Hearing
VoicesSex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 29
*
The thunderous Voice – a
prepossessing person or personality readily recognisable after so
many sojourns -resounds through the tattered dross of
revenant thoughts that cavort through the shaman’s psychedelic mindscape. Booming
like the Voice of God (a deification identification mistakenly made by so many),
the clarified commands scatter his bleary cogitations into feathery scraps; a
flock of disputatious seabirds dispelled by the wake of a roaring jet.
WILLS ARE HERE WHICH WILL NOT BLEND… BEND…
MEND….
The words
transform into echoing shapes and multicoloured sounds that pour through his
thoughts to define his surrounds. The teenage mage can’t recall where his body
is lying, stretching and flexing at the core of a dizzying vortex. Bacchanalian
images cavort past his eyelids while the sweet funk of sex fills both flaring
nostrils. Livid sensoria of sliding, gliding feminine membranes begin to draw
his awareness back to an urgent, fluid, ecstatically animalistic reality.
ONE KNOWS and SEES BEYOND the OTHERS… COVERS… SMOTHERS… MOTHERS… LOVERS…
Thought forms
and sigils he recognises from the silverfish-riddled pages of ancient tomes
slide and warp, twisting through woven strands of intent and meaning. Interpenetrating
veils of divergent perspectives echo in shouts of revelry and cries of encouragement
that surround his naked thought-filled form.
HUNDRED-EYED BEAST, HUNGER-FILLED FEAST…
MULTITUDE FINGERS… LINGERS… SINGERS…
He feels
the attention of a host of participatory witnesses glide along his exposed skin
while his lover’s caresses define its existence.
Commandeering statements
stream through his being even as he blends and melds with the grasping inner
flesh of his wilfully pliable, indomitably malleable ladylove; thrums through
his being while his lips taste the breathless breath of lithe young femininity,
describes the sensation of his tongue outlining the edges of her pearlescent
teeth as she gasps a wordless paean.
An image
of unbending tree trunks, swelling, growing leafy crowns and arterial branches
infiltrates his vision while his fingertips slide across the liquid curves of
his Lady’s perspiration-slicked, oil-anointed skin.
TWO are ONE, THREE are TWO… INNER OUT… THROUGH and THROUGH…
Lips so
soft and sweet. Hands that bless, refine and xtrude his shape from a gallery of
infinite possibility, stroking his skin with reverential caresses while
slippery flesh squeezes tightly and tighter around his exultant perplexity.
EVERY THING is EVERYTHING…
Every
single thing and sensation seems doubled and redoubled - arms and thighs, sides
and belly, flaring flames of crowning hair and disjointed feet of limpid clay,
all caressed and blessed at once. Two pairs of lips meet around his, three tongues
explore the torrid cavern of a sweet female mouth. Four breasts impress his
torso, pliant and warm, while a forest of fingers cages his scrotum, driving
his splendid hardness up and into the flexing belly of a nubile goddess, making
Her gasp and grasp, rise and writhe in ecstatic counterpoint to insatiable
satiric lust.EVERY ONE is EVERYONE…
Inciting shapes
swirl into indefatigable sensations of two girls moving together as one. When
two distinctly unique young females become a single shapeshifting being of
labial, receptive, inspiringly attractive womanimal responses it’s impossible
to distinguish whose body he fills and whose lips kiss his in palpating,
palpitating darkness.
The Voice
is indistinguishable from his own, yet casts shadows loud as booming thunder;
EACH in EACH, BOTH in ONE…
The Voice
answers and dispels all unspoken queries at once. Smooth feminine hands stroke the
young shaman’s limbs, his chest, his belly and neck while his flat-planed male
body meets and melts, thrusts and busts into the sacred seams of soft, firm,
responsively acceptant young flesh.
My father’s voice, speaking with mine own
accent?...
Thought of
his father spins him around, alters the world, turns his identity inside out. Images
swarm and twist into monkey-puzzling knots of mating bodies and twining vines
while vivid odours of wine, incense, beer, smoke, sweat and magmatic smegma
infuse his nostrils and fill his lungs.
