Monday, 2 November 2009

Amber Heat, Wedding of Pan and Diana, The Tuning Inn

Amber Heat

Wedding of Pan and Diana

The Tuning Inn

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

Big Boing Mindstuff - Psychedelic Water 20

Big Boing Mindstuff

Psychedelic Water 20

The lovers emit a soundless cry as they traverse the permeable weave of time, soaring free of material constraint to explore the vast unchartable terrain of the collective consciousness - the Outer Planes of an Image Nation of all humankind combined. Their intense tantric conjunction lends wings to a rushing cometary flight, lofting the interlinked couple along a rarely achieved trajectory beyond the orgasmic stratosphere of loving lust, fuelling and fuelled by the supercharged electromagnetic engine of impassioned primate mating.

The shaman’s flesh is a white-hot metal brand smouldering within the surrounding furnace of the umber woman’s ineluctable embrace, his soul a semimolten ingot transforming within the lava-hot pressurised crucible of her being. His mind expands to fill the empty valley lying behind the psychedelic peak of the earlier night like the hollowed wake of a departing vessel, and Ram’s perceptions expand to encompass the denuded base of the rainforest valley, where familiar bodies tightly twine by the rollicking rainforest stream.

His awareness explodes far beyond distracting realms of mentation and self-obsessed thoughts, absorbing the totality of the woman whose shapely smooth form encompasses his hirsute frame as she breathes superheated air into his lungs. He’s seared and ringed by firm golden limbs, wrung and enflamed by taut elasticity, simmering within the incendiary heat of a feverish bloodstream that pounds at his flesh and throbs all around him, just beyond the sleek squeezing surfaces of Amber’s encircling limbs and her most secret moist silken skin. Her uptilted eyes blend into one in Ram’s sight, forming an orange orb which draws him onward and in, further and on, into a blindingly blazing place as far beyond the simple pleasures of pneumatic sex as a flurry of multiple orgasms surpasses a bout of troubling coughs.

No time at all later he dwells in many worlds at once, partaking of mundane senses and sensitised suprasenses, attuned to radiant intimate animal closeness and connexions with faraway curious cosms. From this numinous implicate coign of vantage, abstruse sensorialities connect disparate realities through synchronistic tangles of barely glimpsed similarities in a finely threaded net of coinciding pluralities of obviously linked correspondence.

Their motionless lovemaking creates and illuminates a vision splendid echoed by the material world of birdsong and waterfalls, music and wind, close ardent moans and distant soft drumming. The tantric lovers’ simian bodies await the first warm tonguing of dawning sunlight, inhaling and recycling pheromone-laced scents, a living pyre of recombining passion within their dew-misted riverside bower. Slender torsos mash even closer and limbs clasp ever more tightly when chill early morning breezes ruffle leaves overhead. Amber’s fluorescent orange dress waves above their nakedness, flagging their presence to the wild woolly world of ferals, yuppies, hippies and tourists that sleep or cavort, play or disport all around. Muscles contract and relax while transcendent minds traverse unworldly realms of intriguing illumination, a shared lucid vision-quest through varying futures and manifold pasts in the eternal gift of the luminous present.

As they begin to return from penultimate Satori their awareness permeates two realms and two bodies at once, shifting betwixt windy, scent-laden, riverine breaths of the Great Earth Mother and pellucid voids of luminiferous, sensuous aether, swimming together through serried tiers of ethereal planes and orbiting varicoloured spheres within spheres as breaths and fluids and minds combine. Look, her being says inside their dreaming, here we are… and his attention shifts along with hers, angling toward a blinding white aureole of blazing light.

When the bearded shaman peeks through a red-shot black wave of intermixed follicles and strands - all chestnut waves and jet-dark streaks mingled together with aftermath bliss in a dazzling starburst of coronal light - he sighs as he sights his new paramour through the afterglow haze of their slow descent. His lover’s eyes gaze into him even while shut, glowing orbs pressing against translucent mauve eyelids and Amber’s brow shines with a radiant third orb, centralised site and obvious sign of a truly superluminal consciousness. A faint glow suffuses her umber skin and tiny tendrils of nebulous steam arise from the stunning heatedness of her fine young flesh.

The shaman’s eyes slip shut and he drifts through a synaesthetic landscape of intersecting sensations, flavours, ideas and ideals, all projecting through the mingling tides of their bodies/minds/souls, revolving around a common indefinable centre in the tingling luminous afterglow of transcendent ecstasy. Discerning the juncture of their skins, the places where the surfaces of ‘him’ meld into ‘her’ is perfectly impossible.

Tantric exploration with the intriguing woman is an experience far beyond his fondest hopes, reveries or imaginings. Even the extraordinary satisfactions and undeniably abundant joys of the previous night have paled into pastel hues in the stacked vaulted hallways of Ram’s random access memory. He’s rarely made love with a woman so blessed, possessed of rare beauty and an utterly sensuous, sensitive and inspiring soul. Compared with the melding, mind-blowing bliss of union with blessed Amber, making love with most other lovers has been a hollow exercise leading up to the real thing - merely exercises in mutual masturbation.

With Amber – as with few other gifted lovers he’s known with such intimacy and intensity – lovemaking is a breathtaking adventure into the very soul of the beloved, a transcendent blending of complementary needs and desires culminating in an eternally embedded idyll of compassionate molten passion, a heightened plateaux of psychic facility and expansive awareness. Deeply embedded all the way into the heart of her heat, he inhales the sweet yeast of her breath while their wordless minds dance round the core learning of love beyond loving.

