like… this…”
Natasha attempts to heave herself up on one elbow but abandons
the effort and subsides into the sand, still pressed partway beneath his
sand-studded flesh. “Ev’ry moment? Everything?”
“Everything.” Ram’s body freezes with this bold
declaration. His mind is suddenly impaled by recurrent images of a little girl
falling away into darkness –long blonde tresses and duck blue cotton skirt
waving goodbye as her mouth opens into a scream. Natasha shades her eyes with
upraised forearm and licks the last of his offering from her lips. “I bet
y’don’t ’member being born.”
He’s glad of the distraction; “How much?”
She sniffles to clear her nose and glances down at their
interlinked nakedness. “How much y’have on you?” Her eyes linger at the place
where her hand grips his already rehardening shaft. She drops the meaty tube
onto her belly and pulls at the band of her bikini briefs to stretch sandy material
away from their loins.
“Same as you.”
“Don’ be too sure. Y’never know what a woman’s hiding
away…”
“I know a way to find out,” he whispers. He grabs the knee
that lolls on his hip, hoists her leg upward and rolls closer - unerringly
meeting her juicy labia and squeezing halfway inside her tight threshold in a
single smooth motion. When she gasps and scrunches closer he fills her to the
brim with blood-engorged flesh. Her eyes slip backward, then roll and blink
before locking onto his with fixed intensity. He watches her mouth and eyes
form three wide circles and waits, stilled, for her bleary sight to refocus. “See?”
“Mmm… man…” Natasha
moans before composing herself. “ Well?’ she demands with a toss of her mane as
she eases away an inch or two. “D’you remember being born, or not?”
“In this life?
Well…”
“You don’t.” When he eases a little further away, long
nails claw his bum to hold him in place
and she squirms beneath him with a delicious twist. He closes the gap and
embeds himself more firmly inside her.embrace “Mmm… Nasher…”
“Don’ change the subject,” she insists. The tight flex of
her thighs travels all the way up to his deeply buried crown as soft, firm,
slender legs slide round his torso.
“Oh, babe… doing this
is pretty close to the subject…” He settles into the cradle of her hips and
holds his weight above her sun-pinked breasts while he whispers down into her
parted lips; “Uh… to tell you the truth, my first solid memory – in this life - is a couple of seconds
later.”
“Oh?” she says, flicking a sandy fingertip against his
navel. What, when they cut yer cord?”
“Around then. It was the smell of the doctor’s aftershave
– I think that’s what brought me around… getting a whiff of that chemical burn while
he was holding me upside-down in front of him. Or maybe when he slapped me on
the bum – it all sort of happened at the same time.”
“Sure… course it did.” He ignores the doubtful jibe. “He
had thick black frames on his thick lensed glasses – they distorted his watery
eyes, made him look like a fish. They looked huge. I could only see half his
face, above the green gown and mask. He was sweaty and reeked of alcohol – aftershave,
he wasn’t an alco…”
“You reckon I’m an alco?” she asks. “Wish there was more… there’s
still some hash…”
“And there’s more of this…”
He shows her how much, pleasantly surprising her into silence as her gaze weaves
downward along his body. He sweeps their hair from her face and slowly glides
back and forth while staring down into her glazing eyes. She succumbs to the
gradual tidal motion, rocking and rolling her pelvis round his probing
hardness. “Don’t change the subject,” she breathes through a crooked grin.
“No… I don’t reckon you’re an alcoholic…”
“Not that…” She
slaps his bum and a seagull leaps from the esky at the loud report of skin on
skin, flapping aloft to join hovering colleagues that ride the wind like hungry
kites. He judders into her with unintended force and she cries out when he jabs
up into her cervix.
“Sorry…”
“Unghh…”
“…Uh… we could have another pipe…”
“Ohhh… mmm… not… now… juss like that… don’
move…” Her lips are far sweeter than wine, more intoxicating than hashish. His
eyes slip shut while he savours sweet bliss and tastes the inebriating
fragrances infused in her breath. The sensation
of her shifting beneath and around him is utterly absorbing. Her sighs waft
their hair from his face as she slides, grinds and bumps in the sand. He
watches her eyes suddenly snap open and she struggles to push him up off her
breasts. “Oh fuck,” she says, “you came!”
“Not in you… I mean…”
“But there’s prob’ly still sperm in you!” She twists aside
and extrudes him with unexpected strength and he flops from her tight wet heat
before he can match her movement. “God, hope I sucked it all out of you…”
Natasha rolls back onto the blanket and covers her precociously magnificent breasts
with the thin cloth of her bikini top. She starts to fumble with its ties while
she glances around the empty beach, but can’t manage to tie the strings into a
bow while she sways on the sand. She gives up the attempt when she’s certain
they’re still quite alone. He watches the cloth peel from her oily skin and
flop into her lap and caresses her knee while she inspects her thighs and pubes
for sign of semen. “Let’s have that pipe,” she announces, avoiding the glance
he casts toward her.
God she’s beautiful…
The twin barrelled compass of her sight slides to his pole.
“I think we’re okay,” she says through a strangely shy smile as she stretches
her briefs back into place, completely concealing her freshly trimmed pubic
hair. Perspiration dews the ultrafine down that graces her cheeks, her neck and
her high smooth brow. Her catlike eyes shimmer in sunlight and carefully
manicured nails draw oily trails along her sandy flank. Every detail of her perfectly
sultry being is magnified by his passion. “An’ you’re still so hard…”
When an index finger slides up his length from scrotum to
cap his erection jerks against her palm. “Issat painful?” He considers respinning
the old yarn about how dangerous and painful it can be for an aroused male not
to come, then sees laughter dancing in her eyes. She looks away and he follows
her gaze, seeing the crest of a foaming wave unroll beyond her gleaming
shoulder. The swell pours in from the far horizon and majestically, slowly,
progressively smashes itself to foamy oblivion on the endless shore of their
private world. The sunshine is blindingly brilliant and basting even in
mid-afternoon.
Black rocks glitter in dazzling sunlight. A few yards from
their sheltered nook an unfelt breeze swirls eddies of fine grit along a bare
patch of sand while Natasha rummages through her bag for the small briquette of
exotic Himalayan cannabis resin. Her scent is a compelling mix of coconut and
slippery sex; her breasts are even more distracting, and he reaches for his
camera while she retrieves the pipe from a drift of sand.
“Uh…” she begins when she notices he’s aiming the wide angle
lens at her. He presses the button and her startled expression is momentarily
occluded when the shutter snaps open and shut. A slender, down-dusted forearm
rises to cover her breasts while she crumbles resin into the diminutive bowl of
the pipe. “Wish you wouldn’t. What if…”
“Honey… you’re just so beautiful. It’d be a crime not
too.” He watches dimples appear on either side of the bow of her curving lips.
“Uh…” she looks down past her breasts and her smile widens
at the sight of his enduring hardness. “Only if I c’n take some of you,
too.” The intensity of her regard almost
makes him reach for a towel to drape over his erection, but he decides to stay
firmly, proudly naked before his alluring girl. He still hopes to tease the
last vestiges of cloth from her slick near-nude body. “Sure…” He holds the
camera out to her; “Now? I’ll set it for you…”
“In juss a minute… after a smoke…” As she lifts both arms
to light up he snaps another rapidly refocused shot. “Not while’m toking!” she hisses through a bluish
cloud. “Ah,” he says, “but you could be toking on anything – even red clover…” She
frowns and mumbles round the pipestem; “So wass the nex’ thing ’at happened?”
His mind swirls for a moment before he deduces her meaning; the swell of her
ribcage and the way her breasts point even higher when she inhales is
thoroughly distracting.
“My mother’s eyes – a little while later, after a blinding
flash and a feeling like bursting from underwater up into air. Everything was
shimmering golden amber, and I saw a pair of whirlpools appear in the midst of a
gently swirling, pulsating glow…”
“Whirlpools?” Natasha’s sight is riveted to his, through
rapidly dissipating smoke which wafts away along the beach in a discrete little
cloud. Memory superimposes itself upon her beautiful visage as he slowly raises
the camera.
“Spinning whirlpools - completely hypnotic, holding my
gaze. While I watched they slowly changed into a pair of eyes – my mother’s
eyes – staring down at me; into me.
And then her face slowly took shape around those eyes, and…” Natasha bursts
into a coughing fit and hands him the pipe.
“Sorry,” she sputters, “what a waste…”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Finish the story first,” she insists, peering at him
through reddened eyes.
“That’d take forever – what do you want, my whole life
from go to whoa? I remember it all…”
“To whoa? Yer not dead yet, man!” She tilts her head to
one side, her expression unreadable as her eyes twinkle and glisten. “Come on –
y’can’t remember everything. What
about your dreams?”
“Most of ’em,” he replies, lighting the pipe with a match
that blows out before the bowl ignites. “Particularly the ones about you.” He
lights it on the second try and fills his lungs with smoke.
“I can just imagine…”
“You ever dream about me?”
In reply she leans back, throws her perfect bosom in his
direction and sings a short stretch of a Monkees ditty with a surprisingly loud
yet sweet lilting voice; “Oh what can it mean to a daydream believer and a
homecoming queen…”
His brow furrows. “Cheer up Sleepy Jean?”
“Alla time,” she says and her hair whips around her face
as she shakes her head from side to side, hiding any clue that might define her
meaning. He takes the opportunity to snap another shot while the dizzied girl
tries to brush sand from her oily body and stares around askance to check anew
for visitors. “So, Mister Randomly Accessed Mammaries – is there anything you don’’member?”
“Uh… I don’t know – I don’t remember.”
“Ha fuckin’ ha. Come on…” She reaches for the pipe and he
taps the bowl out against his bare heel before handing it over. When their
fingers touch and begin to entwine his inner sight drifts through his earliest
years, following the weft and warp of his life’s meanderings. The panoply of
imagery grinds to a halt and his memories revolve around the vision of a toy
xylophone and a falling, screaming girl – an image that freezes the breath in
his smoky lungs.
“Hand it over,” Natasha insists.
“Okay,” he says without realising she’s referring to the
pipe he still clutches so tightly. He barely notices her beautiful face and
stares straight through her exemplary body to a far horizon while she removes
the stem from his slackening grip. “There is
something I don’t remember…”
“Oh?” she says as she refills the bowl.
“One thing… I don’t recall all of my third birthday…”
“Um,” she says, reaching for the wooden matchbox. “Did
y’have a party?”
“Of course,” he answers, staring straight through her.
“With lots of other kids and a big blue icecream cake that had an icecream
steamship floating on it – but the cake half melted before the party and the
ship was sinking into the cake when mu… my mother lit the candles.”
“So y’ do
remember…”
“No; not all of it. Not everything that happened after the party.”
“Far out; why – were y’drunk?”
“Ha ha. Only on icecream.”
“Wish we had some of that ship right now.” At her mention
he espies a distant steel-blue steamer cruising just over her shoulder near the
horizon, uncannily like the one on his birthday cake. The synchronicity is
momentarily stunning. “We could go for a cruise,” she suggests. The idea seems hilariously
outlandish and his smile threatens to break into stoned laughter until he
realises she’s serious. “I’m so hot,” she says, fanning her breasts with one
hand while taking the pipe from him with the other; “even a lifeboat’d do.”
“You’re a hot chick all right,” the hippy replies through
a dense bluish cloud. He’s surprised to see the blush that flushes up along the
nearly naked girl’s breasts, throat and cheeks, further reddening her slightly
sunburned white skin.
“So what don’t
you r’member then?”
“There was a girl…”
“Typical.”
“A little blonde girl – she gave me a xylophone as a
present, and when it was time for her to leave she came up to my bedroom...”
“Whoo!”
“Hey, we were both only three… and… uh…”
Nasher leans closer and blows smoke into his face. “What?”
she asks, obviously brimming over with salacious expectancy. “She taught you how
t’play?”
“I don’t remember.” Natasha leans back and taps out the
pipe while she watches his cock slowly begin to soften and fall; “What don’ you remember?” His mind skirts
away from a ball of darkness that roils beyond a frayed turquoise quilt where his
three year-old self cowers in abject terror – and settles on another unsettling
detail embedded in those same distant months. “Um… My bedroom had a balcony
that was lined with chicken wire.”
The change of subject goes unnoticed as Nasher combs
tangles from her luxuriant hair with sandy oiled fingers. “Chicken wire?”
“To stop me from climbing up the wrought iron railing –and
falling off.”
“Must’ve looked pretty ugly,” she says with a frown. He
doesn’t want to tell her that his family’s first home had been nothing like
Natasha’s palatial abode – had in fact been a shabby, narrow little rented two
bedroom terrace, firmly embedded in a row of identical working class dwellings;
hardly a slum, but nothing to impress the beautiful well-heeled girl whose body
glows with enticing vitality - her smoky champagne breath washing over him from
less than an arm’s length away. “It was like that before we moved there – the
previous family lost their son. A three year-old boy… he fell off the railing
and impaled himself on spikes between the fleurs-de-lis on the front garden fence.”
“Wow!” Nasher’s hand lands on his knee and slides up his sandy
thigh, bringing him back to the present. “Bummer.” Her eyes gleam with
turquoise fire as she leans toward him and removes the camera from his
slackening grip. “Did you ever see his ghost or anything?”
“Sort of…” he says through a suddenly dry throat. “Uh…
need something to drink…”
“Drink this,” she insists, and jams her tongue inside his
mouth while pushing him down. Her skin is an irresistibly enflaming lure as
they roll onto the blanket, immersed in the bliss of a suckling kiss. Slim
slippery thighs slip along his flanks and an equally firm pair of nubile
breasts slide across his hairless chest and fall into his waiting hands. She squats
above him and spreads her thighs until their sex almost meets; her
cloth-covered heat hovers just beyond the straining tip of his instantly rekindled
erection. She holds him at bay with an unremitting fist and rubs herself with
his crown while tongues and breaths entwine.