He peers down from above, through
trellises of ripe blushing grapevines that cast crisscross patterns
across his witch-bride’s smooth body. She lies nakedly newborn athwart a small
grassy mound, limbs flung out to the world’s four corners, the fulsome orbs of
her conical breasts pointing skyward in sharply edged beams of glowing blue
moonlight, their peaks rouged a radiant blush of berry magenta by cooling veils
of nocturnal vapour.
Racheal’s
face is half concealed behind untidy waves of her long golden mane, but he’s
somehow certain she’s fast asleep. He moves closer to inhale her scent and his strangely
disjointed hand moves up along a long pale thigh, strokes a line along her
belly and gently closes around a soft, firm, utterly alluring mound of nubile
feminine flesh.
Her skin… Her need… Her body… Not my hand?
Yet as
long bony fingers caress the pliant surface of his Lady’s smooth round breast
he’s aware his other hand urgently fiddles with a brace of belt, button and
zipper somewhere below. He gazes down on Racheal’s ribcage, feels it rising and
falling beneath his palm as he stares at the glowing, gaping glory of her
nakedness though dappled moonlight, savours the sight of a slim shapely midriff,
the concave flow of a trim, firm torso while his touch drifts across a slight
curve of feminine belly, past the ovaloid vesicle of her recessed navel to the
downy place where her long legs meet and part - and as he looks down upon the
perfect nude body of his recumbent teenage bride he’s instantly filled by a foetid
rush of unfettered desire.
His cock
rises at the intimate elemental fellatio of a cooling night wind and as he
swells and hardens he focuses upon a glittering ring that slides past Racheal’s
flaccid nipple. The lord’s signet, he
realises as his other hand enfolds her free breast and squeezes the fleshy
aureole upward - a silken puckering mound surmounted by an utterly enticing crinkly
strawberry peak.
When he
leans down and blows across that tender skin, the soft little nubbin hardens in
the freshening wind of his breath. “I’ve awaited thee… this… quite a time,
milady…” Feels almost like my voice… not
quite my flavour… Yet his lips
touch her nipple as his generous
whiskers encounter an amazingly soft, smooth, delicate pink membrane. He gently
kisses the swollen tip; then he sucks her entire aureole into his mouth and
tongues the whole satiny mound, gently squeezing the pimpling surface between
his teeth. Honeysuckle sweetness fills his mind and his hips automatically rock
forward and thrust his erection toward the streaming heat of his sleeping idol’s
steaming sex.
His nubile
High Priestess lies beneath him, unmoving, neither protesting nor acceding as
his tongue laves a trail across the uplands of her breast, along that elegant
collar bone, up her equine throat and around the sharp curve of her chin while he
squeezes those perfectly malleable breasts.
The heat
radiating from the peak of her parted thighs is simply irresistible. He feels
firm naked legs slide along his furry shanks, stripping back his half-mast
trousers. Delicate feminine limbs rise higher and spread wider about his muscular
thighs when he moves up closer, above and beneath, to encircle the witch-girl’s
ensorcelled nakedness. The touch of her skin electrifies, inspires, hardens his
cock to painful rigidity. He lightly nips her soft white throat with sharp male
primate teeth. His hand slides down across bony waves of elegant ribcage to
caress the slim, flat beach of her teenage belly as he moves his piston into
position, dawdling long and longer at her simmering threshold. She seems smaller…
“Milady… Racheal…” he whispers into her lips, and
smiles though the Centraxian salutation; “Awa Ken, High Priestess mine… Awa Ken…”
His lips brush the girl’s unlined brow. “This, our time, hast arrived at long
last… awaken…” He gazes upon her face
from a hand’s breadth away, admiring her beauty while her breasts squeeze up into
his chest and her nipples rub against his own – and, in the back of his brain,
part of him puzzles at his own unlikely words while he savours sensations of
tactile bliss.