The bearded shaman is born anew, unutterably sensitised to the entire living world and attuned to the subtly shifting fields of the vast harmonic symphony of the cosmos. His awareness slowly contacts from infinity and suffuses the rainforest river valley, returning toward and though the anchoring vessels of hot love-rimed flesh in morn’s shady gloaming. Amber’s face burrows through the permeable barrier of their hair and her lips begin to suckle on his beard. What a woman, he muses; A Daikini? He sees a smile dawn in her opening eyes. What a reality… Their bodies shift together in close entwinement and Ram’s thoughts start to idle, slowly drifting along in neutral gear;

Love… Eyes shine together in blinding parallax and the receptive hot grip of softly wet membranes stretches at the brink of complete fulfilment, squeezing round the hard core of blood-pumped flesh that throbs against the tightly guarded gated womb of future human lifetimes. Beloved… The simian loins of a single twin-minded creature flex even closer, tighter, hotter, exulting in the satisfaction of penultimate closeness. Glorious beloved, amazing dream of perfection to awaken unto, onto, into… Amber grasps gently, inside and out while they gaze into the two-sided mirror of their harmonised souls. Ultimate blessing of living divinity…

Feline eyes crinkle in a silent smile as nostrils flare with an intake of air. Making love… She clenches around him and sighs into his mouth. Really making love… Tongues slide past lips and sight blends together as disparate minds become one; Dual gift to humankind, female and male, left and right, height and depth, high-blown ideas and visceral innards piled together in entertaining cacophony of entraining delight… The combining thoughtstream spins into a gentle maelstrom and begins to flow more swiftly as portents pour through their mingling mind, channelled through their being from other levels of reflective personality, from heightened perspectives of deeply reasoned wisdom;

Not really the Way, but projections of the monkey mind, misconceptions of duality originating below the veils of mortal coils… split in twain and melded together like the hominid brain, or the primate mind... argumentative, disputative, dichotomous consciousness melded to sex-split and sex-joined physical bodies, imbued with an imperative will to propagate their beloved shapes and selves through the scrolls and folds of time…

And capable of the best and worst, and every mundane or transcendent thing between… An unseemly twinge flickers through Ram’s being and a strangely guilt-laden memory arises in his mind’s eye. His thoughts return to the drunk and drunken feral Goth grrl, the dreadlocked emo who made love with him all through the previous night, and he’s instantly smitten by the livid sight of Angel’s nubile nakedness splayed and displayed, used and abused a few hours earlier in a dark public park.

The experiences are so utterly different; mingling with elfin Amber in this blessed ongoing afterglow of lovely loving is a total contrast to the hardcore, plunging, screaming sex he’d experienced with Angel during the previous drug-fucked night – let alone the brutalising pseudo-sexuality of the metal-pierced Goth’s unnerving gangbang they’d both witnessed a few hours earlier. Like day and night… He spits the contaminating images from his mind and concentrates on the glorious sensations he’s been stupidly distracting himself from experiencing.

All dichotomies are illusion, the inner voice announces. He shifts within Amber and she sighs into his throat; the uncanny heatedness of her is magnetic, irresistible. It’s all one… Their bodies start moving in unison reply, contracting and relaxing around each other as the shaman’s hallucinatory vision delivers Day-Glo images of living liquid crystals and transmogrifying geometric solids into his wide open mind.

The uncanny confluence of many of Ram’s most recent conversations returns in a series of fractal glimpses. Everything is true… For a brace of moments the multidimensional and multi-branched potential of myriad time streams is apprehensible to his opened awareness - a multihued book of interleaved 3D tapestries in which each woven page is a variation on a singular theme. Everything is permissible… Each individual thread passes through all the pages of a volume whose limits extend beyond the peripheral bounds of his inner vision, to recurve back on themselves, pouring back into the primal core of eternally spiralling time. All is one…

Time stretches with the elastic heat of their union, delivering clingwrapped bodies and molten minds to an unfathomable ocean of bliss where currents caress their drifting souls on the cusp of an unnameable shore.

The trip should have worn off by now… He drifts closer to and further from complete wakefulness with every breath, and his fingers caress the fiery sheen of Amber’s long flank and the almost unpadded sleek hump of her bony hip, back and forth, round and round, in time with his cyclic drifting; slowly, irresistibly, his stillness of mind slides toward slumberous subconscious streams. Somewhere just beyond the semipermeable membrane of his senses, past the slippery mesmerising embrace of the blazing silken woman, the world is a viridian paradise emerging into a new day - but the shaman spies the outline of an addictive idea and traces its path along the meandering surface of his tumbling thought stream, sinking toward the yawning burrow of dimming semiconsciousness that is the usual preserve of the domesticated primate mind.

Amber squeezes him gently and he returns to the incomparable reality of her love. A zephyr of the morning kisses the fine down on his arms as he fully enfolds the slender Asiatic woman, who settles and spreads her wee smooth self upon his cross-legged lap. His legs have grown completely numb on the featherdown doona; all sensation ends and begins in his rigid shaft, burning like a blazing log inside the torrid furnace of Amber’s slim belly while their minds blend as one.

Inside each other, squeezing inside you, wrapping around me, squeezing around you, filling inside me… The lovers reemerge into the world like conjoined twin divers rising for a fleeting snatch of breath, tasting lush riverside scents infused with eucalypt wood-smoke while senses thrill to the pervasive beat of the paradisaical natural world; trilling birdsong, murmuring dreamers, plashing water, the beat of a lone lovelorn drummer, the crackling thud of a falling log in a dying fire while wind soughs in the trees all around.

Without warning Ram’s consciousness is released from the leash of his body and swivels through hundreds of miles, beyond a week in time and through the half-awake minds of a numberless swarm of morphing bodies - until he washes up on the banks of another pristine river, a crystalline waterway fringed beneath a subtly differing subtropical rainforest canopy.

Rippling interference patterns attract Ram’s attention with hypnotic insistence. Repetitive bands of pressurised fluid approach his single-pointed perspective, spreading across the furrowed surface of a familiar rainforest pool. These liquid echoes are emitted by splashing white water hurled into the air about a pair of swimming children who cavort before their commune-savvy WWOOFer mother Anike, a Willing Worker On Organic Farms who has recently arrived from the Orange Free State in the distant freed lands of the Danes.

“And so all the material universe is really energy, and all the energy is created by tiny spinning vortexes,” David is saying, triangulating his bifurcated concentration on two male companions; one of the blonde man’s blue Viking eyes is perpetually cast to one side. “Everything that exists is a version of that primal spin.” He removes his broad-brimmed black hat to soak up tree-dappled sunlight, loosening the buttons on his hempen blouse.

