Bombora
Shaman of Centraxis 29
*
He
glances about but can see no sign of fishermen, beachcombers or anyone else save he and her,
all the way to the hazy horizon. When his eyes return to feast on her beauty
he’s distinctly aware of the heartbeat thudding within his chest and the
synchronous pulse that beats in his groin.
An utterly girlish hand lands on his leg and an index
finger drills into the meat of his thigh, but those perfectly addictive pink
lips hold every iota of his attention. “You sure you want me to bore you with
this stuff?” She answers with a twist of
her digit. The world revolves around her as words bubble from his lips like the
well-rehearsed lines of a meaningless pantomime.
“Uhuh... um… my grandfather was active in the labour Bunds
around the time of the Russian revolution,” he begins, sidling closer on the
blanket and sliding his hand under her bikini bottom to fondle a firmly
globular girlish cheek. “You sure you want me to talk while…” Her eyes roll
upward to meet his and her brow crinkles beneath auburn waves as she nods
impatiently. Her nodding elicits a heartfelt moan from her boyfriend as her
hand creeps up along his thigh.
“Oh, baby… I’ll keep it, uh, short” he assures her while
her tongue polishes his knob. He feels rather than sees her smile at his denial
of the obvious.“Oh, Nasher… you
don’t want me to come– not before we make love again - do you?” She shakes her
head around the lever of his rigid pole and one cheek protrudes outward,
stretching tautly about the bulbous crown as she replies; “Mm-mmm.” The
sensation is indescribable.
“Oh, Nasher!Mm… uh… anyway, uh, before the
revolution he published tracts and pamphlets, and in one of them he criticized
the Tsar. So the Tsar’s secret police gave him a life sentence in Siberia… mm… of course… mmm.... ah... ” His fingers outline his girl’s tautly
stretched lips when they draw back wetly along his shaft. The fleshy membranes
pout and bulge outward around the pythonic head of his glans and her eyes close
while she concentrates on sound and sensation. When he stops speaking she stops
sucking, so he continues – and so does she.
“But the secret police were sticklers for paperwork, you
see, and oh fuck… they couldn’t just jail him, so they called him in for a
medical examination... Mm…” She stops
suckling and waits for him to go on, so he does. “When he got there, uh, when
he got there the guy at the desk asked for his papers so he handed them over,
and the guy nodded at a door and said, ‘Now just head into that room for your
examination.’ ” She swallows his length right into the maw of her throat and he
gasps and groans to a halt, so she stops with his crown jammed in her airway
until he starts again.
This time it takes much longer before he speaks and her
face is red and darkening when he recovers his train of thought. He continues as
quickly as he can to finish the tale and get onto more important things; “And he
says, ‘The welfare organisation told me not to go anywhere without my papers,’
and the guy assures him it’s all right and he’ll only be in there a while and
his papers will be safe. My grandfather says, ‘I’m not going anywhere without
my papers,’ and the guy looks at the guard by the door and the guard cocks his
rifle and growls at my grandfather. So he goes in through the door.
“And on the other side there’s a man at a desk with two
armed guards and he asks, ‘Where are your papers?’. And they gave him life in
Siberia for having no papers. Oh, Princess…”
She glides back and forth between his thighs. Her hair tickles his scrotum and
her hands rove his torso – and she stops again.
“They wouldn’t jail him unless they had a reason – on
paper. The Bolshies let him out after the revolution and he grew up and had a
family – he was only a teenager when they arrested him, a uni student…. mm, oh,
Nasher…” His fingers outline the
girl’s hollowed cheeks and high curving cheekbones while his thumb gently
strokes her sealed eyelids. He raises his hips and watches himself slide
further inside her stretching lips. “Ngo omng,” she murmurs around his pole as
she gradually works her way down its length.
She stops him with her teeth, softly but determinedly
holding him in place while her hands work the rest of his length. “Nmo ong.” He
realises she’s urging him to ‘go on’ and reaches beneath her flowing mane to
stroke her neck and shoulders.
Only when he begins speaking again does she release him
from her ensnarement. She lets him work his way more deeply into her tenderness
while he talks. “Then in World War Two, Stalin’s men decided to send him and
his wife and son to Siberia – to separate camps. After all, if he’d been
capable of criticising the Tsar, he was capable of criticising anyone... Oh,
darling… oh fuck.” When her tongue
laves his head inside her mouth his long pianist’s fingers entwine in her hair to
grip her locks and hold her in place. He can barely contain himself. “My father
was fifteen… oh, Nasher, let’s not
waste it… let’s make love…” He attempts to withdraw but her hands bear down on
him and her perfect white teeth lock firmly into place again.