“Or not…”
his lips murmur, “ ’tis time… high time… irresistible time…” His entire body
vibrates with desire as he breathes the words into her mouth and licks her lips
with a tobacco-laced tongue. “Irresistible…” He can restrain himself not a
moment longer and reaches down around her slender flank to swiftly cup a firm
smooth buttock and squeeze her girlish cheek inside his long, large hand.
“…even sticky with sweat and the seed of others…”
Roughly
rasping fingers extend long-nailed tips to wander into downy margins of faintly
fur-lined liquid silk. “Ah, Lady Luck, blessed fortune…” Fingertips pause to caress the faintly
bulging globe of a finely formed clitoris while his thumb stretches round a
soft, cool cheek and slides up against the velvet valve of the girl’s virgin
quoit. As her hooded bulb swells to his rotating touch, his fingers slip to transgress
the clasping heat of the teenage witch’s elastic lips. “We’ll wait no longer to
taste thy charms,” he hears himself say to the sleeping priestess, and kisses
her full on the lips.
He
caresses her outer labia, sliding a smooth shaven flap between thumb and
forefinger. “Dandled and dangled before me no longer, mine sweet dear Lady…” he
kisses her sealed lips once more; “…my Priestess…” another, longer dalliance
while his finger moves up inside her; “…my Racheal…”
He licks her lips and kisses her eyelids while another finger joins the first,
squeezing slowly inward, but she doesn’t even twitch in response.
I know that voice, he
assures himself while the fingers extrude from hot fleshy succulence and wipe sticky
fluid smears along his ladylove’s faintly downy flank. Not mine…How?... the
young shaman wonders. Kha-Aan… and
Racheal?... He recoils inwardly. A
vision of the past? Where?Just a
dream or… did this happen… or is happening, now? So fucking real…
Even as he
feels the lusty promise of an impending fuck swell his hardening flesh to
almost painful tumescence, Ram’yana tries to dispel or delay his arousal with
unanswered questions; Is this really… are
all these thoughts, these acts mine? The sight and sensation of Racheal’s
utterly familiar, luscious feminine body poised open and ready beneath him is
unutterably exciting. I want her so much…
but she seems so small… young…fragile
beneath me… so fucking beautiful… It’s like having her for the first time, all
over again…
“Methinks
to have thee now, sleeping beauty, whilst
at least thy soul’s unsullied still…”
his voice says into her mouth while probing fingers stroke and stoke his
bride’s unresisting, unresponsive, alluringly taut and entrancingly silken,
delectably perfect little vagina; “…verily, milady, veritably pure, despite this spume that sullies
thee… so awaken for thy just reward, and mine…”
The entire
world is pushed aside, eclipsed by the hypnotically attractive vision laid out before
him, a gloriously warm and tender feast of moonlit white womanhood splayed out on
a blanket of cool dewy grass. Perfect breasts point unerringly skyward, slowly
rolling in synchronised tandem as he pulls her heat closer. The hot, succulent
promise of her pinkly shining loins engorges his thrumming body and mind. Her
fine young form is seemingly impossible to resist – and he knows how much she enjoys it.
Is this what I will? he
wonders. All thought of the experience being a dream is completely dispelled by
the sheer tactile glory of Racheal’s proximity; her taste, her scent, the feel
of her flesh all familiar as his own, and twice as lucid. Yet his mind blathers
on; Am I… possessing Kha-Aan, guiding his acts… or only a
witness to our liege’s hitherto hidden desires?