“So what?” Bors laughs at Dave’s bold declaration as he pulls a checked flannel shirt over sinewy shoulders. “What’s it got to do with anything in real life?”

“Well…” David rejoins, “the implication is that the universe, or cosmos or whatever, is all infinite. There’s no need for a big bang…” Bors (who was a mathematics teacher with a compassionate if monomaniacal bent - before he attempted to ‘teach the natives’ on a notorious offshore Queensland island (once a penal colony set up by the larger prison colony on the mainland, its denizens proved intractable to the Eurosurper’s idea of ‘edumacation’) – is affronted by the heresy. “Now hang on,” he insists with a beetle-browed frown as he muddles his tenses, “There’s a big bang all right, that’s one thing I do know for certain!” His eyebrows forge a shallow chevron beneath the deeply ploughed field of his crinkling forehead.

“Do you know why physicists postulated a ‘big bang’ creation event in the first place?” the shaman interjects, even as he wonders: Why am I doing this? “It happened because certain scientists were immersed in cultures that believed the universe was created by an omnipotent and omnipresent god.” His statement silences the conversation for a few moments and a tiny, brilliant azure kingfisher bullets between their bodies as the trio stands still as the saplings all around. The dazzlingly blue bird swoops low, skimming the surface of the river as it rockets upstream, and the children laugh and slap the water with wordless delight.

Bors inhales loudly and raises his palms toward his companions. “Look, guys,” he says, “I know it’s hard to take - but everything is born, lives and dies – you know? The universe expands and contracts to and from a tiny, compressed point – or it all expands continually until everything stops in ultimate entropy – you understand? The universe is finite either way. Finito! There was a big bang. There’s definite proof, nobody questions it any more.” He shakes his head, shedding rainbow droplets from hair and beard as Anike’s eldest dives beneath a sunken log in pursuit of a long necked tortoise.

Ram’yana clears his throat. “We look ‘out there’ and imagine we see back to the beginning. There are actually only two presumed proofs of a ‘big bang’ and both are based on assumptions. False assumptions.” A band of itinerant kookaburras drowns out the conversation with a gaggling chorus of conversation-smothering laughter while the children dive deep through the liquid crystal pool. “For instance?” Bors inquires.

“The two ‘proofs’ ” – Ram enumerates his points with a two-fingered peace symbol, “are red shift and the background hum.”

“That’s right!” Bors exults. “When we look out at the stars or galaxies or quasars, they’re all red-shifted. Well, most of them are – it’s the Doppler Effect. It proves that the universe is expanding.”

“The Doppler Effect is real in a way, and a spinning vortex can easily be perceived as expanding when you’re encased within it – but there’s an unrecognized reason for the red shift’s ubiquity. It’s the same reason we can see less than fourteen billion light years through timespace. It’s not because the universe began 13.6 billion years ago, but because that’s the effective event horizon of light – its upper limit of transmission within the unrecognised medium that’s the matrix of our continuum - and the limit of most other wavelengths we use for detection. The interstellar medium degrades and stretches the signals and wavelengths – which means light slips toward the less energetic infrared band and beyond. And the scale of time is expanding along with ‘space’ as well, thoroughly altering the reality we perceive dimly and distantly, as though through a smoky mirror.”

“But the signal can’t decay…” Bors suggests in a querulous tone. “Oh yes it can.” David enters the opening crack of his uncertainty. “Over that distance it runs into an array of particles and dust and what have you, losing energy.” The blond Dane smiles and his icy blue eyes twinkle with unabashed glee. Bors is taken aback. “So you’re saying that we’re seeing the event horizon of light and related electromagnetic radiation?”

“Some say that red shift is indicative of the youth of a stellar object; but that’s another issue,” the shaman informs him. All the ‘virtual’ particles emerging from the quantum foam over those distances can further interfere with the original signal. The point is, there may be many reasons for the apparent red shift of most of the universe; Doppler Effect is only one of them.

“Point two,” Ram’yana continues with a nod as Bors opens his mouth to object, “the background hum.”

“Look,” Bors heads him off, “the only question is, ‘big crunch’ or total entropy? That’s a certainty of physics. It’s bedrock.” He looks at his feet as David delivers a rejoinder; “Only according to assumptions of old mechanistic physics - that ignore the uncertainties and probabilities implicit in quantum theories. A whole new range of possibilities opened up decades ago, but very few noticed,” David assures the prematurely retired high school teacher.

Bors shades his eyes and stares into the sun, but Ram’yana keeps chewing the bone of contention. “The universe is continually accreting – or condensing – energy and matter in a never ending ‘big bang’ which is happening everywhere, all at once. You know – the ‘quantum foam’? ‘Zero-point energy’?” Bors grimaces and turns away, staring at the river while the hippy shaman continues his spiel;

“Every cubic centimetre of space contains a potential infinitude of virtual particles that momentarily appear and disappear in 4D spacetime, as 3D space rotates with respect to other intersecting dimensions – hyperspaces if you like.” David nods enthusiastically while Bors stares at sunlight reflected from wavefronts on the rippling surface. “Some of these exchanges even form stable arrangements that remain in this universe as particles – or vorticles – and this ongoing infinity of ‘little bangs’ is responsible for the ‘background hum’.”

A distant jet thrums rhythmically, a didgeridoo drone echoing from the skies. “Mu mesons, Higgs bosons…” Bors begins while the shaman continues; “And I maintain these continually manifesting ex-virtual particles are also responsible for much of the degradation of all radiant signals, but that’s neither here nor there, if you’ll pardon the pun.

“All this ‘missing energy’ has been misclassified as ‘dark energy’, but its existence portends the very opposite of a finite mass left over from a primordial event; it’s all an artefact of the primal spiral, the primum mobile vortex – the perpetual spring of the ‘big boing’.” The distant scream of the jet engine fades and returns, folding through waves of the blue-green planet’s dense watery atmosphere.