Natasha’s eyes open with a viridian glow of yearning need.
He watches her sozzled eyes twinkle as her hands and lips and tongue work at
his cock, attempting to make him jet inside her mouth once more. When one of
the intoxicated girl’s dainty hands tenderly cups his testes before wrapping
around behind his hairy sack, half encircling the root of his shaft, he breathes
more deeply and manfully resolves to hold his seed in his balls for as long as
he’s able. Her other hand milks his swollen girth, bumping between her lips and
his balls as that thoroughly delectable mouth slips and slides with rapid,
frenzied determination.
“No point trying to stop you now,” he tells her
breathlessly. “Not when you’re so busy practicing…” Oh, fuck, Goddess, he thinks, oh,
wow! Ohh…
He turns away from her gorgeous face so he isn’t dazzled
into orgasm by her beauty. Her alluring glamour draws him into semi-hypnotised
thrall, and he watches the distant steamer plodding slowly along the horizon,
barely visible in the salty distance. He breathes deeply into his diaphragm,
all the way from his depths; he’s found that sometimes helps to hold back the
flood of youthful spume. Sometimes it works – when the primal, secret wish to
fill a girl’s womb with spraying semen doesn’t overcome his desire to stay
electrically hard and potently virile for them both, so they can fuck for
eternity in Tantric bliss. Or when a female’s luscious talents overwhelm his
restraint and he joins with her in a race to the finish.
Distracting himself can work sometimes, too – so he scans
the impossibly wide and distant horizon and all the ruffling billows and white
water churning between them and the end of the world, while the younger teenager
pleasures him with surging, sucking, swallowing abandon. His cock curves
slightly and she groans as it jostles into and out of her throat. His hands
flow down along her breasts, across her ribs and past her inward curving belly,
through her curly underbrush to the bold button of her clitoris in its bright
rainbow gift wrapping. She moans and twists around his length. He can scarcely
hold back the eruption contained inside the small palm that caresses his balls.
When her other hand releases the base of his shaft he
yanks backward with a twist of his hips and his cock pops out of her succulent heat
into the salt-dry breeze. He falls sideways onto the blanket and pulls the
bikini halfway down her thighs.
“No!” Natasha yells. She grabs the stringy fabric with
both hands to stop it from ripping or sliding any further down her flanks. “Let
go!” Her sudden fury seems genuine, intensely implacable, so the young shaman
releases the bikini and leans over her near nakedness to reach for the hash
pipe. “I told you – nobody gets to
see all of me! Why d’you stop?” Her face is squelched into a knot of confused
drunken anger. “I was jus’ getting into it!”
“Sorry,” he says, stroking her calf with a hand that
completely encircle her slender limb. “We could leave them around your ankles…”
He sees his attempt at a joke is a bad idea. “I want to make love with you
again…”
“We were making
love!” Natasha springs out of his hands and sprints down through the dunes to
the empty beach. Ram’yana watches the pneumatically pumping muscles of her backside
and the wild dark trailing pennant of her hair for a moment before he drops the
pipe, rises and dashes after the predictably unpredictable teen. He’s slightly
hampered by his erection and by the time he reaches the foaming juncture of
land and sea the girl is already diving into the first line of massive breakers.
He hesitates. The fury of the surf has subsided a little
while the young lovers lay entranced by their private pleasures, but the waves
are still pretty huge. Dangerously huge. Like Alice through the looking glass, Natasha’s
pink legs disappear through the first rolling hill of a wide breaking wavefront
that scrolls toward the beach. Ram’yana races into the water with a
high-stepping gait, feeling the undertow already pulling him toward the
horizon.
Great, he thinks dazedly as he scans for
a sign of his girlfriend beyond the foaming whitecaps. A rip. He’s abruptly aware how drunk and stoned he is, and how
completely naked before the fury of the surf. By the time he dives through the
first relatively low wall of water, with his heart pumping even more rapidly than
his kicking legs, his forgotten erection has shrunken away.
He catches a glimpse of pale rainbow-split derriere as he
emerges from the other side of the wave into a low trough. Natasha disappears
into the base of a fifteen foot wave that’s bearing down on him and he swims in
a desperate attempt to go through or over it before it breaks on top of him.