“Awaken to
me!” he says far more loudly as the soft heat of her thigh caresses the tip of
his sceptre, but she responds not at all to his lordly command. Is this what we both want – Kha-Aan and I? He yearns to sate the lunging, plunging, all
expunging desire that thrums all the way through his meat and bones. He feels an
overpowering lusty urge to wake his sleeping priestess with a singular hard deep
thrust – to ram his manhood between the taut, moist, radiant lips that hover an
inch from his hardness and hear her cry to the Moon with shocked delight He
longs to see those gorgeous blue eyes burst open in surprise and witness her
wonder when she wakens to his lust moving deeply within her. His lips move, seemingly
of their own volition;“…or not,
as ye will, my hand picked nubile Priestess…” He leans down to whisper into her
ear and the tip of his cock glides up to the top of her inner thigh; “Surely
thou feigns slumber still… for though we’re not thy first this night, my sweet fair wanton witchy wench… and certens…”
he whispers, almost panting - with
Kha-Aan’s voice, he’s almost sure, “…not thy last…” He bends forward and feels his
tongue slide between her slightly parted lips to lightly stroke her upper teeth,
then whispers into her fragrant mouth; “…this
tribute comes from thy best and fondest admirer, oh Priestess mine…
surely canst feel this…”
Why all this talk? He ponders
for an instant while Kha-Aan’s hands caress Racheal’s nakedness and his hirsute
lips suckle at hers. Guilt? What does he
mean by… and when he says, ‘we’… does he know I’m here, or…
He’s
surprised at the way his facial hair caresses her mouth when he kisses Racheal’s
soft, lush, unresisting lips. His big bony hand squeezes the firm round rump of
her left cheek to pull her upward, lifting her supine hips from the grassy hillock
until the bullseye core of her radiant heat laves the arrowhead of his thoroughly
rigid shaft.
I’m bigger… he realises in shocked surprise;
…in every way… and so fucking horny for her… but… she’s asleep, unaware… He
draws back from her lips and his voice rambles on through Kha-Aan’s mustachios;
“Feel the best man who’s to know thee
’ere the coming light of dawn…” he pants into her sweet wet mouth while spidery
fingers fondle her buttock and spread her into position, “…the best you’ll have
til Chaos is replete with thee, sated by this thy splendid… freshness…”
“Wake up!”
they both cry to Racheal’s bruised-looking eyelids through Kha-Aan’s lips, but each
for different reasons –equally heedless of potential discovery in the secluded
little wasteland. He moans when he clamps his lips to hers and jerks his
beloved’s body upward, jamming her utterly familiar tight pink labia onto,
across and around his thick purple crown with a quick, determined twisting
thrust. The sensation is scarcely describable – like taking his bride as an
utterly naive virgin once again, but somehow even more vivid through the unfamiliar
oversized lens of Kha-Aan’s expectant flesh.
“Forgiveness,
fair Racheal,” he gasps into her mouth, “that we must truly know thee at last, here, like this…” His fingers shift her
surprisingly light pelvis round and about his first few inches as he pleasures
himself with the heated grasp of her female heat. “…but time is constrained…” He
rams all the way up into her, raising her splayed body from the small hillock
with a single thrust of his rigid horn, and sighs to the stars. “Oh, Racheal…”
The young
shaman forgets to wonder whether he’s along for the ride or somehow the
puppeteer of these events; lost in the bliss of the lusty moment he ceases to
doubt that the body that fucks his sleeping bedmate is his own. His hands grasp
her buttocks to spread her wider as he buries himself to his balls. He mashes
her clitoris against his pubic bone, glorying in the sensation of hot liquid
quim caressing every last inch of his manhood. “Oh, fuck!”
He bends
down and hoists her astride his hips, pressing her breasts beneath him while he
spreads her bum in his hands. “Fuck,
girl,” he says, withdrawing and thrusting, watching her face and feeling her
loins for sign of response while her widely spread legs bounce up and down,
smoothly stroking his hips and sides. “Awa Ken, milady, awaken… feel this…” he entreats her, “with me,” he demands, beginning to fuck her
with ever more diligent zeal, “…before… oh aye,
fair girl, awaken… oh fuck, sweet priestess…
young temptress… oh fuck milady… oh, fuck, what a fucking female thou art…” he gasps the endless
refrain into her open mouth while he manoeuvres her pelvis around his cock and
crushes her breasts beneath his roughly clothed chest, “Racheal, mm, oh, fuck us now, while thy soul’s still thine, and mine…”
His
ceaselessly distracting soliloquy is suddenly stilled when he pauses to
experience the deepest squeezing inch of the witch girl’s uncanny heat. It
seems she’s beginning to move in response as he hesitates on the brink of cramming
his crown all the way through the valve of her cervix. Then, gasping, he
continues; “…Time hast come, High Priestess, hast come at last, for us to fuckthy sweet, tight body royally…”
So small… He crams her closer about
his cock and Ram’s thoughts are totally crushed in a rush of sheer sensation.