“Even if you’re right…” David glances at Bors, and then peers up through the fractured canopy toward the cloudless sky. “You know how when you look out there, you’re looking at the centre of it all? How, say, thirteen point six billion light years in any direction you’re seeing the light that was at the furthest extremity of light itself – and no time has passed for it, no time at all.” He glances aside, where giggling children splash and dive. “The furthest places we see or conceive are all the same place in the primal beginning…”

“Which makes the place where you’re sitting right now the centre of the universe,” Ram observes with a laughing cough. “Everywhere is the centre of the universe,” Bors agrees. “It has to be.”

“And it’s all expanding from the centre,” David twinkles. “The centre of you…”

“But who cares?!” Bors shouts, a cry of exasperated affront delivered in the face of the Nordic giant’s smirking self-assurance. “It’s all still going down the gurgler, all slipping away on one big death trip to nowhere. What’s the difference? We’re alive now and soon we won’t be, we’ll never understand how it all works. So what?” His glare is a challenge that Ram’yana diverts with an interjection. “Life is the opposite of entropy,” the shaman prince murmurs, unwilling to push his angry neighbour much further beyond the limiting boundaries of his grim certitude.

David is more exuberant. “Free will makes anything possible, changes everything.” He exudes a boundless unsullied optimism and a momentary cloud of turquoise dragonflies surrounds him as he turns to regard Anike; a beautiful bronze bas relief merging with a suntanned cluster of poolside boulders in the brilliant southern sunlight.

“There are very good reasons for wanting to understand how it all hangs together – if it’s all made of mindstuff,” Ram’yana insists. “That’s right,” David continues, “all this…” he slaps a water-rounded rock, “is energy, after all. And what’s the matrix behind the energy?”

“Mindstuff,” answers the prince, “patterns of information that we’re continually creating, using the stuff that dreams are made of. Mind affects matter all the time. There are demonstrably solid, easily replicable studies which effectively prove that telepathy and telekinesis are real and observable – Rupert Sheldrake’s researches, for instance, and the world-wide ElectroGaiaGram network of random number generating computers which was originally designed to test these very seminal postulates. Or the site known as ‘Half Past Human’, which demonstrates human prescience. The evidence is there for any who wish to examine the research - and the implication is that the world is made of mindstuff; a fractal hologram, all contained in all of its parts and particles at all levels. Or as it’s long been stated by others before us, ‘as above, so below’.”

Bors remains unimpressed. “So? It doesn’t stop all of it from being pointless.” A silver perch breaks the surface, gulps down a miniature violet butterfly and splashes back into its element with a sun-catching flash of platinum tail. “Warrummm… POO!” The plosive cry of a Wompoo fruit dove breaks into their tightly focused tiny circle, startlingly loud and intense in the peaceful surrounds.

“The bird disagrees,” Ram claims with an unconvincing production of a self-effacing smile. He holds back from saying that all death trips are self-fulfilling prophecies; No point setting my neighbour’s nihilism in ever more solidly concreting mental accretions, he decides. Bors holds his gaze for a long moment, and Ram’s inherently schismatic attempt at fusing their diametrically separated positions fails to arouse any sense of camaraderie. The maths teacher’s stare becomes a furious grimace while an extending silence dissolves into the laughter of children, who neither speak the same language nor experience the same egocentric imperatives as the preening adults.

“I have an idea for an invention - one for moving rocks more easily,” David ventures, apropos of something less fractious. “Now that’s really interesting,” Ram enthuses. He eyes the mounds of rock tumbled all about the riverside, masses of boulders and stones slowly filling the depths of the ancient waterhole where the slaughter of trees and fattening of meathead cattle has destroyed and collapsed the once salubrious banks of a pristine rainforest stream. He surveys the extraordinary range of building materials to determine which rocks he’ll next move and remove from the gravel-choked river by hand, one by one, until a decent depth has been achieved for struggling fish, eels, tortoise and platypuses. “Go on…” he entreats his companion, indicating the embarrassment of rocky riches. “Please…”

A True Story

Continues…

- R.A.

Images - author's

Further True Tales of the prince of Centraxis -

Further true tales from the Prince of Centraxis -

Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow

Psychedelic Water Part 2 - What Thou Wilt

Psychedelic Water Part 3 - Trancefixed

Psychedelic Water Part 4 - Feral Dolphin

Psychedelic Water Part 5 - Angelic Tantra

Psychedelic Water Part 6 - Dreads Unlocked

Psychedelic Water Part 7 - Fresh Flesh, Old Bones

Psychedelic Water 8 - Predawn of Awareness

Psychedelic Water 9 - Merry Moot

Psychedelic Water 10 -Wandering Orgone Wand

Psychedelic Water 11 - Water Power

The Red Pill - Psychedelic Water 12

Mothership Crew - Psychedelic Water 13

Amber Flames - Psychedelic Water 14

Wills Writ on Waves - Psychedelic Water 15

Alternative Universe - Psychedelic Water 16

Fractal Free Will - Psychedelic Water 17

Reorientation - Psychedelic Water 18

Viva La Difference – Psychedelic Water 19

More True Tales of the Prince of Centraxis…

Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents

The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater

Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1

Wild Life Part 1

For further edification see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com

The New Illuminati

(These two sites have been closed to this, their author, by Today.com – who continue to make an earn from them despite deeming them unsuitable - Enlightenment Today and Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )

The Prince of Centraxis

This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…

From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

Plant the Planet, Dreaming Land, Hippy Dreaming

Plant the Planet

Dreaming Land

Hippy Dreaming

Friday, 23 October 2009

Up To Her - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 20

Up To Her

Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 20

When he emerges from the shower wrapped in a handy towel, fully refreshed by alternating jets of steaming and frigid water, the shaman prince switches off the light and opens the bathroom door. Reinvigorated by the copiously flowing stream, he bathes in the afterglow of the Magic Group’s ritual invocation of Pan while his eyes adjust to unexpected darkness. He sniffs interleaving fragrances wafting through the halls of the magical household.

