Shaman of Centraxis 28
*
“So
good,” she says before her eyes prise open, “…even better’n… than…”
“Practice sex?” her lover suggests. Natasha tongues liquid
saltiness that drips from her nostrils, dribbling from her lips and chin in
sticky, torpid runnels. Her sozzled mind riffles through blurring lexicons
while unfocused hazel eyes prise open into slanting sunbeams.
“Better than being…” He almost says, “surprised by your
brother?” but stops himself; the last thing he wants to do is remind the
breathless beauty of her intrusive sibling. Her smooth brow furrows into a frown.
She continues as though she hasn’t heard him; “...than the firs’ time… first
time y’made me really come…” Her unfocused eyes drift back toward his. “…back at
camp… ’member?”
“Every second,” he assures her, watching those gorgeous
eyes blink open. He makes a hefty effort not to slur his words in mimicry of
the girl’s drunken mumbles while he admires the symmetrically angular
perfection of her aristocratic features. “Random access memory,” he reminds her
while childhood recollections heave and toss like the roiling sea that fills
half their world. “But that wasn’t like…
this…”
Natasha tries to heave herself up on one elbow but abandons
the effort and subsides into the sand, still pressed partway beneath his grit-studded
flesh. “Ev’ry secon’? You reckon? Everything?”
“Everything.” He presses closer with this bold
declaration. His mind is impaled by sudden recurrent images of a much littler girl
falling away from him into shadowed darkness –long blonde tresses and duck blue
cotton skirt wave goodbye as her mouth splits open in a scream… Natasha shades
her eyes with an 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 dawdles against his already rehardening shaft. She drops his
meaty tube onto her belly and pulls at the band of her bikini briefs to stretch
sandy material away from her loins.
“Same as you.”
“Don’ be too sure. Y’never know what a woman might be
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 to enter her with
stunningly unerring surety. The younger girl gasps as he squeezes halfway
inside her gripping threshold in a single swift motion. When she twists beneath
him and scrunches closer he fills her to the brim with engorged male flesh. Her
eyes slip upward, then roll and blink in the blinding sunlight before locking to
his with unfocused intensity. His nostrils flare, inhaling her essence, the
scent of sex, the salt of the sea. Her mouth and eyes form three wide circles
and he waits, stilled, for her bleary sight to realign. “See?” he declares.
“Mmm… man…” Natasha
moans and composes herself beneath his regard. “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 presses a little further inside, long
nails claw his back to hold him in place. She squirms beneath him with a
delicious twist and he closes the gap to embed more firmly inside her embrace. “Mmm…
Nasher…”
“Don’ change the subject,” she insists, holding his gaze
with refocusing eyes. A flex of her thighs travels all the way up to his thrusting
crown as soft, firm, slender legs slide up round his torso.
“Oh, babe… doing this
with you is a better 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 blinding flash and a feeling like bursting from
underwater up into air. The next thing I remember’s a few seconds later.”
“Oh?” she says, flicking a sandy fingertip against his
navel. What, when they cut yer cord?”
“Before that. 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, along
with the playful slap on his backside that drives him in another inch to widen
both her pink-lipped smiles. “He had thick black frames on these 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 a wrinkled green gown and matching
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
shampers… there’s still some hash left…”
“But first there’s more of this…” He shows her how much, surprising her into immobilised silence
as her gaze weaves downward along his body. He sweeps their hair from her sun-pinked
face and slowly glides back and forth, staring down at flickering eyelids. She
succumbs to the gradual tidal motion, rocking and rolling her cradling pelvis around
his probing hardness. “Don’t change the subject,” she breathes through a
crooked grin.
“I’m not… and 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. It flaps 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
right into her cervix. “Oh!”
“Sorry…”
“Ungh…”
“…Uh… we could have another pipe…”
“Ohhh… mmm… not… now… juss like that… don’
move…” Her lips are far sweeter than any wine, more intoxicating than any
drug. His eyes slip shut while he savours sweet bliss and tastes the
inebriating fragrance of her panting breath. The sensational feeling of trim
buxom girlhood shifting beneath and around his flesh is utterly absorbing. Sighs
waft strands of wavy hair from her entrancing face as she slides, grinds and
bumps on the blanket. He watches her eyes snap suddenly open as she freezes up
and 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. He flops from her tight wet heat
before he can match her unexpected motion. “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 the oil-sodden ties while she glances around the empty beach, but can’t
manage to retie the strings into a bow while she rolls onto the sand. He sits
up and she surrenders the attempt to hide herself when she’s ascertained
they’re still quite alone.
He watches the cloth peel away 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 glistening
pole. “I think we’re okay,” she says through a strangely shy smile and stretches
her briefs back into place, completely concealing her freshly trimmed pubes.
Perspiration dews the ultrafine down that graces her cheeks, her neck and her
high sandy brow. Catlike eyes shimmer in sunlight and carefully manicured nails
draw oily trails along her pinking flank. Every detail of her perfect, sultry,
ultra-feminine being is magnified by his unspent 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 to foamy oblivion on the endless shore of their private
world. The golden sunshine is blindingly brilliant and hotly basting even in
mid-afternoon.