The riptide helps, drawing him over the crest toward Natasha, who twists aside and
floats like a cork in a rolling, roiling, foaming beer keg. Going over the top
of the wave is like hitting the crest of the Big Dipper in Luna Park. The view
is awesome in more ways than one; Natasha’s pink breasts bob and rise as she
waves at him and calls something that’s barely a squeak by the time it reaches
him; he’s high in the sky above her, lofted and buoyed into the air. He calls
back urgently as he plummets down the back of the wave – “Behind you!”
Natasha half-turns toward the impossibly rearing wall of
water that’s suddenly rising behind her and he sees the terrified expression on
her shocked face just before she’s bowled ass over tit. The girl attempts to
dive beneath the smashing wall but is carried tumbling deep within its churning
vortex. She’s nowhere to be seen when the monstrous wave comes down on him in a
blinding, literally breathtaking rush and the world is blotted out.
A bombora!
Air is a memory, encapsulated in tiny bubbles that stream around
the young shaman as he rolls through roiling chaos. He’s a foetal primate
buffeted within the primal womb of the Great Mother. A dark pounding caul
presses tightly round his skull, blinding him amid twisting currents in
successive waves of lengthening oblivion. He spins through a vortex with no
clue to guide him up or down, toward life or extinction. Desperately craving clear
blue sky he surrenders to the bombora, letting it swallow him into its depths.
Moments stretch between here and eternity until he swirls from the watery
cyclone’s grasp, feeling the last of the air in his lungs buoying him in a
direction that’s almost certainly – hopefully - up.
His arms
burst into the freedom of space a split second before his mouth opens to draw
in the all-pervasive salty water. He’s born anew, gasping in the white wash, flailing
in the brilliant glare of the summer Sun. A shadow rears over him. He shakes
his head from side to side and sucks in a quick lungful of air as he dives
toward the base of another mighty wall of water. The wave smashes down on the
spot he’s just vacated, breaking into a bone-shattering dumper onto the swirling
sand revealed before its clenching fist – many, many tons of water pounding on
the unresisting shore of the Great Southern Land. The teenager narrowly avoids
a hidden basalt boulder encrusted with serrated barnacles and knife-sharp coral
as he collides with the unexpectedly close sandy bottom and rebounds toward the
surface.
The surf drops him back onto his
feet in a deep trough for a jarring second and his only thought is to escape
the murderous water. He surges upward, only to be swirled back toward another
wave by a rip that snatches the sand from beneath his feet. Then – with eyes
stinging and limbs struggling for purchase in the unopposable, unappeasable
currents – he remembers Natasha. Where is
she? The teenage mage has no time for more than a glance at the expanse of
foaming eternity before another wave encompasses the world. His instincts guide
him into motions rehearsed since infancy at gentler suburban Bondi Beach and he
strikes out ahead of the breaking wave, bodysurfing towards the foaming shore through
turbulent white water.
His smooth chest scrapes against
the gritty sand as he gasps for breath. He claws his way out of the vestiges of
the rip that still sucks at his legs like a hungry beast. He pulls himself out
of the foam and rolls onto his back, blinded by salt and sunlight as he coughs
up a throat full of seawater. His first attempt to get up is foiled by a flood
of salty foam that explodes from his nose and he reels sideways onto one elbow.
As the sneezing fit subsides he sits up and slowly climbs to his feet, shaking
a rainbow spray of water from his long chestnut hair. Then he shades his eyes
with both hands and scans the length of the beach and the unremitting vista of surf.
There’s no sign of Natasha. He begins to call her name, painfully conscious of
the resounding, pounding beat that’s drowning out all but the shrillest squawks
of the wheeling gulls.
“Natasha!” The waves roll in as
Ram’yana steps forward into the swirling tide and is almost pulled off his
feet. The water’s no deeper than his ankles, but the soft sand swirls around
his feet in the relentless currents and he sinks and slides back toward the dashing
waves. “Natasha!” He struggles backward onto firmer footing and runs along the
beach for twenty paces, then runs back to his starting point. “Natasha!” He
hears the cry before he sees dark hair swirling amid white bubbles; “Bring me a
towel!”
The diminutive girl emerges,
hunkered down below the surface only a few yards away, crouched in the rip as
it drags her body sideways, parallel to the beach, with her hair streaming out beside
her. “A towel!” she screams. “Now!”