He wilfully pulls her slack-jawed body up around his, savouring the feel of her
satiny skin while his tongue slides all the way into her mouth, not stopping
until he almost fills her irresistible innards from both ends at once - and
then pulls partway back out until her inner labia are a slick round tube of
translucent pink skin wrapped round tautly gripped inches of rigid male meat. He
barely resists the urge to explode inside her then and there, without further
ado.
“Oh Racheal…” he moans, “So good to be a man, with thee… to have thee at last, before thou art used and abused…”
He pauses, revelling in the glorious feel of elastic teenage pussy clamped all
the way round half his hardness, and shifts twining golden strands of hair so
he might gaze down upon those wine-dark sealed eyelids, those unblushing lightly
freckled cheeks – those slightly parted pouting lips; “…and used up….”
Ram’s
awareness rises on a wave of jealousy and crests into foaming anger as Kha-Aan
pulls her face to his mouth and tongues her lips, her teeth, the inside of her
cheek. “...and filled up… How dare he use her like this!? Yet he’s also
stricken by the awareness that some part of him is enjoying the sumptuous
delight and power of experiencing his ladylove through the hulky frame and
sturdier musculature of a fully grown man, in place of his slighter teenaged
form. “…Infiltrated…”
Her breath
is cinnamon, sugar, wine and smoke when his mouth closes over hers, sealing her
breath with his own. Her lips possess a softness he’s forgotten, that he
scarcely recalled existed until now. Her flavour is so delectable he pauses far
longer than he’d intended. He inhales the breath right out of her lungs,
sucking it into his chest as he presses down to feel her breast rub and slide
against an exposed patch of hairy pectoral. Then he lunges all the way in,
right up inside her with a high diver’s singular full-length plunge and exhales
all their intermingled breath into her unconsciously pliable body.
Tides of
guilt and waves of anger war and clash within Ram’s spinning mind, yet are
totally subsumed within the lusty rush toward full consummation. He’s awed,
disturbed and thoroughly shocked by this unheralded strange style of one sided
mating – and surprised even more by the rush of assent that rises unbidden
within him while the sheer bliss of his beloved’s smooth nubile femaleness rubs
into his skin, slides past his fingers, encases his cock with glorious,
grippingly sexual heat.
“We’re fucking
thee royally - so awaken milady! I’d not waste thee, waste this, not now, not
after this…” He’s surprised by the desperate tone of entreaty that drives the
plea. “I prithee,” he says with a flurry of thrusts, “awake, my Priestess, that
we may yet forget that thou art due and return to the tribe!” He tears his
shirt open and squashes her breasts against his chest, buries his face inside
her mane and fucks her flailing body with desperate urgency, pounding her up
and down his full length while her limbs jerk about in parody of wakefulness.
Even while
he witnesses - shares - the guilty pleasure swirling though Kha-Aan’s mind and
body, the teenage mage feels two half-minds warring within them both; one
cautiously glad that Racheal is ignorant of what’s transpiring, the other deeply
sorrowful – and both feeling that way for utterly conflicting reasons; struggling
with compassion, guilt, trepidation, lust, and gleeful rampant frenzy. And all
the while the Lord Kha-Aan unceasingly uses the unconscious body of the tribal
High Priestess of Centraxis as though she were a blowup fuck doll – raping the
innocent teenage girl, really, with utter impunity, and taking yet another
guilty pleasure in the full knowledge he’s unlikely to ever be caught, or even
found out by the victim whose womb he now prepares to fill with his seed.