Black rocks glitter in dazzling sunlight. A few yards away
from their sheltered nook an unfelt breeze swirls eddies of grit on a bare
patch of sand. Natasha sits up and searches 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 naked exposure. He presses the button and her startled expression
is momentarily occluded when the shutter snaps. 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 her recurving lips.
“Uh…” she looks down 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 the alluring girl. He still hopes to tease the last
vestiges of cloth from her near-nude slick 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.
“The next I remember? My mother’s eyes – a little while
later. 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!” He stares into her soul
and wonders aloud, “How can you be so sure?”
She tilts her head to one side, her expression unreadable
as her eyes twinkle and glisten. “Come on,” she says, ignoring his question, “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.” The
hash lights on the second try and he fills his lungs with smoke.
“I can just imagine…”
“You ever dream about me?”
In reply she leans back, pushes 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. Her hair whips around her face as
she shakes her head from side to side, hiding any clue that might reveal the
song’s meaning. He takes the opportunity to snap another shot while the dizzied
girl tries to brush sand from her oily body. She 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 life’s meanderings. The panoply of
imagery grinds to a halt and his memories revolve around the vision of a toy
xylophone striking his head, and then a small, blonde, pigtailed girl falls
away, screaming – 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, still staring right through her.
“With lots of other kids and a big blue icecream cake that had a blue and white
striped 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. Looked like the Titanic.”
“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 cake right now.” At that moment
he espies a distant steel-blue steamer cruising just over her shoulder near the
hazy horizon, uncannily like the one on his 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, even a lifeboat’d do,” she says, fanning
her breasts with one hand while taking the pipe with the other.
“You’re a hot chick all right,” the hippy replies through
a dense bluish cloud. He’s surprised to see a blush flush 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 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 a
tangle from her luxuriant hair with oiled sandy 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 on the sand. Her skin is irresistibly enflaming as
they roll onto the blanket, immersed in the bliss of a suckling kiss. Slim
slippery thighs slip along his flanks and a firm pair of nubile breasts slide
across his hairless chest to fall into his waiting hands. She squats above him and
spreads her legs wider until their sex almost meets; her cloth-covered heat
hovers just beyond the straining tip of his instantly rekindled erection. He
moans when her fingers grip halfway around it. She holds him at bay in an
unremitting grasp and rubs her sex against his crown while teenage tongues and
breaths entwine.
She comes up for air as a trio of gulls wheels above her
glorious face in a cloudless expanse of aquamarine. “Um… 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 the fulsome globes that sway
above and is swiftly rewarded with an answering signal 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 sweet afternoon delight.
“Less find a place to camp on the beach f’r the night,”
she says, peering onshore behind him, “instead of in the van. 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 from a nearby
declivity, its presence unseen and entirely unsuspected until it starts startled
upward, flapping aloft in salt-laden 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!” she insists, nodding toward a nearby sand hill. A
pair of long sticks festooned with fishing lines emerges from the dunes,
bobbing and swaying in slanting sunlight, soon followed by a floppy pair of sun
bleached fishermen’s hats. Natasha ducks closer as bearded, sun-wrinkled heads
appear in profile against the startling blue sky.
Sumptuous breasts press deliciously
close as his hardness pulses between their 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 against 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
a creamy overflow from delectable lips. “Wow… thassa bombora.”
Her young mate is too dumbstruck to reply. “You know,” she
continues, “a tidal wave… or like
some’f those waves out there…” She points at the smashing 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, then
closes his eyes and studiously ignores the 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 things
that enter 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. “…and I’m sure they’re very interesting.”
When she starts stroking his cock more energetically his
palm cups her right breast and stops its fluidic roaming across her chest. “You’re
more than a handful,” she tells him.
“You’re one to talk…” 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 fist 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-blurred 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’d write it down, though. An’ take
some more snaps. Iss all up to you. You’re the wild runaway, not me.” He loves
the way her breasts jiggle when she shrugs. “Who’d want to read it anyway?
Everyone’s always full of their own lives and hardly anyone reads anymore, you dodo. 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 massages an irresistible 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 and all. And you couldn’ write about the hash, either, or we c’d go
to jail for years and 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 firm 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, cook it up an’
we’ll get totally smashed. I’m sure there’s some whiskey in the van, too – for
emergencies.” Ram’yana reluctantly releases her breast and leans across toward the
esky. “I usually never go anywhere without papers.” The 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. “Just like my grandfather.” Nasher
looks up at him and her mouth lolls open, tongue poised an inch from his cock. “What
d’you mean?” she asks, and 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.
Natasha drags the bathers down his legs and casts them
onto the blanket. “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 wanna 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 guy 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.
Then, without even exhaling, she swallows his crown back into the silken
enfoldment of her taut little mouth and wraps her small hands around him. “You
have me there, ahh– but it was only
to stop anyone noticing - uhh... umm…
What was the question again?” Natasha doesn’t take a break in her lusty ministrations and
the lad moans for a few blissful 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 flawless face, stretched and suckling
around 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 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 still locked inside his mouth.
Almost drowned by the crash of waves, the squawking birds
and wet sucking sounds of Nasher’s lips he hears a voice on the whickering wind.
He hears words drifting, blurred by distance and sexual bliss; “Later, later…”
*
A true story
*
- 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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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com