“Get out of the rip!” Ram’yana
yells, rushing toward her along the surf line. He steps carefully into the
churning water with arms extended toward her and she shrieks at him shrilly; “No! Get back! A towel! Bring me a towel!”
When she waves him away the current pulls her over sideways. He stands
motionless, torn between rushing in to help and obeying her command.
As she dives into deeper water he
can see that her rainbow bikini has been dragged from her body by clutching
currents. A huge wave approaches, rearing to smash itself down onto the rocks
and sand only a few body-lengths from the struggling girl and she’s sucked back
into its maw while he watches. The foam that surrounds her is drawn back
beneath the striking fist of salt water and she turns and flips herself into
the rising wall.
Ram’yana catches a glimpse of
flashing legs and a darkly furred cleft and despite the dire circumstances he
feels his cock begin to swell. Foolhardy or not, he overcomes the urge to watch
and wait; he’s still recovering from his last desperate foray. Undistracted by
his sudden arousal he abandons all caution and plunges in after her. Determined
to reach her, he’s instantly stymied by the magnificent force of the endless ocean,
completely helpless in its violent embrace.
He realises he has no chance to
even see the girl, let alone reach
her in the hummocks and hillocks of white-capped ocean. He struggles to free
himself from the rip that’s pulling him along the beach at a rapid rate of
knots while waves roll him along the sandpaper bottom. The pull of the rip is
so strong it’s created a wide, deep ditch in the sandy shoreline and the
Centraxian shaman is tugged through a channel of deep water filled with
swirling debris.
There’s no point fighting the
impossible current and he uses his waning strength to propel him at right
angles, to emerge from the rip into momentarily shallow water and drag his
heaving body onto drier sand once more. This time there’s no coughing or
sneezing to delay his recovery, but he feels the dizzying effects of the
alcohol and hash and the rapidly diminishing vigour of his youthful body as he
clambers to his feet.
His muscles feel strained and slow
to respond as he sprints along the beach in search of his lover. He’s relieved
to see her drag herself onto the shore and huddle down on hard wet sand fifty
yards away, sitting at the water’s edge with long dark hair plastered across
her naked pink body. She squats in a few inches of pulsating foam, wraps her
arms around herself and turns to face him as he approaches.
“A towel!” she roars, water pouring from her nostrils.“Now!”
He skids to a stop beside her. “Are
you all right?”
“I will be when you bring me a
towel.” Natasha glares at him with a chill, brittle stare that freezes the heat
of the summer day as she backs into deceptively shallow white foam. Ram’yana strides
forward and stops when he reflects that he’s standing stark naked in front of
her with his recovering youthful tumescence only an arm’s length from her glowering
face.
“I’ve seen everything you have to
show…”
“Not all at once you haven’t!”
Natasha squats down deeper in the shallows amid the buffeting currents, her
athletic calves and thigh muscles straining to hold her in place as she slowly
sinks toward the rip tide. “No-one sees me naked! No-one!”
“All right,” he relents. “Just get
out of the water, okay?”
“Can you see my bikini?” Ram’yana
is dumbstruck, unsure how to reply. The surf is deafening and he feels dizzy
with mortal shock that renders him sympathetic to Natasha’s plight, but
momentarily unable to respond. She flings her hair back from her face. He’s
aware that she’s aware that he’s staring at her nakedness, but he can’t take his
eyes off her straining flanks, the perfect curving line of her bum, the bulging
swell of fulsome breasts when her arms cross about them, the artful arrangement
of her ribs; the way they distend and contract with each rapid deep breath. The
flint in her eyes softens and she licks her lips. He belatedly realises that
his erect penis is the focus of her regard.“Get me a towel and we can make
love right here.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Hurry!” He needs no further
incentive to break into another sprint that slows to a jog when he reaches soft
sand. The winding footprints of their flight from the dunes are the only marks
marring the random traceries of a windswept surface. Ram’yana slogs through the
ankle-deep fine powder, obliterating the marks of his pursuit of Natasha. The
colourful mushroom of their beach umbrella rears above the dune-line, but as he
approaches he sees that there’s something definitely wrong. Its fabric hangs in
tattered strips from the bent and broken frame. A belated warning beacon flashes
in his pounding head and he begins running again when he reaches the
grass-fixed slope of dune.
When he breasts the crest of the
slope a swarm of seagulls flutters away in surprise. The teenager stops and
stares motionless at the scene that confronts him. He’s unprepared for the
disarray that is all that remains of their pleasant campsite. There’s almost
nothing left except the empty esky, which has been tipped onto its side. The
ice has been strewn onto the sand and the champagne bottles and food are
nowhere to be seen. Even the beach blanket is missing.