She comes up for air and a trio of gulls wheels above her
glorious face in a cloudless expanse of aquamarine. “Maybe I left one of dad’s
flasks in the van…” She kneels higher astride him and her eyes wander in the
direction of the distant car park. He fondles her fulsome globes and is swiftly
rewarded with the answering swell of hardening nipples and quickening gasps of
breast-raising breath. “We can check before it gets dark,” he suggests,
attempting to draw her back into afternoon’s delight.
“Less find a place to camp on the beach f’r the night,” she
says, peering onshore behind him, “instead of the car park. Maybe behind those
rocks.” The sight of her glorious form rearing above him rekindles yet another
series of flagrant memories.
“There’s something I want… always wanted… to ask you...”
He pauses, wondering how to word his inquiry while her inner thighs slide
against his midriff. “Back at the camp, when we were in the tent together and
all the other girls started chanting…”
A seagull squawks and suddenly springs aloft from a nearby
declivity, its presence unseen and entirely unsuspected until it starts
flapping in the salty air. Natasha’s hands fly to her breasts and cover his
grasp as she flings herself down upon him. “Someone’s coming…”
“Someone’s coming Lord, Kumbia?”
“Shh!” A pair of long sticks festooned with fishing lines emerges
from the dunes, bobbing and swaying in slanting sunlight, soon followed by a
pair of floppy fishermen’s hats. Natasha ducks closer as bearded, sun-wrinkled heads
appear in profile against the startlingly blue sky.
Sumptuous breasts press deliciously
close and his hardness pulses up between their squeezing bellies. Long auburn
hair surrounds his face as the full smooth length of her well-oiled skin
presses and slides against his. He hears the squeaky slide of passing feet in
the powdery sand, feels his girlfriend’s heart race beside his, smells her
fragrance mingled with coconut, alcohol and spicy hashish. His hands slip free
to caress her flanks and skid beneath her bikini pants.
As the footfalls retreat Natasha’s slippery little body
slides downward, hard nipples trailing twin paths down his torso while the
luxuriant veil of her silky hair cascades down his face. “Are they gone?” she
whispers, and her breath bathes his shaft with a tantalising breeze. “Aye,” he replies
without even bothering to check as the squeaking sounds fade into booming surf.
Time slips, slows, stops and suddenly scintillates when a
slippery tongue slathers round his crown.
He groans
and screams and comes and creams as she gulps and swallows and strokes his triune balls and washboard
belly with wondrously teasing hands. Waves smash against sand as spume jets and
bursts down her throat in gouts of spicy liquid maleness. “Ulp, umm,” she mumbles, swallowing gulps as she pulls away licking
the creamy overflow from her delectable lips. “Wow… thassa bombora.”
Her young mate is too dumbstruck to reply. “You know,” she
continues, “a little tidal wave… like
some’f those waves out there…” She points at the breakers and smiles. “Tastes
so good… want s’more.” She grabs her glass and drains the last droplets, then
lowers her head to his groin again, long hair shimmering; a dark waterfall concealing
her face and hands.
O fuck… His mind reels while his eager
girlfriend suckles. O wow… His eyes
slide open to witness the emblazoning image of the beautiful girl of his dreams
- perfect little mouth stretched tautly round his girth through dark veils of
hair, lost in her own private reverie as she lustfully savours the tastes and
rhythms of a mouthful of salty cock. O aye,
my princess, like that…
“You do that so well,” he breathes aloud. It’s hard to believe she never did this
before yesterday… His mind mumbles below the sensation-lit peak of tactile
awareness as he lies back in hot sunbaked sand and surrenders to serious sensuous
ecstasy.
A nearby squawk distracts him enough to slit his eyes
against the glare. He sees the inevitable gull wheel up from a grass strewn
hummock, where a bluish lump resolves into a floppy hat that ducks out of sight
just as he spots it. He ponders alerting Natasha for all of half a second
before closing his eyes, and studiously ignores nearby sounds of startled
seagulls and squeaking sand until there’s nothing left of the world except her
liquid mouth and soft, flexible, dextrous fingers.
“Sometimes
the urge to write it all down is irresistible…”
“Write what down?” Natasha has discarded her bikini top
and her pert breasts point pinkly skyward as she lies beside him on the blanket.
Cascades of dark hair shade her freckly face from blistering bright sunlight
and a small oily hand rests on his slightly furry thigh as he idly scans the
nearby dunes for fresh sign of voyeur or interloper.
“All this! Like taking a picture of you,” he explains,
nodding at the 35mm SLR. “All these wild experiences ought to be recorded – be
written down in a journal or something…” He leans back watching the
tide-turning cycles of quivering water while he strokes her slim body with a
sandy hand. The waves roll in from the horizon, rewrite transient messages on
the shoreline in foaming wakes before slipping away on never-ending journeys,
echoing and re-echoing around the globe.
“For posterity? Or to mull over when you’re sitting in
your rocking chair with a shawl over your knees?” Natasha laughs, continuing swiftly
before he can react; “Or for you to jerk off over, maybe?” Her hand rides up
his thigh and cups his half-hard, sun warmed cock through the thin material of the
tiny borrowed swimming costume.
It’s obvious she’s half pissed and saying the first thing
that enters her provocative mind – so he does the same. “No,” he says with a
smile. “That’s what you’re here for,
woman She refuses to rise to the bait, merely squeezing him and holding more
tightly to make him stiffen in her pulsing grasp. “How could you write everything down, anyway? You’d make a
lot of enemies that way, for one thing...”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Everyone has things in their life they
don’t want anyone to know about - and you can bet that those would be the most
interesting things they could record. There are probably things you wouldn’t want anyone to know about
you…” The young shaman watches the bright young teen for any reaction but she remains
warmly relaxed beneath his caress, eyes shuttered against the sunlight while
she explores his penis with inquisitive fingers. When she starts stroking his
cock more energetically his palm cups her right breast and stops its fluidic
roaming across her chest. More than a
handful… just like the rest of her…“…and I’m sure they’re very interesting.” Natasha’s fingers knead
the length of his ever-ready erection while he slides his hand from her
hardening nipple, glides it across her slippery coconut-oiled sternum and
climbs to the peak of her other breast.
“Me? I’m jus’ a normal
girl who goes t’school and does her homework an’ piano lessons - and I go to
Temple almost every Shabbas. This’s the first’ time…” Natasha laughs at
herself, “the first time I’ve done
anything I wanted to in ages. It’s the holidays and mum and dad’r away for a
change, or I’d be lying by the pool right now instead’f enjoying the real world and this bright blue sky with
th’ breeze on my skin – an’ enjoying you stroking my tits, darling. Enjoying it so much.” Her hash and
champagne-affected eyes attempt to flicker completely open but instantly close
against the glare. “Normally nothing interestin’ ever happens to me. Nothing
interesting ’nough to write down - ’cept this, an’ I wouldn’ write this down!” She strokes his length at a
faster pace and blows a breeze across his crown.
“Oh, Nasher…” He
stops himself from asking “Why not?’ and succumbs to indelible pleasure. “All
you have to do is step outside your door, outside your comfort zone…” he begins
instead. She stops and sits upright before him.
“Like – would you
write this down?” Natasha successfully opens her intoxicated eyes and squints
up at his wide grin in the shade of a raised forearm. “I know I would, maybe…” she continues before he
can reply, “but who could I let read it – aside from you, maybe?”
“You can’t be expected
to let people read your diary…”
“Until after I’m dead, that’s for sure! I guess you could write it down, though. Up to you.”
He loves the way her breasts jiggle when she shrugs. “Who’d want to read it
anyway? Everyone always lives in fas’nating times and hardly anyone reads anymore. So it’d be fine to write
it all down ’cept for one thing…” Ram’s left eyebrow rises quizzically. He
watches her whet her lips while he recommences massaging an unavoidably
alluring breast. “We could be carted off t’ reform school for making love
together, or be charged with being exposed to moral danger or something, jus’
being here drunk ’n’ naked like this. And you couldn’ write about the hash,
either, or we c’d go to jail for years. Bein’ smart enough to write stuff down
doesn’t mean you’re actually intelligent. You have to be careful in this world
– anything can happen.”
“Even good things,” the idealist concurs. “Like being here
with you.”
“Y’know where flattery’ll get you.”.”
“You can tell it’s true by the lie detector in your hand.
It never lies.”
“That’s not true – I’ve seen it lie down a coupla times.”
She winks and gives him a squeeze that he instantly reciprocates, filling his
hand with ripe teat. “Mmm…” they hum in unison. “Ready for a swim yet?” she
asks.
“Maybe I’ll be insane enough after we have some more hash.”
“You tripper,” she smiles. “Go on then, open it and we’ll
get totally smashed. I’m sure there’s some whiskey in the van, too – for
emergencies.” Ram’yana reluctantly releases her flesh and leans across to open
the esky. His sudden movement makes his swimmers snap up over his hardness. The
usual gaggle of furtive seagulls launches into the air to hover, screaming
‘Mine!’ while he pulls a small brown block from her bag.
.
He begins to unwrap the foil while Natasha unpeels the
elasticised swimming trunks back over his erection. “Don’t you know that
getting into trouble for writing things down is in my blood?” he asks as he nips
a piece of resin off with a long thumbnail. Nasher looks up at him and her
mouth lolls open, tongue poised an inch from his cock. She shakes her head
before commencing to lick the full length clean of their orgasmic juices. “Oh,
princess,” he moans as he tries to concentrate on filling the pipe’s small bowl.
“You were saying?” She engulfs the head of his shaft with
the tight torrid heat of her mouth before he can reply. It takes almost half a
minute before the endlessly unreeling scroll of his primate mind manoeuvres its
way back into control of his larynx. “Never mind,” he says. Her lips slip back over
his glans, leaving him high and dry.
“Really,” Natasha insists, taking the pipe and holding it up between them. “I wan’ t’ know. Can’t you
talk an’ receive fellatio at the same time?”
“No-one’s ever asked me to before – it seems a little
rude.” He reaches for the matchbox. “Health, wealth, happiness and love!”
“Go on – oh, sorry; health, wealth, happiness and love!
Can’t you jus’ act aloof and uncaring an’ keep talking to cover the fact you’re
a young teenager who doesn’t know what t’ do in life – or with a girl for that
matter - like most guys? You can do it if y’ try – I’ve seen you.”
“That was a long time ago…”
“Remember when I sucked you off under the trestle table
when we were havin’ frishtik that time an’ you kept talking to Joe and Leo through,
well, most of it anyway?” He lights the pipe and starts puffing it into life,
then quickly passes it over. “All right,” he admits while she takes a long pull
- before swallowing his crown back into the silken enfoldment of her taut
little mouth and wrapping her small hands around him. “You have me there, ahh –
but it was only to stop anyone noticing - hng... uhh… What was the question
again?”
Natasha doesn’t take a break in her lusty ministrations
and the lad moans for a few solid minutes before his train of thought climbs
back onto its tracks. “Mm, oh, honey…” He pulls Natasha’s long enshrouding hair
away from her face and her faintly bloodshot eyes snap upward to meet his rapt
gaze. The sight of her beautiful face suckling at his engorgement, waiting for
him to continue, is a wonder matched only by the feel of her young flesh
kneading and sucking his rigid sex, and squirming to meet his roaming
oil-swathed palms. Ram’s fingers massage her firm, well-muscled body from her
toes to the point where his cock meets her lips as he tries to focus on the
words streaming from his mouth.
*
A true story
*
Continues…
- R.A.
Images – author’s (click to enlarge)
Further
true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -
Shaman of Centraxis Part 4 - To
Infinity and Beyond
Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living
Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way
Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden
Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders
Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games
Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living
Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way
Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden
Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders
Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games
Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
AND
Latest – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
And see
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
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Commons Copyright– reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you
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If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and
thanks for reading this far…
From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
↧
Touching Reunion, Forest Fun, Heart Cavern
↧
↧
Arrival, Mountain Maid, Crystal Vision
↧
Adaptation: Wild Life 14
Adaptation
Wild Life 14
The Sun was high in the sky when they awoke in twinned
tangles late the next
morn. Both couples staggered naked into the new day from their shadowy, half-flooded
boudoir and slowly made their way toward the banks of the overflowing stream.
They variously paused to piss and blink, murmur and drink in the dazzling
daylight, exposing soft city skins to the blazing sunlight while currawongs regaled
them with pentatonic love songs.
The river had risen appreciably
overnight. Washing and preening amidst the strong currents without being bowled
over was a challenge to the hungover hippies. Ona and Reema both retained the
presence of mind to bring toothbrushes and towels along (unlike their
boyfriends). They said barely a word as they scrubbed the sticky caked detritus
of the night’s sweaty strivings from lover’s bodies in the turbid water.
When they’d been cleansed by their
mates the men sat on the bank, content to watch the day unfold around the focal
points of their girlfriends laving water over supple female bodies in the
rising heat. “You don’t know what’s about to happen to you here in Oz,” Mark
confided to his guide while they watched the girls washing and brushing.
Ram’yana looked askance at the smiling German tourist while he explained
further; “Everything’s about to change between the sexes – nothing will be the
same as it was for our fathers ever again. Believe me. It’s already happened in
Europe and coming here is like stepping back ten years and watching it all
happen again.”
“Watching what happen? Equality
between the sexes? It’s about time!”
“Ah, but when women become equal they
are the ones who end up running the show. They decide everything anyway...” He
winked at Ona, who waggled her bum in reply. Plashing water concealed his words
from the young women. “It’s not so bad actually when you get used to it – and
the women are much better in bed now, much more fun; so some older men tell me.
But it’s a very lonely world for guys who don’t get it. It’s going to be a real
shock to a lot of old-style people.” He regarded Ram’yana with a serious
expression. “But I think you get it. You’ll probably be okay when you see that
women have all the real power now.”