“Fuck, awaken
fair goddess! Oh, fuck! Awaken,
there’s still time…” He rises onto his knees and lifts her up as he kneels
erect, wrapping those intimately familiar long white legs round his waist with
queerly oversized hands. “…before thou art all filled up with unfettered
Chaos…” He pins both slim ankles behind the small of his back with one large
hand and hoists her up with the other, draping both her limpid, supine arms
over his shoulders; then, when her body is locked in place around his, he
begins to fuck the unmoving priestess with deliberate, long, rotating strokes,
sliding her soft skin and silken breasts against his hirsute frame - enjoying a
pleasure long denied the Lord who rarely denies himself anything, save
reticence.
Ram’s mind
is subsumed in a tsunami of lust, barely able to form the thought; Is this truly, really what he did, or wishes
to do… or my own weird imagining… my own unseemly fantasy… what I’d do if I
wert he?
“…And now,
for now, thou art ours, all mine, our living dream, our living doll,
you fucking little beauty… to do with
as we please…” And as he starts to really ream and stretch the innermost
membranes of the unconscious tribeswoman, pressing her loins right up around
the massive piston of his bulging hard cock with ever increasing speed, Ram’yana
fucks the overheated sex of his unconscious mate too. He rides inside her beautiful
body along with his liege lord, tasting the older man’s form and thoughts while
Kha-Aan does just as he pleases for as long as he dares in this moonlit
courtyard, delaying en route to the
impatient Court of Chaos… Ram gleans from Kha-Aan’s wildly diverging
thoughts; Whom await her delivery with
great expectation…
Though he
wants to take his blessed time, he’s ready to finish far too quickly to truly,
fully, completely savour this brazen act of rapine passion. He has to come now… When the swelling pressure becomes
insuperably urgent he drops Racheal’s body back onto the mound with ungentle
haste, slipping from her innards with a sticky susurrus of succulent wetness.
He climbs athwart her bobbing breasts and rams his spuming shaft between the
girl’s delectable lips, jetting thick white gobbets down her throat while he
moans her name to the cloudy Moon, over and again, amidst grunting groans and
breathless panting until he’s fully spent inside her throat.
“Leaving
not a sign to sully the offering,” Lord Baron explains to sleeping teen as
Ram’yana reels through an aftermath of dizzied confusion and heady shock. He
wipes the last sticky evidence from Racheal’s faintly swelling lips, her
flaring nostrils and fine strong chin and prepares to carry his new High
Priestess to her next, far more challenging rendezvous. “A pity thou couldst
not awaken, milady. But assuredly, Chaos will
be pleased with thee,” he tells her when he lifts her face to his lips for one
long last kiss.
Chaos? Ram’yana wonders as he drifts,
dreaming, from the scene of his beloved’s violation, real or imagined. Is this just another dream? His thoughts
circle the horrendous tale his beloved so recently imparted to him alone – of
her kidnapping and abuse at the hands of a powerful Circle sometimes alluded to
(but never openly discussed, in his experience) among the feuding magical groups
of the Emerald City.
He rises
from the sullied vine-draped bower amidst mingling waves of outrage, guilt,
anger, befuddling lust and puzzlement. She
said nowt aboutKha-Aan… could it be
she truly dost not know? Is this just a strange sick imagining - or a truer vision
plucked from the mind of him or her?…
The shaman desperately tries to keep
hold of the vivid vision, but its immediacy rapidly fades along with most
of its import while waves of guilt and livid pleasure assail his far-flung, half-dreaming
awareness. It’s too dark to make out much at all. The world spins around him,
overflowing with half unseen scenes of glory and lust, wonder and mayhem while
discordant music vibrates the entire chamber.