His first ludicrous surmise is
that the seagulls are responsible for the shambles - until he notices that all their
clothes are gone; as are their bags and other possessions. And the towels are nowhere
to be seen. Ram’yana stands stark naked in the bright afternoon sunlight, sand
plastered to his pale legs. He realises he’s on the edge of the Tasman Sea,
many miles from civilization with an equally naked young girl – and someone has
made off with all their belongings; someone – or a few someones - who may still
be lurking unseen.
He’s torn between rushing back to
Natasha with the news and scanning for tracks, and possibly recovering their
possessions while there may still be time. His mind reels when he considers the
girl’s reaction when he gives her the news (and fails to return with her towel).
He turns the esky over in a frantic search for anything she can use to cover
herself, impelled by the knowledge he mustn’t leave her alone any longer than
necessary.
There’s nothing. He desperately rips
one of the remaining strips of material from what’s left of the beach umbrella
and notices the fabric has been neatly slashed by something very sharp before
being torn away. All that’s left are useless vestiges along the bent and broken
struts, thin as ribbons and shorter than shoelaces.
In mounting desperation he
furtively climbs the highest dune adjacent to the small sandy dell of their love
nest and peers over the summit. He can see as far as the empty car park a mile
or so down the beach – and realises that Natasha’s panel van is no longer
parked on the gravel. Nothing is.
She takes it pretty well – far better than he expects when he approaches her,
huddled within a bulbous shroud of yellowish seaweed at the high waterline. She
only panics for a moment or two, then arranges a few strands of weed across her
shoulders so that they mingle with her long lank hair to conceal the twin foci
of her nipples and much of her perfect pink breasts. Both teens are
preternaturally pale and easily sunburned.
“Well someone must come here soon,” Natasha
insists. She seems dispirited and bedraggled as she squats in damp sand.
“You’re sure the van’s gone?”
“ ’Fraid so. But you’re right - we’ll
be able to get a lift sooner or later.” Ram’yana eyes the Sun, so low in the
sky he can observe it clearly. “At least it isn’t going to rain,” she says.
“Might be
better if it did. But I guess you’re right. Besides, there’s a town somewhere
down that way, isn’t there?” He gestures vaguely into the distance and Natasha
squints dubiously into the spray-shrouded horizon as he scrunches down beside
her.
“Not for
twenty miles. Or more.”
“Well – that’s
not too far. We’ll be fine – but we’d better find somewhere to get out of the wind.”
He covers his eyes with his hands as a spray of fine sand peppers his naked
skin. “It’s just coming up again.” She stiffens when he reaches around her back
to comfort her, and he wonders if his confident tone is in any way reassuring.
“It
usually does in the afternoon.” Natasha looks around, craning her neck to see
anything out of the ordinary without standing up and exposing herself to her
attentive boyfriend. Ram’yana can’t decide whether her behaviour is comical,
exasperating or simply maddening, but calms as he sympathises with her plight
and stares at her bright nubile beauty. When her lips part to speak he longs to
kiss them. “I remember a cool place… I think it’s over there where those rocks
are.” Her eyes regain their usual twinkle and her voice betrays a slight bemusement
behind her vexed tone. “Getting’ cold, huh?” she asks with a nod at his
wrinkling penis.
“A little.” She leans into his
embrace and he admires the long lean curves of her freckled flesh, follows the
curve of her subtly swelling bicep as she shades her eyes with one hand and
automatically covers her breasts with the other. “I wish we had some more
champagne,” she murmurs – and he remembers the good news. “I feel stone cold
sober now.”
“I stashed the stash under a shell
automatically before you ran… before we went for a swim.” The small pipe and
cube of hashish – and their only box of matches – is revealed in an envelope of
slashed material in Ram’s extended palm. “Well… they missed it, I suppose” he ventures
with what he hopes is a winning smile.
“Let’s collect any driftwood we
see,” Natasha suggests, flashing white teeth at the stash. She keeps one hand
cupped over her pubes. “It gets cold here at night. Thank heaven for the
matches! Come on – I feel too exposed here. Let’s get out of the wind. After
you – and don’t turn around, okay?”
“All right,” he sighs.
“Promise.”
It isn’t a request.
“Promise.”