“You know, people used to say the
world would be a better place if it was run by women,” said Ram. “You’d hear it
all the time, right up until Maggot Hatcher was elected in Britain – Margaret
Thatcher,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, she was brutal, but any
woman who makes it to the top in a patriarchal system has to be at least as bad
as the men she competes with,” Mark said as he tossed a stone into the centre
of the stream.
“That’s what feminists say about
her, too. But you don’t hear much about how good it would be with women running
everything any more. I think equality is better, and that’s what everyone
really wants.”
“Ya, but when women are equal
they’re automatically superior.” They both turned to watch the girls, who were
standing shin-deep in the flow and beginning to paint patterns onto each other’s
faces and trim naked bodies, using russet ochre from the bed of the creek. “You
see? They can’t help it. Look at them. They’re just superior…”
Caked, cracked ochre was peeling
from Ona’s and Reema’s suntanned skins in a blast of approaching noonday heat
by the time they returned to Grey’s half-built house. Partying the last hour of
morning away with their amicable host was inevitable. “The creek’s going down -
you should be able to make it back across by noon,” he assured them. “But stay
as long as you want, guys. There’s plenty more local produce on this side of
the river!”
Midday arrived with the sweltering
blast of a summery scorcher and they all happily elected to wait another hour
before giving the crossing a try. They sallied forth when the flow had subsided
enough to make an attempt that wasn’t an outright act of suicidal bravado. By
the time they were settled into the Nexusmobile all the travellers were baked
in more ways than one.
The riverbed was invisible beneath
swirling currents of soil-rich water and the crossing seemed more than a little
wider as they rolled toward the place where the twin muddy trails of the
driveway disappeared into turgid murk. Grey stood on the bank in a Balinese
sarong and directed them onto a better course than the driver would have
chosen. Nonetheless, the van floundered and wallowed midstream once again,
threatening to capsize or be swept away. “Oh, shit!” Ona cried from the back she
waved to Grey. A crazed leer accentuated her high boned Scandinavian features while
Mark’s eyes grew as large as duck’s eggs..
“It’s okay,” Ree assured the
tourists while small waves battered her passenger door. “We have enough
clearance.” The van wallowed midstream, almost lifting from the bed as it
rocked and swayed in shifting currents. She turned to Ram’yana, who manhandled
the steering wheel and gearshift with both eyes riveted to the far bank. “Doesn’t
it?”
“Maybe too much…” The van swam
like a dolphin, diving and bucking through the deepest hole yet, wheels
bouncing from the uneven bed while the passengers clung to the nearest handhold.
But the worst aspect of the crossing was unfelt and invisible. Beneath the seat
of the clench-teethed driver the van’s radiator was slashed open by the plastic
cooling fan, which deformed with water pressure when the vehicle half floated
through a scarily deep pool. The radiator emptied almost instantly without any noticeable
sign while the vehicle’s tyres struggled for traction. They barely made it back
across.
When they reached the far bank and
drove across muddy cow pasture to the unpaved road the temperature gauge indicated
no problem whatsoever, and they all breathed smoky sighs of celebration and relief.
They trundled along the winding dirt road that led back toward ‘civilisation’
unaware of any problem, singing along with the cassette player and emptying
more of Ram’s travelling stash.
Perhaps the odour of burning oil
ought to have alerted the driver as they approached the nearest tiny town,
thirty klicks distant, but he’d spilled a little fluid on the engine when he
topped up that morning and thought nothing of it. The tape deck filled his ears
with Ree’s choice of Annie Lennox compilations and the couples were in high
happy spirits as they wended their way through picturesque vales past forested
riverbanks.
After thinning stands of battered
trees gave way to grassy fenced fields and overgrazed paddocks they reached the
little logging village and pulled up to the kerb outside the service station on
the main street. Just as they pulled over a terrific caterwauling erupted from
nowhere and everywhere, stunning the party into silence.
The Nexusmobile stopped with the same
hideous metal-rending squeal and noxious eruptions the Sydney Harbour Bridge
would make if it unexpectedly fell onto an oil tanker. Noxious gouts of greasy
black smoke enveloped the vehicle’s shuddering body and all four clambered from
the doors coughing and choking. They fled the foul cloud that billowed across
the wide street to besmirch the police station.
The village was a strip of old
wooden clapboard shops fronted by wide verandas. That they’d broken down
directly outside the only garage for miles seemed particularly fortunate - at
first. When it became obvious that the van’s problem was probably severe the
hitchhikers somewhat sadly bid their host and hostess a warm adieu and thumbed
their way off toward the coast while a scrum of backwoods mechanics poked
around the smoking body of the Nexusmobile and perused the damage with dollar
signs for eyes.
The prognosis wasn’t pleasant; it
would be days before they were mobile again. Reema suggested they go back to
Grey’s place for the duration. They crossed the road to the only public phone
in town, hoping the heavy rain hadn’t cut off Grey’s line. When he finally
answered after Ree’s first fruitless attempt the isolated hippy said he’d be
glad of the company for a few more days and – after picking them up from town
and ferrying them across the river with sundry supplies – made them heartily
welcome again.
“I hope Zsuzsi gets in contact
soon,” Grey said between pulls on the helmeted head of his Ned Kelly bong when
they’d settled into the converted sunroom kitchen. “I have to tell her about
her cat.”
“You mean Bast?” Ram’yana well
remembered Zsuzsi’s Siamese; two of her kittens awaited him back home in the
Emerald City. “What about her?”
“Yep. She left her here with me
when she and Ricco had to split,” Grey sputtered through a cloudy stream of
cremated bush buds. “But she came on heat and ran away into the bush. Haven’t
seen her since.”
“She loves that cat. I’m surprised
she didn’t take her.”
“She couldn’t – not overseas on a
holiday – and when she went on heat…”
“You can’t control a Siamese on
heat,” Ram’yana commiserated.
“Or a Japanese,” Reema assured
them. Her jest was rewarded with a disconcerted frown from Grey and an annoyed
expression from her lover. “Come on,” she said, “you know what she was like
when she lived with you...”Ram’s brow furrowed further,
approaching a glower. “I don’t like to discuss my lovers with others.”
“With other lovers, or others in particular?”
she asked with a grin and a sidelong stare at Grey – who looked out the window
and made himself busy shelling pecan nuts. “Come on - we all know what she’s
like. I just want to know what she likes…”
“She likes her little Bast more
than anything in the world,” Ram told Reema as her fingers combed through her
tangled tresses. She smiled. “Not anything,
surely? What about boys… and girls? Didn’t she share a bed with you and Fae for
years? What was that like?”
“I might start cooking dinner,”
Grey announced and hastily fled for the kitchen before Ram could reply. “Come
on –you can tell me,” Ree persevered.
“I heard what she sounded like when you were fucking her. Everyone did. She
screamed like a banshee. She must get it on with girls, too - she must have, when you were all fucking
each other. What was it like having those two gorgeous wild creatures at once,
every night?”
Ram’s glared was offset by the
hint of a wistful smile. “If you must know, they usually took it in turns.”
“Ho ho!” laughed Ree. “A different
one every night, eh?”
“No – they’d swap each time, every
night. All night, or until one of them passed out, usually.” Reema’s hand began
stroking his leg. “How gallant of you to stop when they fell asleep. Usually.
But surely you all did it together, too?”
“Only when Fae felt like it.” He
chose not to mention that he and Racheal had made love with Fae almost every
night when they all shared a home and bed.
“So you did all do it together –
and Fae was your number one wife, not Zsuzsi?” Her fingers reached his inner
thigh as her lips approached his mouth. “I’d like to meet her one day.”
“I don’t number my mates.”
“Just as well or you’d lose
count.” Her lips hovered an inch away and her eyes locked with Ram’s indulgent
frown. Spry fingertips began stroking his hardening manhood through slim cotton
trousers. “What number would I be, I wonder?”
“Whomsoever I’m with is always the
only one,” he said. Just before their lips met Reema replied; “Charmed, I’m
sure. Now tell me more… in a minute…”
A few days later the mechanics in the little village’s ancient, crumbling converted
wooden smithy finished rebuilding the Nexusmobile’s engine and the lovers began
their drive back to the Emerald City during a promisingly bright moonlit night.
At first nothing seemed amiss, but after less than an hour a strange background
noise suddenly rose in volume. “Sounds bad,” observed Reema.
“Sure does. I’ll pull over…” They
raised the seat, but an inspection of the engine showed nothing obviously
amiss.
“Maybe it’s just the tappets…” Ree
suggested.
“The wrong sound for tappets, I
think. Let’s press on and keep an ear out for trouble.” All the way home to the
comfortable bungalow dubbed Delta House, Ram’yana wondered why the motor was
making such a godawful racket. He stopped to inspect the engine at three
different petrol stations but found nothing obviously amiss except the ongoing
clattering noise somewhere beneath the alloy head.
The Rooster - his usual mechanic
back in the Big Smoke - delivered the bad news, preceded by a question; “How
far did you say you drove it after they changed the head gasket?”
“Oh, about five hundred klicks.”
The mechanic wiped his hands on greasy overalls and rolled his eyes at an
equally greasy offsider. “No way,” he replied. When he saw Ram’s querulous
expression he continued. “Not possible.”
“What? Why not?”
“Whoever butchered your engine did
such a bad job they put some of the parts in upside-down…”
“An’ ’ey left other buts out
completely,” his Kiwi assistant concluded. “No way et made et five hunnerd
kays.”
The battered van, which had
already been deformed by years spent in service to the previous owner (a safe
building company’s solid metal constructions had torn away all the interior
padding and irreparably dented the bodywork) lasted another year. The rebuilt
engine finally gave up the ghost as the beast was put out to pasture, when
there was nothing left to weld together except spreading patches of rust.
It served as a guest bedroom for
itinerant hippies and ferals for a time, slowly subsiding into the block of
land whose title deed Ram’yana ultimately purchased from Ricco (Decades later
the Nexusmobile still resides there, a rusting hulk slowly disappearing into
the black rainforest topsoil, slowly cannibalised by mechanically minded locals
and eventually cut in half to make room for a concrete composting toilet).
A few nights after their return to
the Big Smoke, Ram’yana was staying with Reema at her place near the beach – a
comfortable bungalow surrounded by similar brick boxes ranked in wavy streets
strewn along eroded, denuded hills and the salty, grass-studded sandy banks of
an ancient dried-up estuary; prime real estate. “Have you ever had Andrella?”
she asked, apropos of nothing while he languidly moved within her; “Yet?” she
amended with a smile and a squeeze.
“Uh… Andrella?” he puzzled as he
slowed to a halt between her slick thighs. He’d been brought up to think of
discretion as a hallmark of gentlemanly nobility and, despite varied and
tumultuous experiences, he was still disturbed by the way many women seemed to revel
in gossiping about the most intimate, private
matters.
“You know, the redhead,” Ree said
and began rolling her hips for them both. “That English rose – or Welsh lily,
maybe… mm… I’ve seen you looking at…” He found his rhythm again and interrupted
her with slow deep thrusts. “No…,” he said, “not yet.” Their smiles were
simultaneous and identically wicked.
“Oh yeah…” she breathed, “Mm… I’ve been trying to get into that fair maid’s panties for months now,
mm… a bit like that, yes, oh, oh… but she seems uh… impervious to uh my charms… oh, oh, fuck, oh yes…”
Even as Ree’s mention of Andrella fixed
the redhead’s image in his mind, Ram concentrated on making love with the aggressively
responsive, moaning young woman beneath him - yet it was soon all but
impossible not to imagine he was making willowy, lithe Andrella scream and writhe with undoubtedly genuine passion on the
queen sized bed in the house of Ree’s father, instead of the tumultuously
orgiastic young Reema.
“If you get her,” his vexatiously erudite
and sensual predator fuck buddy said half an hour later when they were sharing
a post-coital smoke, “just let me know and I’ll come over.” She assumed he knew
she was talking about Andrella, as though their earlier conversation had simply
continued, uninterrupted by athletic sex and multiplex orgasms. Naturally, he
did.
“Please don’t put ideas into my
head,” he entreated while stroking her softening nipple. She placed the joint
between his lips and said, “Someone sure needs to. And I just know you’d like to put more than ideas
into that hot little redhead. I certainly would; I surely do. And I’ve seen the way she looks at you, too, when you’re not
watching.” She sucked on the spliff while he exhaled. “Why not give her a call?”
she sputtered. “You never know til you try.”
“Not much chance of that; Andrella’s
hardly ever spoken to me.”
“I know. It’s a real pity. I’ll probably
have to wait months for you to bring her to my bed, unless I can find someone
else who’s up to the task. It’s too hard to get her alone at the Oasis. Or anywhere. They flock around her like flies.”
In the event it took more than a
year. Reema stayed in the city when her shaman lover moved to the bush a few
months later, to plant and tend trees and build a new home while keeping the
magazine going in a small two room shack. He bought the deed to the land where
Zsuzsi had been living with Ricco, in the next valley over from Grey’s place.
He came to the city every couple
of months to see his infant daughter and to arrange printing and distribution
for the magazine, and embarked on three or four more relatively serious serial
relationships. And when his next vehicle eventually succumbed to the rigours of
rural life he had to return to the Big Smoke yet again, to buy yet another new
second-hand Nexusmobile.
Ram’s desperado neighbour C.C.
offered him a lift to the city along with another associate (who was doubtless
in search of higher grade heroin than was available in the remote villages that
serviced these wild men of the bush; the tyranny of distance presented a common
problem for alcoholics, junkies and addicts of most kinds in those ancient
days).
They arrived in the Emerald City
after only two run-ins with the highway patrol. Ram’yana bid the others
farewell and was pleasantly surprised to bump into gorgeous red haired Andrella
only an hour later. He was cruising one of his more usual haunts when a
streaming waterfall of bright orange hair caught his eye. She sashayed toward
him through the crowded venue, willowy hips swaying, her breastbone revealed by
an unfastened bolero jacket. Her gaze was locked to his as she pressed her
glass of red wine into his hand. They broke into effortless conversation and
were soon speaking with heads leaning closely together, their long manes
mingling in amber candlelight.