“Why don’t we sing this song all together
Open our minds let the pictures come…” *
Feminine
screams bring him all the way back to his body. He’s lying on his side, jammed
right up inside some slender young female or other, and he frankly doesn’t care
who, or which witch. The only thing that matters is the sensation of her
innermost membranes enfolding the hard smooth length of his enduringly engorged
young manhood. His partner rhythmically bucks and squeezes him with signals of
her own undeniable intent while, though he’s barely conscious, his agile hands
fondle her delightfully nubile body and he fucks the girl while she screams,
and shrieks, and screams again.
“…And if we close our eyes all together
Then we will see where we all come from…”
“Oh, yeah,
fuck her fuckin’ brains out,” a vaguely familiar female whisperer entreats,
blowing hot air into his ear - and so he does, on and on, riding that fine,
firm, buxom little body through a landscape of mutual longing arousal amidst lengthening
wee hours of morning darkness.
He only determines
his partner’s identity when Crystal finally, jubilantly, calls out his name.
Then, just before he comes inside her, he remembers. And remembers. And
remembers. What a dream… Was it a dream?... Is this?
“…Pictures of us through the steamy haze
Pictures of us naked in our caves…”
He lifts his face from Chrissie’s
hair and peers around the unlit longhall, seeing unidentifiable lumps and
mounds spread around the floor, faintly illumined by reflections of distant
streetlights. Mayhap, he tells
himself. Feels dreamy… but who was
goading me on? The little redhead’s
fingers draw lines of perspiration along his cheekbones and her feet drum a
beat on his hips; he belatedly notices she’s somehow slipped back beneath him.
He reaches around to stroke her gently
bouncing flank and his hand encounters another smoothly feminine expanse of soft,
warm skin. He tries to focus on the other girl who’s appeared beside him and spies
glints of glimmering light shining on long pale hair. Through the shamanic haze
he slowly recognises, curled beside him in foetal position, the faintly glowing
form of beloved Racheal. He sighs with relief at the sight – his paramour sleeping
soundly alongside him, and apparently whole and hearty after her extraordinary
experiences in the endlessly long night - and he grins with replete
satisfaction, filled with the knowledge that his strong willed Lady has
returned to his side after sampling the talents of so many other available males.
And it was all just a dream… well… not all…
His hand slides down along her
shoulder to cup a softly firm breast while Crystal bucks one last time, coming
to a finish beneath him. She stops squeezing and moving in time to the music and
flops back onto the mattress, panting. Racheal’s chest rises and falls with a
deep, slow cadence he recognises as genuine sleep and his fingers slip into a
gluey fluid that covers half her breast.
“Rache,” he whispers into her ear,
rocking her hip with his hand. “Honey..,” he says, stroking her equally sticky
flank. He gently squeezes a firm round cheek while Crystal sighs, pulls away
from his tumescence and rolls over on the mattress. “Don’ wake her up,”
Chrissie drawls. Her spine crackles as she stretches luxuriantly. “Let ’er
sleep…” she advises through a yawn. “She ’ad a big night –a big knight or three
– dincha see ’em goin’ at it?”
He chooses not to answer directly.
“I want to take her abed - I can’t just leave her here…”
“Why not? Everone’s gone home,”
she murmurs in drunken semi-stupor. “An’ Arnie wenta bed afore, with Fifi.” She
pulls him across the mattress and drags him down atop her; he keeps hold of
Racheal’s breast. “S’why not take me
t’bed instead? Least I’m still awake an’ y’don’ haveta carry me. She’ll be fine – we can get ’er a
blanket or somethin’.” She kisses him and strokes his hair. “She won’ mind. An’
y’know how she… was… better let ’er sleep... asides…” She runs out of words,
but not out of steam. A small hot hand grasps the base of his cock and rams it
up into her amazing hot, astoundingly tight little vulva. “Oohh, man!”
“Why don’t we sing this song all together
Open our minds let the pictures come…”
“Oh, girl…” The sensation of Crystal’s overheated little body squirming
beneath him convinces the teenage mage far more readily than her words. “Mmm…
oh, Chrissie, aye,” he agrees, forestalling
further convincingly conniving talk with a long, slow thrust to the meat of the
matter. He peers down into glittering points of blinking eyes in the near
complete darkness. “Dost thou wish me to carry thee abed, milady?”