Meandering between lines of
flotsam and partly buried ranks of jetsam, they collect fragments of driftwood
and broken packing crates. He carries most of it, mildly exasperated that she
keeps one hand concealing her loins at all times and follows him all the way. They
find a singleton useable rubber thong and a few illegible fragments of
newspapers and glossy advertisements before they finally approach the weathered
stand of basalt boulders surrounded by a fringe of low scrub, far above the
high water line in the base of the first dune. By the time they reach the rocks
the Sun is almost setting. Natasha has already exhorted him
not to turn around on four occasions and he resists the urge to look at her as
he calls into the rising wind; “Is this it?”
“Just past the first rocks,” she
calls back. “There’s a shelter – almost a cave.” Ram’yana leads the way through
jumbled rocks at the base of the boulders and skirts their dark grey bulk. He
emerges into a sand-strewn windbreak between tumbled basalt blocks that form a
horseshoe-shaped hidden space in the dunes. A small rock circle surrounds a few
blocks of charcoaled wood and a rusted tin can, and a few sheets of torn
newspaper have been stashed beneath a sooty overhang that partially shields the
fireplace.
“Looks great. You’ve been here
before?”
Natasha ignores the question and
strides past him to the overhang, where she grabs a nearly intact broadsheet of
newsprint. “Home sweet home. And it even has a wardrobe!” She wraps the crinkled
paper around her waist and holds it in place with one hand while she crooks a
fine, lithe leg, bending her knee and inclining her hips in a caricature of a
modelling pose. “What do you think?” The smiling black and white newsprint face
of a football hero leers sideways above her loins and a rubber-capped bevy of
water polo heroines smiles at him, arrayed down one of Natasha’s athletic thighs.
A headline curves around the arch of a hip; ‘Win In The Water’. Bulbous
vine-like growths of seaweed hang over her breasts alongside thicker strands of
the yellowish sea-stuff.
“Very fetching,” he says. “A very
urbane cavewoman. Feel better now?”
“I will when you fetch some more
wood and we get this fire lit,” she replies, fastening the paper against her
hip with a thin white length of bone from a fragmented seabird. She seems
completely sobered. “This little cave here under the overhang stays really warm.
And then we can have some hash.”
“A fire might not be a great
idea,” Ram’yana demurs, unwilling to directly mention the possibility that the thieves
may still be lurking unseen. “Besides – we haven’t enough wood to last all
night. Let’s wait until we need it.” Natasha’s eyes and teeth flash toward him
from deep shadows beneath the overhang. “We can find some more before it gets
darker,” she says. “And we can warm up some rocks and cover ourselves with
newspaper if we have to. And of course, there’s always body warmth…”
“Sounds great to me –we’ll be
fine, darlin’. But a fire will be seen for miles – the smoke I mean – until
it’s really dark. Maybe even then…”
She bites her lower lip. “You said
the van’s gone, right? You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry
about.”
“You’re probably right – but let’s
just wait a while, okay? I’ll go and get some more wood if you like.” He climbs
toward the mouth of their hidden shelter.
“Come here first.” He turns and
smiles into the shadows; Natasha continues talking as he approaches. “I think I
like you better naked. You can be my willing slave, if you like. I’ll treat you
pretty well.”
“Promise?”
“Of course!” She reaches out and
grasps the solid length of his penis and her expression becomes serious. “But
promise me you won’t try to see me naked again. Promise.”
“I promise, sweet Nasher.” He
knows better than to argue with her, no matter how antiquated he thinks her
notions; Natasha is saving that glorious sight for her husband in his marriage
bed. “But you know, it still isn’t safe…”
“Well what can we do? Hide here
until we starve to death or die of thirst or exposure or frazzle to a crisp?
I’m totally pissed off about the van and all my – our – stuff…” Her grip
becomes painful and she notices him grimace. “Sorry… but whoever stole it split
with everything. They’re long gone by now. Our main worry is finding someone to
help us get back to the city. There isn’t even a public phone, would you
believe it? But… it’s dark enough, now…”
He can barely see her in twilit
shadow. Only the whites of her eyes and flashing teeth are truly visible; the
rest of her is a pale blur. “Come here… make love to me… and don’t rip my skirt.”
She tugs him further into the darkness of the small declivity by his swollen cock
and drags its hard length toward her heat. “Careful…” She leans back against
the stony wall, lifts her paper skirt and her hips thrust forward as she pushes
him inside her incredibly hot, tight, wet little vagina. He enters her slowly,
suspending his body from the rock wall so that the only place their bodies
touch is at the throbbing juncture of their lustful teenage loins.