The shaman’s usual experience was
to bed a girl on the first night he saw her; on rarer occasions the second time
they made acquaintance. This was the second time he’d met the mysterious,
artistic Andrella and he swiftly found the lissom young women utterly
captivating. When she found he had nowhere to stay she immediately invited him
back to her flat.
He didn’t call Reema.
The next morning C.C. phoned
Andrella’s place (he’d somehow sussed where Ram was staying) to offer him a
lift to the nearby Great Dividing Range, where he said he knew of a van for
sale. He announced he’d be around to pick him up in a hire car a couple of
hours later and the newfound lovers took full advantage of the time.
C.C. hired the cheapest transport
available for the journey – a three cylinder belt-driven Russian Lada– with the explanation that his
smacked-out companion needed their other car to sleep in. The Lada was a tinker-toy whose buttons and
handles all snapped off at the lightest touch; strangely, they seemed designed
that way and could easily be snapped back into place.
When they finally arrived at their
destination atop the nearby mountain range, C.C. announced that he had to go inside
and arrange the deal for the van alone. It soon became obvious that Ram’s
neighbour was – unsurprisingly - in pursuit of some heroin after all, and a van
had never been part of his plans; he’d simply been worried about dealing out
large sums of money alone. Ram fumed as he waited outside the nondescript fibro
shack at the end of a sandy road, staring into sparse, burned bushland while
C.C. did his deal. I could still be in
bed with Andrella…
After a surprisingly short
interval C.C. slowly emerged from the door, glassy-eyed and mumbling as he
climbed back into the little toy car. He’d thrashed the Lada so mercilessly when he raced up the mountain that the little
vehicle’s rubber band gear train had stretched; he’d managed to hire an improbable
belt-driven car. They barely made it back to town.
They stuttered along in fits and starts
through masses of weekend traffic. Ram’yana sat silently scrunched into the
passenger seat, wondering if Andrella would be home when they returned. He fixed
his gaze on passing scenery and was soon fuming almost as much as the tiny
two-seat car. C.C. finally dropped him off at Andrella’s apartment block, leaving
in a fuddle of pin-eyed apologies. He promised he wouldn’t call Andrella’s
place again before driving off to his associate, who expectantly awaited a
delivery of opiates in C.C.’s parked hatchback at a nearby vacant lot.
It was all very depressing. Heroin
was rife in the decades following the Vietnam War (essentially an Intelligence
war over control of drug supplies). Most suburbanites barred their windows and
placed security screens across their doorways to stem regular and widespread
burglaries by junkies in search of something to steal and exchange for smack.
Ram’yana was all too accustomed to being confronted by shock troops in the ‘War
on Drugs’ wherever he looked, and tried to put C.C.’s disappointing journey
behind him.
The next day he found the new
Nexusmobile – a diesel powered commercial van covered on all sides with the
worlds ‘Effective Damproofing’ – in an auction yard, and drove back in triumph
to the fey redhead’s door.
He hadn’t told Andrella much about
any of this in the few days they’d been together. It hadn’t seemed necessary.
Now, judging by the expression on her face as she watched him pack his bag, he
never would.
“Remember the genie bottle,” she
said, and handed him the present she’d given him the previous night – an exotic
looking hand painted, gold leaf embossed piece of glassware stoppered with a
cork and sealed with beeswax. He watched the smile that didn’t reach her eyes
and tried to think of some way to breach the palisade she’d hastily erected
between them.
“Don’t open it until it’s time to
release the Djinn,” she said through that crooked little smile.
The last afternoon in town was
reserved for his beautifulfirstborn
child. The three hours he was allowed with the little toddler dispelled any
vexing thoughts of Andrella and Seheal. They went to the park and fed ducks, geese
and swans with the vestiges of a picnic lunch while she enthusiastically
divulged her plans. “I’m gonna be anastic star, and you have to write ‘nastic
star’ on all the labels on all my clothes.”
“Anastic star?”
“No, nastic star!” she said in a tone reserved for all slow, doltish
adults.
“Okay – but what’s a nastic star?
Are you changing your name?”
“You know,” she said as she hurled
a scrap of bread to a small duck struggling at the edge of a quarrelsome gaggle
of geese. “Someone who does nastics really well of course!”
“Of course…” By the time they’d
circled the pond he realised she meant ‘gymnastic star’.
“And so,” he says to a bemused Seheal a few hours later, “now I have to write it on all
her labels instead of her name.” He isn’t sure he should broach the subject of
his daughter (and by implication her mother) with the gorgeous teen, but
decides that discretion has nothing to do with valour and everything to do with
ego.
And survival…and success… an unceasingly
pondering part of him muses as he envies the alluring pink tongue that’s whetting
the astounding redhead’s perfect lips.
“I always wanted to be a gymnastic
star, too,” says her luscious smile as she stands before him, swaying to the
beat of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Her body slides through a thin cotton dress while
she undulates barefoot on polished wooden boards and the bright, warm blessing
of her grin beams down into the open vessel of his frank adoration.
“Relax, don’t do it,
when you want to go through it…”
Somehow her entire body glows, impossibly
yet undeniably. Her skin shines with a lucent gleam that almost blinds him and the
intricate flames of her curling hair seem surrounded by a brilliant nimbus.
He’s certain it isn’t his imagination or a sign of failing eyesight; everything
else around her resplendent form seems completely normal. Yet Seheal is so
brilliantly white that she’s literally phosphorescent in the dingy yellowish
light of her shared subterranean lounge room.
Firm round breasts roll under her
gown and he watches the hypnotic points of faintly pink nipples snag against
the translucent fabric. Breathless and stunned, he reorients his gaze on her glittering
eyes and is pleasantly surprised to watch them rove his body with identically
obvious interest. He inhales a field of fresh pink roses that seems to flow
from the billowing dress and holds his breath lest he break the spell.
Pure magic… The
thought whispers through his astounded mind. Beyond merely human… the numb stream flows on; A Goddess… He hasn’t felt so smitten since… he can’t remember
when.
When Seheal’s eyes meet his he’s
utterly stunned. Sapphires or emeralds?
He can scarcely believe his overwhelmed senses. A gleaming cloud suffuses the
teenager’s extraordinarily beautiful pixyish face. Slender arms and graceful
hands emerge from the short wide sleeves of her virtually sheer and shapeless white
nightgown. Limber white legs and pale dainty feet flow and glow from the
flowering hem, and all of her perfectly gracile form is aglow with an eerie fey
light. A bluish whiteness flows all around her like pure cool flame. Her teeth
sparkle like stars, gleaming with a radiant dazzle as she says, “You must be so
proud.”
“Proud?” he replies to the uncannily
glowing, incredibly beautiful young goddess who’s deigned to make his
acquaintance. “Oh, she’s amazing and wonderful and I’m so happy to be her
father!” The stream of words pours forth of its own accord, unedited by his
befuddled mind; “But her life is her own - she’s her own being, not mine – nothing
she is or does is something I’ve done
to be proud of, really.” He watches amusement dance in her eyes while he tries
to take command of his rambling speech. “But I know what you mean. Of course
I’m proud of her…”
“And you were with her all
afternoon?” she asks with an even wider, whiter smile they reaches right into
his heart and squeezes. The sound of her voice is a surprisingly deep
mellifluous blend of silk and honey. Each word is perfectly, guilelessly
articulated. “That’s lovely! I hardly ever spent a whole afternoon alone with
my father.” Her lips press together, erasing twin crescent dimples as she
glances away. For the briefest moment her glow seems to fade like a moon’s
eclipse.
The shaman tries not to entertain the
thoughts that arise unbidden from spooling programs that litter his mind. He
tries to avoid the insistent insinuation that even such an amazingly attractive
teenager may be insecure enough to crave an absent father – or a surrogate father figure. He dispels
the idea with an internal shudder and concentrates on admiring Seheal’s
patrician profile, the generous mop of her coppery curls and the graceful
equine curve of her throat.
I want to be her lover, not her father… he tells himself while another part
of him makes a swift calculation. Anyway,
I’m not quite old enough to be her father….
Another facet of his mind chimes
in; Don’t flatter yourself; she’s
probably just getting a lift up the coast with her things, as she said… This
young goddess could have anyone she wants, anywhere, anytime… and she probably
wants a younger guy…
Yet as he stares into the shining
eyes that swing back toward him he’s somehow certain that the sudden smile she
bestows upon him declares an unmistakable intent. When their gazes meet her
blinding luminescence returns in full strength and the rest of her form mists over,
hazing into shimmering light. “Most of the afternoon…” says his grinning mouth.
Seheal’s native scent suffuses the
room, drowning the freshly fragrant memories of another very different redhead
that still linger on his freshly washed skin.
After he’d dropped his daughter back home he retrieved
building materials
(second hand throwaways gleaned from renovation sites in the more upmarket
‘aspirational’ suburbs of the Emerald City) and filled the back of the new
Nexusmobile with doors and windows, lumber, pipes, fittings, flashing and
wooden panels. Only when he was finally ready to head off and pick up Seheal
and Yeti – a wild British immigrant - from their respective abodes in adjacent
suburbs did he realise he’d left his address book in Andrella’s bedroom.
It wasn’t far to her apartment and
the Sun was still a few degrees shy of setting. He judged he had enough time to
pick up the notebook (and maybe smooth things over with the lovely young woman,
if she was home) before heading to Seheal’s.
He didn’t ring ahead but turned up
on Andrella’s doorstep unannounced, come what may. As her silhouette appeared
in a crackled glass panel he steeled himself for a confrontation, yet when the
door swung open Andrella was immediately effuse with unbridled apologies.
“I’m so glad you came back,” she said
as she ushered him inside. She appeared surprisingly contrite and inviting, her
lean, pale body half dressed in a short unfastened towelling robe. Long, wet,
radiant orange hair streamed down across her shoulders and dangled to her partly
covered breasts. “You remembered your camera after all…” She nodded toward a
bureau and he saw his SLR perched on a silver platter. Her smile broadened and
quirked when she handed it to him and said, “There are some vivid memories in
there – and room for a few more. I didn’t think you really forget it. Or them…”
Does she mean it… The notion of taking more
pictures of Andrella’s completely exposed beauty was irresistible. She’d been a
perfect subject over the last couple of days, even if she’d balked at being
photographed while actually fucking him. She led her surprised guest straight
through the living room and into her sundrenched bedroom, where she suddenly turned
to face him with head tilted quizzically to one side. He barely had time to
raise his eyes from the firm rocking hemispheres of her half revealed derriere.
…or does she really just want one last goodbye
fuck?
She might have been listening to
his thoughts. “I really wanted us to part on better terms,” she said without a
trace of a smile. “You know I’m going to the Mother Country in a couple of days
and…” Time stood still. Her eyes peered up into his as she bit her lower lip.
Her fingers twiddled a bright orange strand of hair. He dropped the camera onto
her bed. They reached for each other at the same instant.Her mouth was a liquid torrent of
kisses and her smooth white skin was taut and enflamed. Rigid nipples and the
pliant cushions of firm nubile breasts pressed into his chest. His fingers
slipped under the skimpy robe and slid all the way up along her flanks, her
sides, her upraised arms. As her perfumed mane poured down round his face he flung
the towelling onto the floor. A long lean leg twined about his thigh while he
stroked and cupped her heat-flushed nakedness.
“I thought…” he began as they came
up for air.
“…too much,” she said while a deft
hand unzipped his fly and slipped into his pants. “Or perhaps not enough.” Andrella
picked up the camera and handed it to him again as she dropped to her knees on
the rug. He sighed and watched her eyes blink and bulge while her slick pink lips
stretched wide and wider around the mushrooming crown of his already swollen stiffening
cock. What a shot… Both her hands
began to stroke his shaft, feeding it into her inch by inch until her nostrils
flared amid his pubes. He groaned with animal pleasure and unclipped the
leather cover from his camera.
Andrella’s cunning tongue swirled
around his length even when her mouth and throat were chock full of thick, hard
man-meat. Her fingers dug into his buttocks and pulled him in as deeper than he
dared, as deep as he could go. Her eyes squinted shut as she pushed him up
against the wall. She held him there with a palm pressed against his belly
while her throat constricted around his shaft with rhythmic, serpentine
contractions.
Even with mouth misshapen and
stretched by his swollen girth she was an amazingly photogenic young woman. He
stood in the pooling heap of his pants and hoped he was focusing the camera on
the place where her lips swelled, stretched and puffed around his shaft. How can she hold her breath this long? was
his last rational thought for a surprisingly long while.
Yet he was intent on fucking the
willowy redhead until she screamed his name over and over - before they parted
on the best of terms. He barely managed to restrain himself while she did her best
to milk and suck his seed down through the surrogate vagina of her elastic lips
and way, way down into the gripping tubular vice of her throat. I want to feel the real thing… and give
something back…
And I may have to save something for Seheal…
When the exiled shaman realised he
was thinking of the other girl – even one so attractive as that glorious,
pixyish, other young redhead - while
Andrella was trying her best to bring him to a blinding orgasm, he felt craven
and despicable. But the thought of that magnificent younger girl magnified her
presence in his mind until it was Seheal’s mouth wrapped round his cock,
Seheal’s hands stroking his furry balls and Seheal’s breasts pressed against
his flexing thighs as he rocked backward and forward, fucking her unforgettable face.
When he finally realised what he
was doing he tore himself free. Pulling the last few inches from Andrella’s
suckling throat took every iota of will power. He dropped the camera onto the
bed and lifted the slim young woman up onto her feet by her shoulders, slid his
hands down over her breasts and belly and into the gap between her slim thighs.
“You’ve shaved,” he observed, and hoisted her up with both palms cupping
handfuls of firm ripe cheek. He parted her thighs with his forearms and pulled
her onto and right up along the full length of his manhood with a stupefyingly
rapid thrust. She was blazing hot, gushingly wet and thoroughly ready.