“Oh fuck, I sure would, you sweet prince…
but can y’ do it without slippin’ outta me?”
“Let’s see…” And they do, as he
discovers how light the sprightly redhead truly is. He lifts her up by both
flanks while her hands lock behind his neck, and barely staggers at all in the
darkness as he climbs to his feet and plasters her back against the wall. “Oh, God,” she moans when he nails her to the
cracked plaster and sinks right up into her. Limber thighs and smoothly muscled
calves flex around his sides as lovely young breasts mash and slide across his equally
smooth chest. “Oh, man… gonna fuck me ’gain now…”
she asks with a thrust, “or take me upstairs?”
“…Pictures of us beating on our drum
Never stopping til the rain has come…”
“Both…” He spies a faintly glowing
length of rumpled material draped on the mattress and lifts it with one foot,
scarcely maintaining his balance as he kicks it across Racheal’s barely visible
paleness. The sight of her naked form recalls a fleeting image that flashes
through his altered awareness from that other realm of half remembered visions.
Momentarily dizzied, he sways in the darkness, swirling and swelling inside the
eagerly tenacious girl, and then pulls the thin cloth all the way over his
Lady’s curled-up body with his toes while he steadies himself against Crystal’s
little frame, pressing her hard up against the wall.
Chrissie’s kisses smother his
throat all the while. Her pointy little tongue slips inside his ear when he
nods a silent farewell to his sleeping paramour. He doesn’t miss a step or slip
out of the girl’s grips as he reaches the stairwell and carries her up, step by
step - only pausing to pin her to the wall of the landing, moaning and panting through
a few minutes of supremely satisfying passion. Her eyes shine, flicker and
flare in the faint glow of reflected streetlight. Her fingernails trace tracks
along his shoulders, his back, his ribs.
When she comes, swooning against
the stronghold’s crackling paintwork, her feet slip from his hips and slide
down his thighs. Her legs dangle from his hardness, toes hanging inches from
the floor as she murmurs, “Gotta take a leak” inside his dark waterfall of
hair. They take turns emptying bladders
in the adjacent bathroom before the tripping prince leads the equally dizzied
girl onward into his moonlit bedchamber.
He kicks the door shut, strides to
the broad, low, soft bed he shares with his Lady Racheal and kneels down to
plant the redhead firmly astride him. Just as she enthusiastically latches to
his unspent sex again he suddenly falls atop her like a poleaxed ox, cramming
his cock all the way up inside her and revelling in the sound of her pleasurably
shocked squeal. Her delight echoes from the poster-clad walls, pours through
the drapes and out the open window to carom around the sleeping city.
The convoluted Centraxian
household is surprisingly silent after the tempestuous partying that filled it
throughout the night; the only other sound comes from the record player’s
automatic arm clanking into position as the Rolling Stones spin to a halt. Yet
the prince remains ill at ease. Despite the fact he’s embedded to the hilt in this
sweet, sexy, eager and appreciative girl, he can’t get his ladylove out of his
mind. “I don’t want to leave her alone…” he begins, but the insistent little
teen closes her legs around his tightly squeezed hardness and kisses the rest
of his sentence away.
“She’ll be okay,” Chrissie assures
him as he sinks all the way down inside her and snuggles inside her most
intimate possible embrace. “Now make love t’ me again, the way y’did b’fore –
all alone, jus’ you an’ me thjis time…”
So he does.
*
A True Story
- R. A.
Continues…
Images – Author’s
* Sing This All Together lyrics by The
Rolling Stones (Copyright)
Further
true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
Sex & Drugs & Rock ’n’
Roll 29 – HearingVoices
AND
And for
further enlightenment see
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
New
Illuminations – http://newilluminations.blogspot.com
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 small donation or leave a
comment – and thanks for reading this far…