Ram’yana steps into an angled aperture of flickering candlelight to find all electric lights in the hallways, staircase and open chambers of the rambling structure’s second floor switched off, or mayhap extinguished by a power outage. The ornately carved red-stained woodwork and embellishing stone features of the stolid manse glow with amber warmth. Beeswax candles thick as Ram’s slender wrist stand as tall as his thigh upon polished floorboards and varnished parquetry, set in handmade clay candelabra or adhered to brightly glazed ceramic bowls.

He expects to find another mage queuing outside the bathroom door for the overworked shower but the hall is bereft of initiates or neophytes. The intense rainstorm’s volume has lessened during Ram’s cleansing rite. A refreshing breeze bends the tapering flame of a candle glued by gobbets of wax to a goblet on the maroon marble slab, cool beneath his unshod soles and smoothly polished by the footfalls of eight decades. Frenetic strumming from the electrified strings of Curved Air’s Air Conditioning emanate from the downstairs sound system and resound throughout the building in a modernistic paean to Marie Antoinette.

Shadows dance across the arched plaster ceiling and waver upon the faces of life-sized nude portraits adorning the walls of the hall. Water drips from Ram’s body and darkens the smooth stone to a deeper shade of purple, a dark grapelike hue that reminds him of the terrible marks on his beloved’s pale skin. He hesitates on the cold stone threshold and wonders how his witchy wife is faring in the hands of the neophytes.

Sounds of merriment mingle with the music resounding from the expansive house’s ground floor. Fastening the rainbow towel more securely round his hips, he steps through the cool draught flowing through the hallway with his purple neophyte cloak slung over one arm. The mage blinks away droplets that drip onto his lashes and cascade down the twined curling strings of his long dark hair, tickling downward along his slender body.

He stops at the aperture of the chamber where his Lady Racheal is presumably still enjoying her healing massage and sees the thick cedar door hanging three-quarters closed. The Sanskrit-adorned entryway stands between a large pair of framed oil paintings; unsigned portraits of members of the Magic Group, daubed by its currently absent founder and original leading light. The locally famous (and infamous) magician has illustrated images of goddesses in milieus appropriate to their pantheons and attributes, using various female initiates of the Group as models for nude divinities – comely young women proud to be renowned as intimates, muses and bedmates of the tantrically adept founder of the Dawn of Ra.

To the left of the painted doorway the goddess Aphrodite stands amidst foaming waves on a rock-lined strand of sand, carrying a huge scalloped conch in her open palm. The image of the blue-skinned goddess has been composed with a verisimilitude of graceful bearing, her expression and stance redolent of a blithely potent Hindu deity. She laughs beneath a glowing starfield and beckons to a silvery full moon in a bright purple sky. The lunar sphere floats just above her other hand, a juggler’s ball balancing on the faintly visible margin of her turquoise aura.

To the right of the doorway another effigy portraying one of the absent Magus’ rotating harem of lovers smiles down upon the young prince; an emerald eyed and greenly skinned nude Venus is caught in the act of erupting into glee, framed by the curving masculine limbs and boughs of a massive and anciently fissured tree. Huge glossy leaves are shaped like viridian hearts and lotus-like flowers blossom all round and within the nubile goddess’s erotically charged form. ’Tis Chrissie, he realises, recognising the model’s face and form as his personal teacher - the initiate who’d been assigned to guide him through his earliest weeks with the Group.

Ram’s darting thoughts swirl about, refusing to settle within the luxuriant haze of his refreshed equanimity. He lingers at the threshold in an uncertain daze. The advanced neophyte (now a single season from his initiation if all proceeds smoothly) hadn’t paid much attention to the paintings or noticed their subjects during earlier visits to the sandstone manse and wonders whether the goddesses had flanked the door to the spare bedroom during the previous months of his tenure in the Group.

He anticipates variously curious or rueful glances from the handful of magi who were still engaged in healing his beloved Lady Racheal when he departed a quarter hour earlier. He pushes the door all the way open and is instantly surrounded by wafting scents of rose and myrrh, mingled with a cloud of amber incense that issues from a splayed clutch of smouldering joss sticks. While his eyes adjust to dim candlelit mist the towel slithers from his waist and falls to the floor.

He stands between the twinned goddesses, pausing within the ornately carved doorframe like a third life-sized painting in a triptych of nudes while his eyes focus on the whiteness of his equally unclothed lover - a blonde haired living goddess who reclines on titian silk in the foggily fragrant chamber. All but one of the neophyte masseurs has departed the chamber, leaving Racheal alone with an aspiring new magician that Ram’yana vaguely recognises from combined Group rituals; Daniel, he recalls though the envious tide of his sudden arousal.

The bearded hippy lies on the bed snuggling against the Lady Racheal’s naked body, entwining round the pinkly flushed and thoroughly oiled form of Ram’s supine teenage bride. Her face is concealed, nuzzling into the dark frizzy cloud of the near-stranger’s afro haircut. Her arm drapes across the older man’s hairy chest and well muscled shoulder while his mouth suckles at her throat; a wandering masculine hand slowly palpates the Centraxian High Priestess’s fulsome left breast.

Daniel’s eyelids roll open and he smiles in Ram’s general direction through his woolly black beard while his fingers twirl around Racheal’s rigid nipple. One well-muscled leg is hooked firmly between her slippery oiled thighs. His hips slowly rock back and forth and his thigh slides against her hairless shaved loins. The Lady T’Ruth’s earlier summation echoes in Ram’s mind while the men’s eyes meet across the well-oiled flesh of his ladylove; Attractive… like a rod of iron drawn to her magnetic charms…

The thirtyish man is partly clothed in the unbuttoned translucence of a cotton shirt. Thin wraparound pants betray his arousal, a flagrant hillock that juts just above the lower reaches of Racheal’s soft white belly. Daniel’s eyes remain on Ram’s expressionless face while his lips glide from the bruises on her equine throat and slide down along her well oiled collar bone. His palm flattens against Racheal’s nipple while the dark cloud of his facial hair caresses her other breast. His expression is unreadable beneath the veil of his beard, eyes seemingly twinkling in entreaty or invitation while hair-fringed lips slip down toward Racheal’s breast.