She pressed her body’s full lean
length against him, threw her arms round his neck and groaned as he filled her
completely. A wintry sunset poured in through the window and drenched them with
fire. He gripped her tighter, unmoving, and turned to pin her against the sun-painted
plaster. Her hips worked to draw him in even closer as he spread her wider and
throbbed up inside her. “Nail me to the wall,” she breathed. So he did. “Hang
on tight,” he whispered as he lifted her legs with a flex of his arms and
planted her ankles up onto his shoulders.
Pretty as a picture,” he said, and
started fucking her into a mindless frenzy. Her teeth gripped his throat and
her hands grabbed his buttocks to steer his machinegun thrusts. Her silken
vagina gripped even more tightly than the wet rings of muscle inside her
throat. He closed his eyes to savour each moment and tried not to think of
Seheal.
A True Story
- R.A.
Continues…
Images – author’s
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↧
Sensurreal Trip, Having Seheal, Waking Natasha, Logging Action
click pic to enlarge
click title for true story
↧
Current Attraction: Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 29
Current Attraction
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 29
*
A flock of chittering sparrows wheels into a landing pattern
above the shaman’s head. They swiftly assemble into serried ranks on the
taut black wires strung through tunnels cut into the glossy foliage of
native fig trees. The chattering
sentinels groom tiny feathers as they alight in waning orange sunshine.His bare
soles sink into a cool living mat of lush green grass on the ‘nature strip’ set
betwixt blacktop road and concrete footpath. In less than two minutes he’s
climbed the hill to a place where sunlight falls directly upon him. He stares
into the hearth of the blazing Sun as it sinks into a glorious, chemically
induced miasma of vivid reds and magentas, viscid greens and turquoises, of pale
vapid blues and fading lavender; a rancid pallet tinting nature’s sky with the
innumerable industrial poisons vented aloft by the denizens of the Emerald
City.
And there,
in a small cul-de-sac beyond the noisy bustle, beat and bleat of traffic,
wheeled and afoot, he feels and watches a golden net spread from his solar
plexus to join the Sun, and flow outward and onward into the living network of
his fellow Centraxians. Fine amber tendrils spread to meet the intermeshed net
of the tribe and he instantly knows who’s making contact at this perpetually
preordained time. Most of us are here
this eve, the young shaman notes with a crooked smile while visions of
friends and allies slip though his mind as rapidly as a riffling deck of
colourful Tarot cards.
He sends
warmth and love through the web of connexions and feels waves of responsive
wills and responding emotions return through the flowering vine of interlinked
lives. Awa Ken… All is well… His Lady
Racheal’s unmistakeable eyes emerge though the web, a triangular trio of
spinning blue orbs that transfix his attention while her words echo through his
thoughts; ‘Thine wish is my command.’ He
senses she’s not far away, facing the sunset from a nearby stone cliff top – a
rarely private site they’re both intimately familiar with in the tightly
clustered suburban sprawl – and he begins to turn and face that direction.
Then the
rest of her recent utterances return to plague his contentment and shake the golden
webbing from his mind. The grumbling rumble of a propeller driven airliner
shakes the world as a sleek silvery craft slides surprisingly close overhead,
glittering with gold and orange highlights from a westering Sun which has
already slipped behind chimney-topped rooves, silhouette treetops and the
all-pervasive ugly net of far flung electric cables.
His bare
feet carry him away without thought or decision and after a couple of blocks he
realises he’s already made an appointment at a house in this very direction. Squidly…
The scent
of honeysuckle fills his nostrils when he passes a hedge festooned with slim ripe
flowers, yellow and white, dripping with nectar and irresistibly sweet. He
gives silent thanks to the tangled vine and tastebuds ignite when he sucks the
juices from a quickly swiped handful.
Twilight
transforms the mundane suburban world into a magical and mysterious realm. His
destination is so close he still has a few flowers left when he climbs the
dozen steps that lead above a ground floor garage. He rings the bell set into a
glass panelled door whose panes are so warped and convoluted they effectively
conceal the shadowy interior.
A figure
emerges within the gloom. Distorted shapes and swimming colours shift and grow
with their approach.
When the hall light flashes on and the door swings open, Squid’s open-fronted
Hawaiian shirt is dazzling, even brighter than his ivory smile. “Ram’yana!
You’re early, dude – and really just in time!” His handsome face and sunbrowned
surfer’s limbs radiate health, grace and good cheer. “We’re, uh, just hangin’
downstairs.” He turns and leads the way through the passageway to a flight of
steps that plunges into a dimly lit sanctum.
They descend through a low lying layer of sandalwood and hashish-flavoured
cirrus cloud. The smoke obscures Squid’s other guests, who lounge in a subterranean
den that booms and screams with the psychedelic confections of King Crimson.
“We’re just getting into the tequila,” Squid announces, and asks; “Do you want
the worm?” A female voice titters and Ram’yana manages to make out a shapely
form snuggled into another’s arms on an oversized bean bag. He idly notes that
only a quarter of the quart bottle remains.
“Vegetarian,” he explains with a shake of his head.
“But at least you can smoke again now that you’re a pre-initiate, can’t
you! I saved you some treated hash. It’s the bee’s knees!” He nods toward the
pillar of smoke rising from a huge glitzy hubble-bubble. “That stuff’s
untreated – you’ve been warned.
“You know the Doc,” he says as they reach the floor, “and this is, uh…”
“Princess,” the Doctor supplies in a slurring drawl. “My princess. That’s all y’need to know.”
Doc winks through a gleaming grin. The dusky-skinned girl perched in his lap
shines huge brown eyes upon the long haired shaman. Her wrists, throat and
fingers drip with what appears to be fine gold chains and jewellery set with
precious stones.
“Princess,” Squid says, “It’s my pleasure to introduce Ramayana, the
Prince of Centraxis.” A deep brown, slightly bloodshot gaze scans his body,
assessing him from green eyes to bare feet, pausing to scrutinise the
meaningless squiggles embroidered on his ornate vest before returning to grace
his face with a slight frown. “Really?” she asks with giggling eyes. “And where
is that?” Her accent is obvious, yet indefinable.
“Everywhere and nowhere, from what I hear,” says Doc.
“The central axis of all probable possibilities…” Ram’yana explains while
Squid pours him a tumbler and refills three others on a tiled coffee table. “…and
I am also known as the Lord’s Deathwatch, the Balancer of Scales…”
“And the High Priest of Centraxis,” Squidly adds. The girl is an
extraordinary beauty, if slightly curvaceous for Ram’s usual taste. Doc’s hand
caresses a naked brown thigh exposed by a slit in her long split skirt, embroidered
with detailed peacock patterns. Her presence fills the room with something more
than simple sexual tension. Her gaze is perfectly riveting. “Excuse me,” she
says, “my English is not so good.”
“Just as well we’re not in England then,” Doc observes with a laugh, and
hooks her silk-clad torso with a proprietorial arm. Ram’yana kneels on the
padded wooden seat of an ergonomic chair-like contraption and smiles down at
the cuddling couple. Their host hands him an oily looking drink and makes a
toast; “To freedom,” he proposes, smiling down at the girl. “Remember the salt
first!” She raises the back of her hand from the table and licks a pinch of sea
salt from her skin – her lips are painted a dusky purple - then lifts her glass
and clinks it against three identical tumblers.
“Freedom,” she agrees with a slightly crooked smile. They all down their
shots simultaneously and reach for remnant slices of lemon on a platter in the
centre of the table.
Her hair is so long it brushes the floor when she leans forward. Before
the rind has left the girl’s lips Doc pushes her upward, slips from beneath her
and helps her climb from the depths of the bean bag. When she reaches her feet
she totters into his waiting arms. “I think it’s time we saw my etchings,” he
says to the obviously puzzled girl. “Excuse us, guys – we need to go upstairs
for a while.”
“Mmm,” the princess agrees with a widening smile. “We do.”
“My house is yours,” Squid tells her. She leans into Doc’s embrace,
teetering on a narrow pair of high heeled gold-strapped sandals. “My thanks,”
she says with a slight bow that almost overbalances her. Ram’yana puzzles at
her accent; Not Indian… mayhap Arabic? He
rises to his feet and silently returns her bow while their eyes lock together
for the briefest electrifying moment.
“We’ll see you later, buddy.” Squid presses a small brown chunk into
Doc’s palm and the long haired technician pockets it as he helps the obviously
sozzled girl towards the stairs. When they’re out of earshot Squid fills him
in.
“She really is a princess,” he confides. “From the Middle East. One of
those Gulf States Apparently she escaped from her minders and bumped into Doc –
the lucky dog – up at the Bondi Lifesaver.” Mention of the rock ’n’ roll venue
sends Ram’s mind spinning back to his infancy. The (in)famous little nightclub
inhabits a converted house near the heart of the Junction. Outside the
building, jutting through holes built around its limbs in a screening brick
wall, stands a huge old tree that he knows quite intimately. His grandmother
wheeled his pram beneath its shade almost every day until he was a year old,
and the fragrance of its huge yellow Magnolia
magnificens blossoms still haunts his dreams.
Random Access Memory is often a blessing, but now serves to occlude the
import of Squidly’s words for a moment. Princess?
“So where’s Racheal – thought she was coming, too. Saved you both some treated hash, bud.” He turns to open a
draw and removes a small wooden box. Here – try some of this Temple Ball. It’s
treated for Tiphareth, but you can smoke it tonight, no worries.”
“Thanks!” He puts the golf ball-sized sphere to his nose and inhales. “Mmm!
Smells just like the Himalaya! Racheal?” A slightly pained expression flits
across his face. “She couldn’t make it…” Uninitiated members of the Dawn of Ra’s
circle of magicians are only permitted to smoke alchemically treated hashish,
produced by an Initiate like Squidly. Until their initiation they aren’t
allowed wild marijuana or untreated hash. Neophytes are prohibited from smoking
or taking other mind altering substances for the first year of their tutelage.
Partaking of spirits is only allowed during the last few months before
initiation as well – and Ram’s formal initiation into The Group is rapidly
approaching.
Squid hands him a small wooden pipe. “I know you don’t smoke tobacco, so
I won’t offer you the hubble-bubble.”
“Toil and trouble.”
“No trouble for the princess, that’s for sure - she just couldn’t stop!
Lucky the Doc has plenty to share, too.” When Ram’yana consecrates the pipe
with the essences of his upper chakras using a Tibetan method taught by The
Group, Squidly carefully ignites it with a red headed match. Sulphur and
phosphorous mingle with Tibetan hashish smuggled via Nepal and India. “Never
use gas lighters with a pipe,” the initiate tells him. “Bad enough when you’re
smoking a joint, but with pipes and bongs you really suck it down. That stuff’s
totally poisonous. Baron von Bic should’ve stuck to biros.”
The smoke is remarkably smooth and fragrant. Before the resinous vapour
has even reached Ram’s lungs, images of snow-capped mountains flit through his
mind; visions of landscapes populated with tiny thatched villages and tile-rooved
stone structures hunkering beneath overhanging cliffs fill his perceptions. Would this be happening if he hadn’t told me
it was Temple Ball?
Wafts of smoke twist into tendrils, identical to those surrounding the
Buddha in a woodcut yantra on the wall of the apartment. They curl around
Squid’s beatifically smiling face and warp into purple serpents that writhe
around the room, weaving in and out of reality. “Great hash,” Squidly says. He leaves
the locus of Ram’s concentration and removes the pipe from the teenage mage’s
immobilised fingers. The serpents transform into blue-scaled dragons that turn
to face the Centraxian shaman as a veiled form rises from depths beyond and between
their toothy smiles. The veil falls away, revealing the faintly smiling bluish
features of an oriental goddess who raises her hands into a prayerful position before
her shapeshifting face.
“It’s the genuine article all right. And Alion treated it to Kuan Yin
before she passed it back to me,” the initiate tells him from somewhere in the
distance. “So it’s a righteously peaceful stone.” Ram’yana falls into the bindu
that glows on the brow of the female form of the Buddha. He’s enveloped in warmth
and light as his body sloughs from his mind like a discarded snakeskin and
sinks into the beanbag.
The princess’s scent is unmistakeable, a breath of lavender tinted with
myrrh that wafts from the leather upholstery. Huge brown eyes fill his mind like
the bodhisattva Kuan Yin’s and sounds of revelry begin to penetrate his reverie
– gentle cries at first, arising from far away, rapidly growing louder and more
impassioned. Squid passes him another pipefull. “The Doc sure doesn’t waste any
time. Pity Racheal couldn’t make it. That gal of yours really knows how to party
hearty…”
Pounding sounds and unmistakeable high pitched cries of passion rain down
through the floor. Squid leaps to his feet and strides to the high fidelity
music system that holds pride of place against one of the gaily painted brick
walls. Swirling vines and large limpid leaves surround his head like shifting
laurel wreathes. Removing the King Crimson l.p. from the turntable, he
carefully slips it into a translucent sleeve before returning the album to its
cardboard cover. “Any requests?”
“Do you have Inna Gadda Davida?”
“Sure do – it’s kind of like Bolero, in some ways” Squid says with a
glance toward the sounds emanating from the ceiling. His hand unerringly flies
to the place where the Iron Butterfly album resides on a bookshelf crammed with
dozens of others. Soon the unmistakeable, album-long track begins, to the
accompaniment of regular moans from upstairs. “Not Led Zeppelin?”
“Mayhap next,” Ram’yana demurs, “Mars before Saturn.”
“Speaking of which, isn’t there a Geburah ritual this Tuesday?”