At last…
They both sigh as he squeezes
forward and Natasha’s inner labia completely envelope him. She holds him in
place, unmoving, as their lips meet in a lingering kiss. He presses her
full-length against the rock and when he reaches the summit of her sweet depths
they join in a silent timeless moment of deep contact, eyes locked and chests
rising and falling in unison. He pulls away until they’re just far enough apart
that the girl’s hard jutting nipples caress his hairless chest with each
inhalation. Her fingers stay wrapped around his base.
“Lay me down, but don’t come in
me,” the seaweed-draped cave girl entreats him. “Please… don’t come in me…” She
tugs him even more deeply up into her belly and wraps all four strong slim
limbs around his naked flesh.
Her weight seems inconsequential. He
kneels with her skin plastered to his and she pulls him down to press her into
soft yielding sand. She groans and licks his face and throat before her tongue
plunges between his teeth. Their hair mingles in their mouths. Ram’yana sucks
on her fleshy tongue as she begins to buck and moan beneath him with a rocking
rhythm. He mounts her fully, deeply, and reams her over and again.
Darkness enfolds them as they make
enraptured love halfway beneath the basalt half-roof of their shelter and a
pulsing indigo sky. The teenagers are both still partway drunk, stoned and in
shock from their near-death experiences in the frantic ocean and forced
exposure, and cling to each other as if they were the last couple on Earth. The
heat of their union and the sunlight that still bastes their bones are all the
warmth they need as they explore each other’s passions and membranes with the
increasingly frenzied abandon of unbridled young lust.
Natasha grunts and emits small
gasping screams in time with Ram’s thrusts as the tempo of their rocking
increases. She spreads her legs widely to vouchsafe him complete access and he
sheathes his rigid flesh almost full length into the scarcely experienced
girl’s muscular marrow. He withdraws almost completely with each exit before
plunging back into her steamy embrace. Her paper skirt, scrunched and
discarded, is completely forgotten as her thighs and calves move him faster,
harder, deeper.
“I’m coming! Oh, fuck me, fuck me,
fuck me!” she screams into his long
hair as it shrouds their faces. “I’m coming oh don’t come in me oh fuck fuck
ooh don’t oh Ram oh Ram oh don’t stop
no don’t come in me oh Ram oh Ram oh Ram oh Ram oh RAMMMM! OHH! Uhh… uhh… uhh… ohh…” A loud
tearing sound signals the final demise of Natasha’s short-lived skirt but she
appears not to notice. Her screams and moans and gasps rebound from the stony
walls and are joined by her young man’s deeper tones; “Oh Goddess, oh come, oh come oh Nasher, oh, honey mm, oh fuck, darling, mmm… uhh… Oh LOVE!”
He pins her to the planet with
every thrust, revelling in the strength of his rutting young body and glorying
in the pleasure he gives her. Her legs close around him and hot liquid muscles
bunch round his shaft each time he withdraws, sucking the seed from his balls.
He tries to pull back out of her
grasp when he feels swarming semen readying itself to jet into her equally
eager womb, but Natasha’s heels press him down inside her with irresistible
strength. Her hands grip his buttocks, forcing him all the way into her crushed
little body as she screams and writhes in orgasmic ecstasy.
“Aahh! Ohh!”
she cries, “Fuck me! Oh yeah! Thass it!Ohh! Uhh uhh uhhh… ohh, ohh, don’t stop, don’t stop, ram it, ram it into me,
oh it’s so hot and real, oh fuck me, fuck me with your big hard OOHH!!”
The sounds, the smell and feel of the
young horny beauty coming and coming, naked beneath him in fine silky sand, her
barely visible face rocking from side to side in a tenebrous halo of hair, make
restraint almost unendurable. His need to come inside her is an ache he can scarcely
contain. “Don’t stop!” She cries
between gasps. “Ohh, don’t stop!”
It’s all he can do to slow his
thrusting inside the girl as she moans and fucks his hot thick length of blood-
engorged cock. Natasha’s hips rise from the sand to thrust upward and roll
around him with unbearably pleasurable squeezing, roiling, fucking self-impalements
as her nubile little body automatically struggles to suck his seed into her
womb.
Her mind is blown away and she
reels in ongoing waves of overlapping orgasms. He’s thoroughly, sorely, lustily
tempted to lose it inside her, but resolves to hold back as long as he can.