Ram’yana breaks the bond of their interlocked gazes as he bends to retrieve the rainbow towel, swiftly covering his anticipatory teenaged tumescence as he steps into the room. He drops his robe in the process and lets it fall where it will. He sees that Racheal barely responds to kiss or caress, her face pressing deeply into the older man’s hair and her lover is unsure she’s fully awake, or aware that she lies in another’s arms. She squeezes her thighs around the thick trunk of Daniel’s leg and her hips swivel closer when a cool draught rushes through the open door and strokes her bare white limbs. Her leg crooks higher and her usual bedmate watches all the muscles in her comely body tense into bands and bunch into mounds as her inner thigh encounters the hard bulk of the other man’s erection.

Daniel’s mouth darts down to enfold her swollen nipple, keeping his gaze on Ram’s all the while. His eyes are a crinkling study in appealing appeasement as he stares at the young prince and gently manhandles and kisses his bride’s nude body. He continues his determined succour and rocks his cock into the juncture of Racheal’s thighs, barely restraining the heated rush of his obvious lust while her boyfriend looks on.

The young mage neither consents nor demurs to the older man’s fondling and furry mouthings; She seems pretty well awake and doesn’t appear to mind, he tells himself as he observes his lover’s approval of the other man’s cuddles and canoodling; Racheal wraps her arms around Daniel’s body and presses her groin against his erection. Her murmuring moan is barely discernible beneath the pattering of raindrops on the low attic roof.

Ram’yana finds the challenging tableau surprisingly easy to watch; he feels only the merest pang of jealousy, an envious instinct that’s easily squelched by the promise of impending adventure. He kneels at the foot of the low bed, keeping his eyes fixed on Daniel’s while his ladylove sighs into the man’s scraggly beard.

Fragrant odours swell into an overpowering muskiness as spirals of smoke and invisibly coiling aromas of scented oils writhe around the chamber in blustery tendrils of the house-channelled winds. From a lofty remove, Ram’yana observes the jagged claw of incipient jealousy that tears at his innards as the older neophyte stares into his soul, awaiting a gesture of assent or disapproval from the younger pre-initiate.

It’s up to her, the prince decides. As if in answer, his Lady Racheal crooks her right leg around the other man’s hip and her heel presses against his buttock, pushing his hardness right into her softness. When he observes this apparently semi-telepathic reply Ram’yana leans forward and ensures his naked kneecap makes contact with the slightly rough sole of Racheal’s oily bare foot.

“It’s called ‘Pan-Diabolism…’” the Lady Ringell had informed the neophytes. After dashing onto the broad veranda through the diminishing downpour they’d settled down to share a pipe of her magically treated Tibetan hash. “…The way Rome twisted the horny God of Nature – the consort of the Great Goddess – into their version of a devil…”

“It’s strange dat ‘devil’ and ‘evil’ are almost de same in English,” a frowning Jomana interrupted, dropping her robe onto a wicker chair. “And ‘evil’ is ‘live’ backwards,” she remarked as she plonked her naked bottom onto this impromptu cushion and crossed her bared brown legs. Fifi L’Amoure the Lady Ringell nodded at these obvious truisms with a tolerant smile. She plunged onward; “Rome absorbed all the older religions into its pantheon, stealing the best and trashing the rest.

“We have no idea how very, very much they destroyed completely. And Pan suffered a particularly egregious makeover at the hands of imperial popes.”

“The Romans slaughtered so many Britons that the population of the isles didn’t recover their numbers until the eighteen hundreds,” Dai pointed out. “Or was it the 18^th Century?”

“All those so-called ‘Romance’ languages – you know, Italian and French, Spanish - are really just regional variations of Latin,” Ram’yana agreed. “It’s impossible to say what Rome destroyed; they left so little intact.”

“They certainly destroyed the forests, like most warlike cultures, and Pan was ever the forest guardian,” Fifi continued, smiling as she observed the neophytes surround her chosen topic with the distractingly detailed filigrees of their arguments. “Sometimes playful and sometimes violent, but always utterly potent – the archetype of maleness…”

“Primitive maleness,” the Woodman amended, “without the fatherliness of Zeus or the warlike zeal of Ares…”

“Ares was originally an artisan god,” inserted Arne Stook, “before he was twisted into a god of war.”

“That’s right,” agreed the Woodman as his fingers tangled in a knot in his beard, “a god of technology. But Pan is far more primitive than, say, Ra or Apollo.”

Fifi L’Amour held out her arms and placed her palms beneath a small waterfall cascading from the dripping guttering. “Pan isn’t primitive,” she insisted, “but primordial! As primal as the Earth Herself!” She threw a libation of rainwater at the seated group, spraying a sprinkling microcosmic rainstorm over the neophytes while the storm blustered above the eave. “Certain Wiccans believe Pan is the ultimate consort of Diana the Moon, who perpetually orbits her mate the Earth, without ever quite contacting him – except during certain fertile conjunctions.”

“I thought the Earth was female to the Wiccans – the Great Goddess Gaia,” Gladryn declared. “And that would be a dangerous mating,”

“Lovemaking can appear violent to uninitiated children,” Fifi reminded them, “unless, of course, it’s Tantric lovemaking…”

“And the Earth is neither female nor male,” said Dai, “unless she wants to be. More like a dragon, really…”

Jomana nudged Dai’s ribcage with the obtuse angle of her elbow. “But surely de Moon is more like an orbiting sperm cell, and de Earth is de Great Mother?” she asked. “Dat is de true sacred sex,” she said with a wicked-looking smile while Fifi’s shining hazel eyes beamed down upon Arne Stook. Arne smiled up from beneath his blonde fringe with his patented chip-toothed boyish grin while Dai bumped the German woman’s knee with his shoulder.