“Aye – Fifi was going to moderate, but now Jai’s going to.” They discuss
details of Ram’s upcoming initiation and the Group’s impending Tiphareth
festival, speaking through layers of vaporous clouds and screens of transient
visions while sounds of lovemaking puncture and punctuate the music. “Looks
like it’ll be in the mountains again this autumn,” Squid confides after a time,
while scenes of previous skyclad rites waft through Ram’s mind. “We’re having
trouble with the place at the beach – it’s being given to National Parks and
they reckon they’ll be tearing the buildings down. So it looks like an equinox
at Bathurst. That’s cool, but the beach is better for the babes – a lot warmer,
and when it’s warmer they’re always hotter…”
He strikes another match and tokes deeply while the younger shaman
relives eventful experiences at previous magical equinox weekends held at both remote
rural locations. “Aye,” he murmurs, “but they like to be warmed up in the snow
at Bathurst.”
“Yeah, but the snow’s bad for my gamelan,” the percussionist points out.
“You feel like a jam?” His eyes follow Ram’s to the ceiling when the amatory
sounds emanating from above cease as suddenly as they’d begun. “That was
quick.”
Ram’s mind transports him to an experience graven deeply in his soul; an
equinox gathering of the Dawn of Ra two equinoxes earlier…
After months of persuasion he’d managed to convince
his Lady Racheal to begin working with The Group again. The recently initiated
High Priestess to the tribe of Centraxians had come to see membership in The
Group as an unnecessary accessory to her role, but her fascination with magic
had swayed her decision. The spring equinox arrived on schedule and the
magicians of the Dawn of Ra arranged rendezvous in a forest on the beach, at a beautiful,
isolate property owned by the family of one of the younger female Initiates.
Encumbered by heavy backpacks, a
tent and sleeping gear the young hippy lovers hitchhiked down the East Coast to
the regular biannual festival. They left a day early and were picked up by a
family of curious American sightseers soon after hoofing their way to the
highway from the last suburban train stop. The young children in the back of
the station wagon were curious enough to keep the lovers occupied with questions
for the entire trip, and the made it all the way to the turnoff in a single
uneventful lift.
There’d seemed so much he wanted
to say and ask his paramour, but now that they were alone on the road the sight
of his Lady Racheal – standing proud and free, her windblown mane pouring
around her face like living flame as she gazed toward the mountainous horizon -
stilled any remaining questions. Her smile was dazzling and their kiss was long
and luxuriant, a glorious spectacle of young love witnessed by a speeding
string of passers-by.
With only a
couple of hours of daylight remaining they hefted their bags and began strolling
barefoot alongside the sun-heated bitumen road. Their seaward trek led them
through a wooded forest of recovering gum trees and primeval burrawongs –
squat, incredibly slow growing palm-like plants that had long outlived the
dinosaurs. Alert to the dangers inherent in hitchhiking in this part of the
country (he’d almost been kidnapped by drunken rednecks and driven off into a
remote forest on an earlier trip through the region– see Shaman
of Centraxis Part 6) Ram’s shoulders tensed beneath the leather
backpack straps as a vehicle pulled up behind them.
“Going our
way?” They stopped and turned when the familiar voice of the Lady Ringell, Fifi
L’Amoure sang out over the sound of a rumbling engine. She waved from the
passenger seat of an old bulgy British sedan whose steering wheel was loosely gripped
by the beaming Princess Stardew.
To be
picked up by fellow Centraxians was an unexpected benison, but as Racheal and
Ram’yana glanced into each other’s eyes the event assumed a certain
inevitability. Racheal smiled and said, “What kept thee?” and they cleared
enough camping gear out of the way to climb into the broad back seat with their
oversized packs. “Excellent timing,” Stardew remarked as she slipped the car
into gear. “I trust thou art both ready to party!” Fifi reached across to
steady the wheel when Stardew released it to ignite a huge spliff. “Treated to Chesed,” she said through the smoke.
“Just for today.”
The hash
smelled wonderful but Ram’yana demurred. “Still fasting,” he said with a shake
of his head, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror.
“How
steadfast of thee,” said Fifi. “Our
fast begins at sunset.”
“So we’d
better tank up as fast as we can!”
Racheal’s
eyes narrowed and her hand squeezed Ram’s fingers on her lap. “Different rules
for initiates, then?”
“Hardly,”
Stardew’s prim and proper voice shot back as she passed the joint to Fifi.
“We’re simply observing the minimum fast this equinox– twenty-four hours. What,
dost thou mean to say our Hierophant and High Priestess are going the full
three days? How commendable.”
“A week,
actually.” Racheal beamed. “We’ve taken nothing but water today.”
“We worked
our way down to it; honey and water these last two days, juices before that.” Fifi
exhaled a stream out the window. “Then thine eyes must surely be set upon the
wedding feast! Mayhap thou shouldst be wed as Pan and Diana come Saturnday–
just think, thou couldst be wedded as the Gods!”
Racheal
squeezes Ram’s hand afresh. “We’ve already wed, as thou well knowest, at
Bathurst this equinox last.”
“Aye,”
averred Stardew, “and there’s also your Centraxian wedding – but now thou may
be wedded again. Why ever not? Surely thou wouldst renew thy troth?”
“We’ll
have to think on it,” Ram’yana replied. When he felt her body tense he interrupted
Racheal’s impending response with a fulsome kiss on her ripe pink lips. After they
broke their extended clinch Racheal demonstrated another way of changing the
subject; she leant forward between her Centraxian sisters and asked, “Will the
Magus be there?”
The Lady
Ringell turned to smile directly into her eyes. “So I hear.”
““Why?
Wouldst wed him instead?” Stardew tittered at Racheal’s frown in the mirror. “I’m
sure he’d measure up… from what I’ve heard…”
“I’ve
heard that thou hast more than just heard,” muttered Racheal. The driver
ignored the jibe and took the spliff back from Fifi. “It’s going to be the best Tiphareth Festival,” she announced
as the twisting road revealed a glimpse of wide blue ocean in a gap between the
forested hills. “This is my favourite spot for it, really. Bathurst is just too
dry and cold!”
“ ’Tis so
much nicer to be skyclad at the beach,” Fifi agreed. “Particularly this beach.” She fingered the large
silver talisman dangling from Racheal’s throat. “So thou hast decided to join
the Group after all, milady?”
Racheal’s
response was characteristically noncommittal; “So it would seem.”
“ ’Tisnot
too late to remain in Ram’s neophyte group,” Stardew assured her. “Ye haven’t
missed out on too much yet.” Racheal leaned back into Ram’s arms. “We’ve been
doing The Work together,” she said.
“That’s fine
for some things, but now ye will be able to do the group circle work, too –
it’s absolutely essential,” Fifi told her. “Oh, look! Kangaroos!” Three tall
grey marsupials stood beside the road just ahead, tall ears twitching at their
approach. “Mayhap they want a lift, too!”
“The
spirits are watching,” Stardew opined. “I suppose thy preparations include a complete fast then?” Her eyes twinkled
in the mirror as the ’roos hopped away. “Including a sex fast?”
“So far,
at least,” Racheal assured her, leaning more closely into the embrace of her
young shaman. “For the past two days…”
“And
nights,” Ram supplied. Racheal kissed his cheek. “An eternity.”
When they
turned off the road and passed through a mile of widely spaced trees another
group of a dozen kangaroos of various sizes and ages kept pace with their
vehicle for hundreds of yards. The bulky vehicle trundled across a rough and
ready cattlegrid and pulled up on a sandy sward amidst a diverse group of
parked vehicles. Two score magi had arrived ahead of them and the festivities
were already beginning.
“Time to
make hay while the Sun shines. Let’s meet in one of the circles for sunset,”
suggested the Lady Ringell. “We can link up with Lord Kha-Aan and the others
from there. It should amplify the melding nicely!”
The
Centraxians emerged to survey the lay of the land and visit their hosts. The
hirsute pair – he a bearded muscular engineer, she a lanky sociologist –
occupied part of a two room brick bungalow that stood in a small clearing only
a stone’s throw from the sea. The rest of the building swarmed with visitors. Every
available nook was already occupied by air mattresses and sleeping gear, so
Racheal and Ram’yana busied themselves erecting their small tent in a
relatively secluded spot with a view of the ocean, sheltered among screening wattle
bushes and scrubby trees.
“A pity we
can’t make use of it now,” Racheal remarked with a sly grin as she completed
her finishing touches to their boudoir. “Soon,” he said, pulling her close for
another kiss. “Only two more sleeps…”
“Then thou
hast not yet met the Magus?” Cardinal Fang’s query dripped with sardonic
ridicule. Kerri’s pale blue eyes went wide with delight at mention of the
renowned adept and both neophytes climbed up onto their elbows to address his
question. The quartet of teenaged Centraxians were lounging on beach towels
where the soft white sand of the isolated beach met a coarser kind, a deep grey
volcanic powder verging on deepest black.
“Met?”
Racheal’ s slightly bloodshot orbs stared at the place where sea meets sky from
the place where white met black. “Not personally, but I could see and hear him
plain enough. Like thee, we were up partying all night…”
“Hardly
partying.” Fang’s tone was withering. “What use a party during a fast?” Racheal’s
reply continued as she steadfastly ignored him; “…playing music and singing…”
“And
discussing Kabbalah with Kimba and Jai…”
“And
playing Squid’s gamelan…”
“And
hearing about the plans for the weekend rituals…”
Racheal and
Ram completed each other’s sentences in a continuous stream while their pink naked
bodies drank deeply of midmorning sunlight. “But no, I haven’t had words with
him as yet,” Racheal finally admitted. She shaded her eyes to watch Alion and
The Mox glide past on a small hand-built catamaran just beyond the small waves
of the sheltered bay. “He’s present today, then?”“Most
definitely,” Kerri replied. “In the flesh,” Fang agreed with a sidewise grin
while his girlfriend massaged his back, seated astride his tight white
buttocks. “And I’ll be the first to admit he conforms to available reports – in
one obvious aspect, at least.” Kerri tittered and swung her long russet hair in
a figure eight. “And how,” she
giggled. “As for actual ability–
from what I’ve witnessed it seems that’s undeniable as well. He knows how to
work a circle…”
“And a
crowd,” Racheal said through a narrow smile. Fang groaned and flexed on his
beach towel when Kerri assailed a particularly knotty slab of shoulder muscle.
“That was a long night,” he moaned, “and with nary a drop to drink!”
“And
naught to smoke… The drumming seemed to go on until dawn,” said Kerri. “I don’t
know how late it was when we crashed.” A pair of seagulls alighted beside her
and stood watching the quartet of magi with blood red stares. “What’s the
schedule today?”
“Oh, the
Magus will doubtless hold court again to rapt acclamation…”
“Sheathe
thy fangs,” Kerri ordered her beau with a stolid thrust between his shoulder
blades. His arms flew outward, scaring the gulls into flight. “There’s a sunset
rite, and a midnight ritual,” Ram’yana informed them while his fingers idly
caressed Racheal’s flank, “But they’re optional; the main events begin on the
morrow.”
“And I
hear the Initiates are having a circle tonight as well – an invocation of
Venus,” said Racheal with an eye on the clear blue sky, “While She rides high above
tonight.”
Fang
chortled into his lank brown hair. “The only time to invoke Venus, after all,”
he muttered. “Or any planetary deity for that matter – while they’re prominent
in the heavens above the practitioner...”
“…And
fortuitously placed and housed.” Kerri agreed. “Initiates only?”
“So I
understand.” Racheal fingered the silver talisman she’d made months before and
only affixed at her throat that morn. “We’ll be left to our own devices.”
Fang
groaned again. “Water, water everywhere…”
“Only one
more day ’til we break our fast,” Ram’yana assured him. His stomach rumbled in
reply, immediately followed by an answering gurgle from Racheal’s abdomen. “The
Mox said we could borrow his cat this afternoon – anyone care for a sail around
the bay?”
“I didn’t
know you could handle a catamaran,” Kerri said with a quizzical frown as Ram’s
eyes followed the hypnotic sway of her perfect breasts. “He can’t,” Racheal
intervened.
“I’ve
sailed a skiff,” the young shaman told them “The Mox assures me his cat’s even
easier.” He smiled into Racheal’s dubious regard. “And thou canst always use me
as a life raft, milady.”
“No
thanks,” said Fang. “I have no hankering to swim back from a shipwreck this
arvo. Besides, we already have plans and I hardly think ye could rescue all
three of us.”
“A boy
buoy?” Kerri laughed and Racheal joined her; “I’d more likely be the one to
carry thee home – remember the last time we were out in a boat?”
“Why?”
Kerri asked. “What happened?”
![]()
They’d been navigating a tidal
estuary. Now their small white motor boat bobbed in a choppy swell, lending extra
impetus to every measured thrust and withdrawal through Racheal’s hidden
gripping musculature.They’d
lived together less than a fortnight and this was their first trip away
together – and their first lovemaking session in the great outdoors, under a
springtime Sun. Racheal’s moans soared up into a cloud of waterbirds while
racing shadows streaked across limber white bodies.
She hadn’t
bothered –hadn’t had time – to remove her bikini. Her lover studiously ignored
the strings and scraping scraps of material that entirely failed to conceal her
pinkest parts. His own togs were a salty mass scrunched into a corner of the
boat. He’d only donned the swimming gear to avoid offending Racheal’s aunt
Linda, who’d sent them off with a broad knowing smile and a generous picnic
lunch. Racheal had stripped him bare at the earliest opportunity.
The boat
was barely large enough to conceal their bodies. She’d waited until they were
out of sight of all habitation before lying back in a couple of inches of
seawater and pulling him down atop and inside her. Mouths sealed together, their
slim bodies strove for the closest possible union.
Lusting in
a sweaty lather, Racheal had no need of foreplay. Her fingers guided her
boyfriend past her bikini briefs and inserted him directly inside her with an
impatient shove of hand and hips. His palms slid beneath her bikini and wrapped
round her copious breasts, providing the best possible handholds as she started
fucking like a bucking bronco, driving him deeply into her belly with the
second thrust.