Sweat plasters their skins and
long dark manes of hair together as they slide and glide along and inside each
other’s tight flesh, while their hands explore post-pubescent bodies with
intimate, desperately clutching caresses. Their motions are so naturally
ingrained that the lovers are unaware of their own movements, riding the
eternal wave that flows through their bodies, all tongues and loins and flesh
and juices in a unity of fantastic, glorious, unending teenage sex. The wanton, incarnadine lust
blazoned across Natasha’s lovely face in the barest glimmering of starlight and
the heaving, eternally unsated need of her perfect young body are experiences
Ram’yana knows he’ll remember forever.
Then his balls tense and rise
along his shaft and he feels the fiery beginning of his own orgasm. He holds
himself rigid as the screaming girl uses his body to pleasure herself while he feels
her unending orgasm rise up his spine and fill his entire being with
semi-vicarious absolute pleasure. He breathes deeply into the base of his
belly, poised on the brink of exploding inside Natasha’s barely ripe loins and
filling her trim little belly with a potent rush of white-hot sperm.
The shaman prince holds himself
still, deep inside the palpating muscles of her convulsing vagina until the
waves of her rocking, fucking, screaming, panting, hugging, convulsing loving finally
subside. He sighs with mingled pleasure and relief, still poised on the edge of
an unspent orgasm that slowly recedes into his balls as he breathes the life
force back into his belly and up his spine. He holds her body close all around
him and they roll onto their sides in the sand with her legs wrapped round his
waist. Their tongues talk to each other for a while, first inside her mouth and
then inside his, while his larger hands cup her pert bum and spread her wider.
The teenage caveman pulls his young mate’s flesh tightly about him, clothing
himself with her heat while she moans around their tongues.
He’s never known such unsullied
bliss. They lay motionless inside each other from here to eternity, gasping,
twinned conjoined amphibians washed up on the shore of the airy world,
unwilling to separate by even an inch, in a kissing clinch that goes on forever.
And then she moves. Natasha slides
his weight from her breasts, rolls aside, somehow climbs around and onto him
without releasing his hardness. Through besotted eyes somewhat adjusted to
darkness, he watches the ghostly glow of her wondrous shapeliness rise up his
pole until only his crown remains inside the darkly furred lips that squeeze around
his most sensitive portion. He watches her silhouette shift against the
purpling sky as she spears herself down along his shaft. She starts to fuck him
in a returning tide of heated hormones that slick his pole with faintly
phosphorescent white foam and rides him faster in the gloaming, her breath
ragged with interspersed moans. Ram’yana finds it a fraction easier
not to come, lying beneath Natasha as she rides her steed to another orgasm. He
settles back in the faintly warm sand to enjoy the incredible sensation of the
young girl’s first ongoing exploration of ‘real’ sex, and resolves to last as
long as he can for her. The sight and sounds and smell and taste and feel of her are overwhelming,
incredible, urgent and eternal, an unbelievably requited celebration of lust
that’s the culmination of years of youthful fantasising. I’ve dreamed this, he realises. Not
just imagined it, but dreamed it too…
The livid, fevered reality of the innocent
young schoolgirl paramour of his dreams making tender love with him and then fucking
his brains out in horny abandon is too good to let slip away. He holds himself
back, making the ecstatic moments stretch through the minutes - and then he sits
upright with cupped hands spreading her cheeks wide and jams her all the way
down into his lap and up again. He fucks the girl in a timeless fugue of rutting
union as he lifts and drops her light tight body to his preferred rhythm, and
hers.
When she starts moving for both of
them his hands roam her lean little buxom body, continually returning to the
full swelling waves of her breasts while her hair whips their skins and she
grinds herself around his shaft. He exults in the consummation of his athletic
mate’s lithe blazing lust and is awed by her abandoned surrender to pleasure,
amazed at her prodigious ability to come screaming like a cat in heat, over and
over again. Her cries resound and rebound from the cavernous walls and burst upward
to greet the first shining stars.
She finally falls gasping against
his chest, saliva drooling from her lips as she sucks at his nipple, hips still
slowly rising and falling -apparently of
their own volition - as she groans in exhausted, exulted satisfaction, splayed
across him, forgetful (at last) of her utter nudity.
The applause, when it comes, is
totally unexpected.
*
A true story
*
Continues…
- R.A.
Images – author’s
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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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