Gladryn scratched at his coal dark beard. “I thought the Tuscany Wiccans believed Lucifer was the Moon,” he mused; “The admirer of the Goddess who could never reach her - and he turned himself into a black cat to make his way into her bed...”

“But long-haired Lucifer is the archangel of the fallen planet,” the Centraxian prince pointed out, “the one which eventually became Venus. Not just the ‘Bringer of Light’, but the light maker – lux farere; though I believe that Wiccan story is the reason why so many black cats used to be called ‘Lucky’,” Ram’yana announced, “and why they were also viewed in an opposite light when they crossed thy path…”

“A theory worthy of Frazer,” laughed Fifi. “The one from The Golden Bough,” she clarified, “not the Prime Monster. The Tuscany witches were talking of Duana - the original Great Mother of All, who was worshipped long before the Greek ‘Diana’ - and they were considering an entirely different level of being; like Kabalistic God-realms and Archangelic orders. But Lucifer is a being of light, just as the Moon is on a dark night – and the bad rap he gets is another example of pan-diabolism!”

“Not such an unduly bad rap after all, if Velikovsky was right,” Dai suggested.

“And wasn’t there another forest god – an even older ‘horned one’ from before the time of Pan?” the Woodman inquired through teeth clenched about the oaken Meerschaum pipe. “Aye,” agreed Fifi, tearing her eyes from the object of her affections. “The Green Man, also known as Hearne…”

“‘Cernunnos’ to the Greeks.” the prince added. “The word ‘horn’ comes from ‘Hearn’…” Fifi spoke over Ram’s interruption; “…who was indeed a Horned God, too, an antlered god of the ancients, from the times before forests were ever threatened. He was, perhaps, the prototype of Pan, who appeared later, I’m told – a Lady never provides clues to her age - when goatherds had begun ripping into the original world forest.”

“Ahoy there!” the Lady T’Ruth’s lilting brogue arose from the rain-drenched sward. “Any sign of Ratty?” She swayed in the rain with one arm around her sister Stardew. Her other hand saluted her fellow initiate. It was impossible to say whether her weaving manner and exaggerated wave was due to drunkenness or some more rarefied form of intoxication. Fifi nodded toward the camouflaging structure of the manse’s old coach house. “I believe he’s still banishing the temple.”

“Damn!” Stardew stamped a bare splashing foot and her toes squished into a morass of mud. “We were hoping to get there before he… oh, never mind.” Fifi frowned down at them. “How intriguing,” she declared. Ram’yana climbed to his feet and passed the pipe to Jomana. “Bags the first shower,” he said over his shoulder as he entered the house through the open French doors.

Racheal’s eyes flash open and twin candlelit reflections glitter through the bark-hued thatch of Daniel’s afro. Her nose emerges from his mantling hairiness like a slim periscope, preceding the rest of her face as she slowly surfaces through his fuzzy underbrush and rises through the funk of her lazy languor.

“Ramses…” the witch girl breathes while she hovers in Daniel’s loosening grasp, assaying her lover’s reaction. Ram’yana witnesses the scene with a blank expression, betraying no obvious sign or signal as he waits to see what Racheal will do. Nonetheless, even when her dainty foot lifts from the other man’s hipbone and rubs up along Ram’s thigh, he wills his inconstant bride to reject this latest rival. He wants to be where the other man is right now, closely jammed against his beloved on the silk-covered mattress.

“Ram’yana…” A hand rises from Daniel’s shoulder as she reaches for her beloved with a languid arm, twisting away from the older man as her palm meets Ram’s naked chest. His arms reach out for her as she pulls herself upward and settles into his embrace. The oily slipperiness of her naked female flesh is utterly arousing as she slips and slides against his wind-cooled skin. He watches Daniel shake himself into a more wakeful state through trailing strands of Racheal’s golden hair, and calms his ruffled would-be rival - or potential lovemaking partner - with a soothing smile bestowed over the alluring teenage priestess’s lightly freckled shoulder.

She presses her eyes into Ram’s throat and lays a pattering of soft kisses over his heart while the soft firm pillows of her oil-sheathed breasts slide along his hairless torso. Daniel reassures the younger man with a murmurous tone; “She feels much better now,” he says while his hands rise to caress Racheal’s shoulder blades and slide up and down along her spine. “Thanks,” Racheal breathes into Ram’s chest.

“Aye,” her lover begins, but the priestess silences any further comments with a mouthful of slippery wet tongue. When Racheal draws him into the succour of her heatedness, the prince shifts all the way onto the bed and sinks into the welcoming familiar home of his beloved’s sweet body. Daniel’s hands continue roving her shoulders and ribcage while she wraps long slippery legs around Ram’s naked waist.

They kiss in a jumble of hair and limbs while Racheal’s smoothly shaved sex presses down against his towel-covered erection. The heat of her thighs shifts along his ribs while ankles lock tightly behind the small of his back. The prince is only dimly aware when the other man takes his leave of bed and chamber; the lovers busily twine amidst wreathing clouds of smoke and the insuperable bond of their love moulds formfitting frames into a timely conjunction of lusty loving. Racheal’s young man is unutterably relieved to discover his beloved girl has survived the gross assault of her recent abuse relatively intact in more ways than one; she shows gratifying signs of having risen above her ordeal unscarred, if not – temporarily, at least – unmarred.

Fuzzy male thighs slide against smoothly firm feminine derriere and tongues mate inside melding mouths. Ram’s towel slips away from his body in a trice, a rainbow veil drawn from closely pressed genitals by Racheal’s nimble paint-stained fingers. A gust of wind almost extinguishes the sole candle when the door swings widely open in the wake of Daniel’s departure. Racheal subsides against Ram’s chest and he asks with a jaunty jiggle; “How went the healing flow?”

“Really fucking fantastic,” she whispers into his throat. “Truly surprising - particularly coming from mere untrained magi.” She tilts her face upward and smiles into his aroused regard as oil-slicked thighs enfold his erection and squeeze tightly together. “But the massage was even better…”

“So eye saw.”