It was
only the eighteenth time they’d made love. Until the previous week she’d waited
all her life to admit a boy to her deepest mysteries. Now, as soon as their
privacy was assured she couldn’t wait another moment to feel him inside her
again. She was a fast learner; in less than a minute they both felt the thrill
of an orgasm race upward along her supine spine, felt her virginal nipples
harden into pebbles, felt the rush of wet heat cascade through her taut convulsing
vagina.
Pelicans
wheeled overhead, glancing down as her heels drummed around the base of his spine,
driving him ever deeper. The lovers were so far out in the waterway that she
felt no constraint giving vent to her loudest, most startling screams of
pleasure when she came in a jerking, bouncing, sucking, arching fugue of achingly
ecstatic enjoyment.
Neither
noticed nor cared – at first - when one of their feet jerked awry and kicked an
oar overboard. The sound of a splash was far in the background of Ram’s attention.
The
extraordinary sensation of fucking his salt-sprayed paramour while her body
gripped him inside and out as she screamed up into the wide open sky was too
much for him. He surrendered to bliss with uncommon rapidity and exploded with
her, within her, a moment after Racheal’s orgasmic contractions began to seriously
milk his blood-engorged shaft. Watching and feeling him lose it made her scream
even louder and fuck even harder.
She
screamed until his seed stopped pumping into her womb and he fell atop her
heaving breasts, his face buried in the golden net of her hair. Time stood
still. After a timeless time the teenage lovers rolled with the wave-rocked
boat to lie side by side in a panting heap amid a sloshing pool of lukewarm
seawater, kissing and cuddling beneath a blazing motionless Sun. His cock was
still hard and jammed fast in her belly, all the way up to his furry balls. Racheal
twisted about to climb athwart him and froze in place for a moment when she realised
she’d bumped the second oar overboard.
A
succulent sucking sound greeted her rapid rise from his lap. She turned and
leapt over the side in a single fluid motion, leaving her tumescent boyfriend
high but not dry in the bottom of the rocking boat. As he sat upright Racheal
cried, “Look out!” and hurled the oar back into to him. It bounced off the
outboard motor, struck him in the shoulder and sent him sprawling against a
hard wooden rib.
By the
time he sat up again Racheal was already receding into the distance, caught in
a current at odds with the heady breeze that was blowing the boat in a
different direction. He scrambled to the outboard and pulled on the starter
rope. Nothing happened. Racheal was swimming as hard as she could, but the
distance between them continued to increase while he futilely pulled on the
rope. The befuddled teen desperately began to fiddle with one of the
carburettor screws until he realised he had no idea what he was doing. He knew
there was no time to work out why the engine wouldn’t start, so reached for the
oars – and could only find one.
“Ram!” she
sputtered while he stood frozen, rocking in the swell with a single oar gripped
in both hands. Her voice was barely audible. He looked around for another boat
but they were totally alone on the water. He thought about diving in himself
and rapidly dismissed the notion.
“Hey!” They
were drifting further apart with every breath and he could hear Racheal’s voice
begin to rasp as she rapidly tired. “Oh, Ram!”
Her strokes became more frantic, less streamlined, and her expression grew
desperate as she struggled just to stay in place.
Then, even
as he opened his mouth to call her name, a triangular fin broke the water not
twenty yards behind her…
A true
story
Continues…
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn
of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14
Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16
And
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
The New
Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/the.new.illuminati
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright –
reproduction for non-profit use is permitted &
encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please
include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel
free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites -
you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember
attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a
comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From The
Prince of Centraxis -http://centraxis.blogspot.com
↧
↧
Celtic Goddess, Racheal's Initiation Party, Andrella's Space, Feral Lollipop
Images - author
Click pic for larger image
Click title for story
↧
Rocking His World: Psychedelic Water 29
Rocking His World
Psychedelic Water 29
*
“Another few hours until the word about the doof goes out–
don’t have any more
intelligence yet. See any sniffer dogs?” The Alchemist has rapidly regained a
suitably bland masking persona, displaying a lackadaisical aplomb that the equally
blasted shaman strives to emulate.
“No – they might not let them out today. Anyway,
they’re probably at one of the roadblocks or sleeping in after getting so
stoned yesterday.” They laugh as they saunter through a fragrant press of eager
beavers toward the twisted carven woodwork entry to the Nimbin Museum - always
under the purview of surveillance cameras that scan streets, pathways and
rooves from the lofty summits of skimpy metal monopoles.
They
dodge a trio of apprentice jugglers and weave through a motionless gloom of
Goths. “They might have to give them long service leave after this,” the
Alchemist agrees. “Wasn’t that cookie girl what’s-her-name?”
“Who?”
“You
know, that fallen Angel from the other night - we all saw you with her. And on
her, on my honour. And under. And…”
“Nay, I
say, t’wasn’t her –and that cookie lady certainly isn’t any ‘fallen woman’
either.”
“Not Eva,
then?”
“A breath
of fresh air nonetheless.”
“I’ll
have a toke on that…”
The
Museum entrance is crammed with rainbow-clad bodies, portly and thin - festive
visitors who mill and mull in the shopfront doorway while music and muzak
compete on the street. Loquacious dealers and cautious shoppers automatically
make a hole for the seemingly local hippies, who find the building’s first
chamber is no less crowded. The entrancing entry hall features the full size
diorama of a cutaway tie-dyed kombi van, murals of native tribes sunnily
disporting with skinny dipping hippies in rainforest glades, the
snakes-and-ladders start of a rainbow serpent that trails across the painted
wooden floor and an array of historically rustic items and psychedelic posters
from the Aquarian heyday and beyond.
“…and on
this!” Conversation is barely possible in the indescribably detailed mural and
collage-encrusted interior. The Alchemist opens his palm, revealing a clutch of
resinous, viridian, red-haired flower buds. Big buds. He commences mulling up
in his hand beside the endless coloured stream of passing tourists. “They
pulled in another cookie lady an hour ago – it’s a bad bust. She’s only around
eighteen, too. A single mum.”
“They take her into the station?” “Yes, about a dozen of them around this one
girl, in their new military camo overalls, like she was Lee Harvey Oswald. And
they bust by weight, even with cookies.”
“As leaf or as heads?”
“They’ll probably bust her for a kilo of high
grade – even though it was a kilo of cookies
for heaven’s sake! Probably had less than an ounce of leaf in them, not heads…”
He lights up a healthy spliff as a mob of laughing Aboriginal teenagers pours
past, dazzling teeth flashing from obsidian skin. A beaming, bearded Viking trails
in their wake, saunters up to the hippies and says, “Hi.”
“Good timing.” The Alchemist passes the smoke
to the shaman as Vick the Viking ignites one of his own. A silent gang of
sternly serious camouflage-uniformed police swaggers past the wide doorway,
intently peering straight ahead as they negotiate multitudes of riotous
revellers, eager shoppers and gaily dressed day trippers. The riot squad is
festooned with truncheons, radios, cuffs, guns and many pockets and manifold
pouches bulging with unidentifiable accoutrements.
“You see that bloke last night?” Vick asks as
soon as they’re gone. “Took five of those burly guys to hold him down on the
footpath.”
“Yeah,” Beats exhales plosively as he weaves
into place beside Vick. “He was on Ice, raving and yelling and aggro as hell,
screaming about his girlfriend or something.” He glances over his shoulder but
a woven sombrero slouching over both shoulders obscures his view of the
cop-free doorway. “And when they tried to talk to him he got violent with them,
so they clobbered him. He fought like a gorilla.”
“The
iceman cometh.” The Alchemist speaketh.
“Those ice men are the ones to watch out for.
That shit is a whole lot worse than smack,
even,” asserts Vick.
“Yeah. Like PCP but a whole lot more common.
They’re everywhere. It used to be that the only troublemakers came out of the
pub.” Beats nods toward the renamed old Freemason’s Hotel across the packed
street, rebadged as a backpacker’s hostel/hotel. “Alcohol used to cause almost
all the violence problems, but now this shitty speed’s everywhere and they’re crazy as anything.”
The shaman passes the joint to Vick, who
finally adds his to the circle. “Well, you know what the old hippies always
said,” Ram observes rhetorically. “If it’s organic, don’t panic – other than
organic poisons, of course - stick to
natural non-toxic highs…”
“Like the Happy High Herbs shop…” Vick
exhales. “The hippies were always right.”
“In their leftish way. And anything that was
a white powder or pharmaceutical pill was definitely out in the day– all those uncool industrial poisons and downers
shoveled out by the Man. Except for acid, of course.”
“Of course,” the others all chorus as one.
“Like magic mushrooms,” Vick adds, “it comes from a fungus after all.” At that
moment an indelibly familiar silhouette passes the Museum entryway, hesitates
for a frozen moment in streaming time, and continues down the footpath.
“Time to go,” Ram announces and abruptly
hands Vick’s smoke to Beats, who nods appreciatively. “See you at the parade,
if not before!” He literally springs toward the doorway and a rapid stride
bears him down the Rainbow Serpentine path that sways like a rope bridge
beneath his barefoot tread.
Knotted
currents of surging bodies flow and eddy on the broad cement footpath. The
street sings with expectant delight. Cookie, cake and chocolate sellers
demurely vend merchandise from cloth-covered baskets as electronica booms from
loudspeakers in a subtle sonic backdrop to the happy chaos filling the town.
The sleek, elusive woman is nowhere to be seen so the shaman follows his first
instinct and enters the fabled Rainbow Café.
Kitchen scents and sandalwood incense mingle with the smoldering
harvest that suffuses the village. A three-piece band plays to the painted barn
of a room from a tiny raised square of stage, strumming and drumming beneath a
wall spanning rainbow mural that arches across rainforest hills and verdant
valleys. A path opens before the tripping shaman and he passes through the
partying interior to the shady palm grove behind and beyond the cluttered
clustering cloister.
He pauses for a breath of fresher air on the rear veranda
and scans beyond a yard filled with chunky old wooden seats and tables, to a
vista of sacred rocks arising from deep green hills – nature imitating art –and
a lithe arm gently wraps round his waist.
“Juice?” Their eyes lock over the fresh-scented glass of
orange fluid
suspended between them in offering. Unearthly orange irises twinkle and crinkle
and sensuous lips pout with effortlessly irresistible ease. He ignores the
delicious scent that invisibly effervesces from the freshly squeezed juice and
takes nourishment in a long, languorous kiss.Today she
wears only a simple figure-hugging cotton sarong, so light it’s slightly
translucent. Her waist is fey perfection, a glorious narrows his hands explore
while decoding her gratifying adoring and satisfyingly relieved expression. Two
empty mushroom-shaped stools beckon to a small round table decorated with torn
aluminium foil and empty plastic sachets.
Their
eyes meet sidewise as they share a mushroom and alternately suck invigorating
spurts of juice through a fluorescent plastic straw. Time extends with each
wordless mirrored breath. Music bombards them from three sides; notes and beats
and harmonics interweave and clash as two different bands compete with the
town’s loudspeaker system, which is all but drowned out by the clamorous,
raucous, tidal caucus swelling the festive Mardi Grass party.
He hardly
hears the question; “How old are you?” When he leans even closer to reply the
heat of a blazing thigh burns against his; “Somewhere close to two thousand,
seven hundred and twenty, but with all the calendric changes – let alone the
missing excised reign of Pope Joan, for instance – it’s a fair guess at best.
Some would say a few hundred older. Call it three thousand to make it even.”
She muses
on this, sipping the juice while he drinks her in. Obsidian hair flares in
sunlight and her delicate umber features are outlined in a moiré of palm
shadows. He knows her deeply red-tinted locks are the fey woman’s natural (and
uniquely unusual) colour, framing her delicate Asiatic features in an impenetrable
darkness subtly tinted with shifting flames. Tibetan clouds drift across her
amber skin and bolts of lightning flash in her flaming orange eyes while Ram’s
thoughts boom through the Platonic cave of his skull.
You’re so flattered by her
attention… The
inner voice seems to come from outside, above, within the space where his mind
should reside. Your heart is racing…
breathe… focus on HER…
Slim bare
toes trace a trail down his ankle and across the top of his foot. He notes one
more that her eyes slope upward at the edges… and that curvaceous mouth is
somehow… Welsh…?Once again he
ponders her provenance as those ripe magenta lips begin to speak; “I mean in this body.” She prods his chest with a
slender forefinger then tickles his armpit. “In this life.” Ram laughs, and his laughter takes wing and flaps up
into the wide blue sky to flirt with other rising peals of joy.
“It’s not
the age that gets you, it’s the mileage – to misquote Indiana Jones.” His smile
crinkles like mummified parchment. Pleiadian…
announces the Voice of Certitude.
“Oh, you
have a few million left in you yet. It’s a good body to keep.” Amber squeezes
his bicep. “You have been moving
rocks.”
“And
they’ve been moving me.” He accepts the proffered glass and sips slowly. The
juice is alive, swimming down his throat like a playful dolphin, instantly
revitalising his jaded senses. “And you’re one to talk! I wouldn’t try to
estimate how low your mileage.” Mile
echoes though his mind; millennia…
millions… an age… age… ages… A hand festooned with silver rings extends to
their table and waves a huge white cigar towards Amber in a reeking, seething
miasma of mingling head and hash fumes. She takes the joint from the next
table’s hooded occupant and raises it in offering.
“Bom
Shiva! Bom Shakti!” Her voice is an appealing pealing of bell-like tones; the
accent, as ever, hard to place - a chimeric, chameleon admixture. Indefinable… definitely not Japanese,
Indian, Thai, Chinese, Tibetan… and yet…. Smoke streams from her nostrils
as twin shushuma serpents slowly jet forth to envelop her sarong-cased midriff.
Her only jewellery is a single simple golden ring on the middle finger of her
right hand. Like the Initiate’s Tiphareth
ring in the Dawn of Ra, he suddenly recalls. Gold flashes as the joint
descends from brow to heart amidst smoky swirling serpents. Her bare feet rise
upon the toadstool and she sits cross-legged to pass the offering. “Have you
looked like this for all that time?” Her eyes twinkle and blaze as she placidly
sizes him up.
The effects of the acid are becoming almost
overpowering, but he somehow maintains a veneer of aplomb borrowed from the
Alchemist. He finishes his own three-seed rite of resonance with the alchemic
resin-laced Herb Superb and takes a long slow draw while considering a reply.
Before he
can answer an amplified voice announces, ‘There’s a lost child looking for her
mother or father and could they please come to the orifice’, and from a weird
multifaceted remove he sees faces turning throughout the town, feels hearts
twist and turn as they scan automatically for their own playfully carefree
youngsters, sees the upturned face of a tiny girl surrounded by colourful knees
while reassuring, words condescend upon her twisty curls – all shining within
the burning orbits of Amber’s flaming gaze while a sunbeam dances upon her
high, broad, smooth golden brow.
He takes
a deep breath. “It’s basically been this shape for most of that time, with a
few changes in colouring and surface texture, society-specific details and
acculturated forms– except for the size of the skull. It used to look like the
taller of the two Egyptian crowns.” Ram’s hand sweeps upward to bop his winged
headpiece, weaving a broad contrail of smoke that circles him in a momentary
halo which twists into a fading spiral. “Very useful, but one can never really
relax. Too hard to lie down, and those hideous U-shaped neck braces they call
‘pillows’ were shocking – painful to sleep on. Though they stopped you breaking
your neck, and the point was you didn’t ever exactly get to sleep anyway...” Amber’s head tilts to
one side and Ram passes the incredible shrinking joint to a grateful nearby
table. I’m babbling…
“You
definitely look better this way.”
“Beauty
is in the eye…” he trails off.
“Of the
beholder?”
“No… in
the eye,” he winks, “…your eye.”
Their smiles precisely coincide. She pulls a tiny metallic camera from an
embroidered pouch concealed within a fold of her sarong and captures the light
streaming from the eternally transient moment. A segment of time disappears…
“And am I not beholden to you?” Her eyes sidle to his as they
pass between a haphazardly parked pair of olden Holdens, gaily painted panels
festooned with decorative drying carcasses of Day-glow towels and tie dyed
clothes. Strewn about are steaming, dread-topped, seminaked bodies simmering torpidly
in tanning sunlight.
How did we get here? They walk past an unmistakable
pair of proprietorial adults who lean down like foraging brolgas, looming over
a frightened young girl. They loudly admonish the huddling child with
alternately pleading and threatening gestures, giving the weeping girl a tongue
lashing in an indefinably foreign tongue. A red balloon soars upward from a
distant copse of splayed acacias and a flock of white cattle egrets banks aside
to avoid the alien intruder. Endless sunshine beats down upon a miraculous,
glorious, meaningful, multiplex, devastatingly disarming world of unexpected
glories and unintended consequences.
Barefoot
they stroll, arm in arm down a grassy slope in blinding cascades of scintillating
sunlight. The firm slim cylinder of Amber’s thigh slaps against his lean leg
with every stride. A breeze tatters his thoughts and batters them away through
the ruddy black pennant of her streaming mane.
“Behold
the Dreaming…” his voice intones while a self-willed hand rises to shade all
three eyes in a swift salute to the looming towers of Nimbin Rocks. His soul
twinges at the words that escape his lips and he strives for a way to undo
them. “Women aren’t… weren’t… supposed to see them…”
“Have you
climbed them?” The notes of her words rise and fall on a wavering stave
interposed across the glowing landscape - the sheet music of her thoughts writ
larger than life as his voice provides the bass line below; “Two, twice;
they’re not meant for climbing, except by certain people at special times…” A
slithering breeze whistles through his hair and into his ears.
“Or
special people at certain times.”
One such
certain time returns with a rush of clamouring memories and jangled emotions –
a timely occasion when discretion failed to be the better part of valour; when
the destiny of a great loves of his life was undone by wanton ignorance of
Aboriginal lore - and by wily girlish trickery in the face of the implacable
geodetic law of Gaia – or Nunggeena,
as she was known hereabouts.
Amber’s
twining arm dissolves to smoke that wreathes his waist and he again finds
himself standing beside the exposed stone top of one of the sacred mounts, gazing
down at his wondrous teenage bride - nakedly inviting and thoroughly
irresistible, the blithe little pixie lies sprawled at the edge of a
forbidding, forbidden cliff.
His eyes
dawdle on the vision of her fine, nude, china-white young body arrayed atop the
sacred Aboriginal men’s site - the melodramatic and archetypal sacrificial
virgin spreadeagled upon a veritable stone altar, apparently unaware of
fractious blade-like energies poised to saw through her subtler bodies, to sunder
being and soul into fractured fragments. Coiling red curls shade emerald eyes
from the blazing wide open sky as beringed hands gesture, entreating him to
join and join with her above the vast
serried crater rings of the ancient caldera. He watches in awed silence while
her body squirms invitingly, feels a surging wave of riveting lust as she
strives for comfort on the unforgiving stone rampart.
He squats
and entreats his brazen lover to come away from the fractious edge, but she
merely swings around to sit on her delicious rump and thrusts her breasts in
his direction. “Look!” Her cry is carried off on the streaming wind as she
sweeps a slender, serpentine arm through the liquid landscape, encompassing all
its concentric horizons. “It’s so beautiful…” Dainty hands slip down her slender
belly to outline her outthrust flame-fringed loins. “This is where I want to make
love with you - here, now…”
Resistance is almost impossible, yet still he fruitlessly beckons her back from
the edge. He pats the silk skirt she’s left beside him as etheric energies -
sharp and unfeeling as knives - rear up from the rock to join the sky, and rip
straight through her vaporous astral body.
His
erstwhile ladylove turns to gaze into his eyes as he repeats the slow, painful
walk through a wall of air that impedes his progress with an ocean’s weighty
currents. Just like the first time, he’s struggling to progress through
adrenalin’s slow motion spell – yet now he simultaneously walks with
inscrutable Amber toward the base of those self-same rocks while the words spill
from his lips again; “They have a jagged energy, not meant for bodies such as
thee or thine to twine in sight of their feyly eldritch wilful majesty…”
His past
paramour turns away to regally survey her far-flung rainbow realm, orange coils
streaming in the buffeting updraught. “We don’t have to climb them – or rhyme
them - today…” Amber’s voice is a tinkling glissando of musically singing bells
that singe the edge of his vibrant memory. The promise of certain invitation
rings in her songlike words. A curious frown unsettles the red haired girl’s
pixyish features, as if his body is a conduit for Amber’s intent through time
and times, apart yet one with petite young Seheal.
“We have
time,” both women say as one.
“Aplenty,”
he agrees, speaking to both. His fingers close around a hard stony object that
juts into his hip. He raises his hand to produce a double-ended crystal from
his pocket - collected close to this very spot by the diminutive gnome-ridden
boys he met that morning. Sharp-edged energies pour from both ends of the
double terminator in mimicry of the jagged shards that vent tearing rents
through the redheaded teenager’s soul.
Amber
smiles. They both dip heads to examine the glittering crystal and their brows
touch and meld into matching vortices. A cluster of miniature suns refracts
from dazzling depths and shine through surfaces limned with rainbow etchings.
Revealed in their light, an undersea realm of monumental forests reaches upward
from an unfolding horizon of rolling hills, where sharp fangs of broken-toothed
mountain peaks protrude from a living green carpet.
Something
glitters on one of the peaks and a heart-wrenchingly familiar flame-framed face
reaches up into the sky to snatch the double terminator from his open palm. The
pixyish girl triumphantly grasps the crystal to her breast and it blazes with
dazzling light. Her lithe little body becomes transparent, revealing the myriad
inner workings of capillaries, veins, nerves and lymph, all her organs
suspended in jelly, shaped and protected by a flexing bone cage bearing blazing
emerald eyes. Her form swiftly shifts and congeals into a glowing vessel of
sheer, translucent alabaster whiteness. Unforgettable chameleon eyes shine with
entreaty and promise as soft carmine lips curl up at him, drawing him toward
the edge of a crystalline precipice…
Amber
twists him aside, away from the rocks, and he stares down into a blazing inner
sun refracting through her umber depths. “It’s like a scene from Woodstock,”
she says as her unsettling orange eyes slip aside toward a nearby tree line. He
follows her gaze to the shady depths of the riverbank, where a fuzzy-haired nut
brown man helps a pallid girl – glowing white skin clad only in dreadlocks -
from a rocky pool.
For a
blinding moment he’s certain he recognises the nymph who crawls from the water
and drags herself up onto the far bank. She laughs with glee at the stumbling
young man when he squats down beside her and pulls her slender curves round his
skeletal frame. Times and spaces overlap and meld, melt and moult as he feels
hot wet skin envelop his body and firm warm breasts press cold metal rings into
his chest. He feels slippery slim thighs glide astride his naked waist; fingers
sliding down his belly into his pubic hair, onto the base of his hardening
flesh - feels a steaming furnace of silken membranes opening round his blazing
crown…
…And
then, like Krishna, he’s moving inside them all, mating and loving with flaming
Amber, with succulent Seheal, with the falling and rising and falling Goth
Angel who sits astride him and rides him to glory, with the naked stranger who
bestrides her young man beneath the nearby trees, who locks eyes with the
suddenly naked Amber creature who mimics her every movement, each rolling and
rocking thrust of her hips as they both make love with their astounded males,
just out of sight of the painted town.
Every loving woman holds the semblance
of another… each female recalls another twining lover… each woman a bridge to
an evercoming other…
Crystals
dance in crystal water and ancient outcrops loom down towards the shady canopy
like scolding parents ready to pounce on unruly children. Boulders skulk around
the creek, grey-skinned gnomes who guard their glade from human thought and
scowl at monkeys who disport on grassy banks where forests fell and foreign
creatures came to dwell.
Sensation
seats him more firmly in his body, and in hers, at the entrancing moment of
entry. He doesn’t remember removing his clothes, or stripping Amber’s sarong
from her smooth narrow midriff. Her touch, her clasp, her every breath burns
his cool white skin. Her heat is unfathomable, unquenchable, a molten furnace
of unending pleasure as all her lips part for him at once.
Her
nuclear heat burns everything away but the certain, immutable, immemorial
luxury of deep, abiding, immortalising humanimal contact. She holds him so tightly
her nipples are stony nubbins pressed into his chest by the malleable cushions
of her breasts. He caresses her skin as her hips rise and fall, a millimetre
deeper with each long lusty thrust. Her fragrant, flagrant, spicy breath flows
into his lungs as his tongue explores her palate and laves the backs of her
perfect white teeth.
Brother… Lover… Mate… Father…
Husband… Son…
Sister… Lover… Mate… Mother… Wife…
Daughter…
Fingertips
sink into his flesh when his arms enfold her elfin frame. Grassy tendrils twine
through toes and tickle flanks as extrusions of the living Earth explore their
molten melding flesh. Their bodies and minds are viscid outgrowths of a
globular global brain, twinned halves of a clinging polyp on the sea bottom of
an atmospheric ocean, rooted to the earth beneath swaying tendrils of seaweed
trees that wave and flutter in currents of spirited sprites who stream past
their skins and savour their flavours, dancing through a shifting maze of
sifting sunbeams and straying thoughts.
Whither canst thou…Where is this place…
What art thou…
Art thought…
Art…
Crystalline
eyes of stony mountains bore down from the range that rears above, drawn to the
locus of sensuous pleasures that rise beyond to ecstatic heights. Spiralling fronds filled with sumptuous
patterns of everchanging shapes arise to the skies, tentacular limbs that
follow lines of magnetic fields whose core is the heart of the living world. A
burning flame erupts through conjoined loins, rushes up spines and shines
through eyes of malachite and blazing Amber. The tactile bliss of her inner
caress thrums and palpates, encouraging the indomitable pride of his reaming
self-willed manhood.
Her heart
beats deep inside his chest as a flaming phoenix, a pounding drum, a pressure
rising into his brain and blowing the top of his head asunder. The rim of his
skull is the world’s horizon but Amber’s mind soars further still, streaming
past the roiling, turbulent wave-riven surface of the global ocean of liquid
air, through fiery layers that stream from the waves and far beyond the
stretching limbs of the planet’s outflowing fields.
He sees
through her eyes, yet can’t understand what his mind’s eye sees. And the voice that passes through his being
isn’t his, or hers, or theirs, or even a voice at all…
Thus at the cusp of was and when
the vessel of all righteous men the cup the feast the drink you sup will raise
your inspiration up to heights unseen through all these scenes that light
delight within your dreams …
Two heads
arise from a single core, twinned twining serpents wound together, sprung
together, twisting tightly round together in woven strands of molten blood and
flowing flesh, illumined from below, within, where a pyre burns in burning skin
that melts into a single form, an open eye that scans a realm unknown, all
lithe and brightly warm.
…a living wish come true…
A living womb…
My home…
*
A True Story
Continues…
- R.A.
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Further and Previous True Tales of the prince of Centraxis -
Rocking His World – Psychedelic Water
29
More True Tales of the Prince of Centraxis…
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Saving Little Wonder
Saving Little Wonder
Part 1, Rough Cut
THIS is how you can save the world. A group of feral hippies and environmentalists bands together with members of an indigenous Aboriginal tribe to try and save one of the last fragments of Australian rainforest (filled with rare, endangered and unclassified species of animals) from destruction.
This is most of a rough cut documentary detailing their true story, rushed to your screen from the lost archives of Australia's forest wars - because these unique forests are under threat again after the recent elections of rapacious, destructive governments bent on burning the world's heritage in power stations.
Language (and lifestyle) warning.
A document by R. Ayana (Part 2 coming sooner)
From Youtube @ http://youtu.be/OrHyWM8LNgY
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It takes hours of work every day to maintain, write, edit, research, illustrate and publish this website from a tiny cabin in a remote forest
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