“And Daniel’s nice…”

“So ’t’would seem.”

“Don’t be so prissy. Thou shouldest be grateful - he warmed me up for thee, after all…” She nips his nipple between shiny white teeth while soft fingertips and sharp nails tickle his ribcage and lightly torment his flank. “An’ I’m buffed an’ oiled for thy pleasure, my prince,” she manages while gripping his teat with her teeth. “Thou canst finish me off. Come ’ere,” she orders, slowly falling back onto the bed without releasing his nipple, to ensure he topples atop her. Four grasping hands simultaneously reach for writhing flanks and bunching buttocks, pulling enflamed loins more closely together as utterly attuned and intimately familiar teenage animal bodies automatically strive for unendingly renewed ecstasy in an uplifting blaze of sexual union.

They roll and grapple, twisting together in a miasmic billow of incense, oils, beeswax and pheromones. He winds up halfway beneath his beloved’s sumptuous body while they kiss on the silken sheet with his furry right leg squeezing up between the soft oiled surfaces and firmly lined sluices of her scissoring thighs; in the selfsame posture in which he’d found Daniel, scant minutes earlier.

Chest and breasts roll together as tongues plunge and thrust in time with the press of undulating bodies. She balances atop his rigid pole, hesitating on the brink of consummation. “I want to feel you on top of me, pressing me down,” she gasps; “Down here,” and reaches for his hard salty pillar as she drags him around to slip and slide up onto her taut white belly and the swollen pink hillocks of her breasts.

A renewed gust of wind pours in through the door and rushes out the window, cleansing the chamber of most of the shrouding incense. The cloying sweetness is replaced by an arousingly fresh rush of ozone-tinged atmosphere that washes across their entwined nakedness and recharges the enervated batteries of their overtaxed bodies, inciting the lovers into a furious fusion of passion. The candle struggles to survive for a few glowing moments before it gives up the ghost to the wet wind’s inconstant cold billowing.

As hips rock and roll and Racheal’s legs rise asplay to provide access for her man, the entangling towel bunches up to become an insuperable chastity belt between the slowly thrusting loins of the inseparable lovers. Ram rips the towel from his body and draws it through their softest declivities while Racheal smothers his face, throat and chest with a flurry of kisses. “Fuck me!” she pleads with unsubtle urgency. “I need you to hold me down and fuck me hard!”

When he registers the fact that his gasping lover requires no further foreplay, the rugged force of Ram’s manly young lust thrusts aside his more decorous sensibilities and he decides to give her that which she most desires. “Use me my prince, fuck me like thy helpless vassal…” He rises from the pillows of her breasts and grasps his Lady Racheal’s slim ankles, hoisting her legs upward to pin them between his chest and her shoulders in a posture of total submission – a position he knows from long experience that she sometimes enjoys, a supine and unmoving receptivity the priestess rarely demands with such a direct order and air of command.

“…and thy willing vessel,” she murmurs. He’s unsure whether to take the girl’s suggestion literally or not, but as he squeezes down on top of her and his cock slides against her labia, he sees his bride’s widening leer and knows he’s guessed her will correctly. He fondles Racheal’s tightly swollen mammaries and rigid little nipples as his cock burrows into the mouth of her oily lust-soaked seam. He holds her wrists down on the pillow above her blond mane, grasping their slim bones within the tightly clamped fingers of one hand, and swiftly shifts position for a rapid entry.

Rapid, he muses, as in rapine or rape… Despite randomly intermittent success with meditation, the young shaman’s thoughts are never still for long. He slows his advance and Racheal moans an objection as he pauses with the first rotund inch of his ramrod already squeezed up between her closely trimmed hairless outer lips. The limber girl squirms beneath him, sliding around the locus of her suddenly withheld impalement as she groans from the depths of her core. Her pelvis thrusts upward and she forces him inside, all the flesh in her fine young body blazing with amazing heat and resonating with the arousing vibration of her cry as she squeezes Ram’s cock into her girlishly tight and extraordinarily sheer vagina.

The memory of another rivalrous male’s recently spoken words flows through his chattering mind, infecting him with contagious recollection of their malign intent. He relives the fresh memory of the violent interruption to their lovemaking that had occurred soon after as disquieting images fill the inner field of Ram’s vision; a shadow play of malefic actions performed by the corrupt authoritarian cop who had so recently split the lovers asunder. The playwright’s earlier words had been starkly unsubtle; “Her pussy’s so fucking tight,” the entrepreneur had commented as he’d stroked Racheal’s nude sleeping body in another unfamiliar bed, “as tight as the arsehole of a youngish boy.”

The highly charged memories sully the moment and the prince pauses inside the threshold of his moaning mate, pulling partly away as he ponders the roots of this quasi-violent playful domination that his Lady Racheal currently appears to crave with such determined wantonness. “Ramses…” she moans, “Give me all of you!” He hears sounds of movement in the hall nearby, but ignores the fact that the door is as wide open as his young woman’s fully exposed hairless vulva, stretching to accommodate his swollen shaft while she moans beneath him. Let Daniel see what she really wants…

When she cries, “Go on! Do it!” - with an angry-sounding dare that’s loud enough to be clearly heard downstairs, in the more populous parts of the manse. A mesmerising animalistic need draws him back downward and right up inside her helplessly held-down body. She screams aloud when the weight of Ram’s hips piledrives the balancing thickness of his throbbing pillar through the grasping mouth of her tight-lipped sex; he sinks halfway back into her belly and stops, pulsating inside the clamping vice of her slippery loins.

He hears a quiet gasp from the doorway and is suddenly cognizant of how his dominating posture must appear to a stranger; the screaming Lady Racheal’s ankles hooked over his shoulders, her body in bondage to his overmassing strength while he holds her arms down on the bed and squeezes up inside her.

Let them watch, he decides, fully aware of the potential danger inherent in this foolishly prideful display. “Ooh!” Racheal cries as she struggles to thrust her loins round him, “Ohh god, fuck!” and the obvious evidence of his lover’s squirming arousal thrills through Ram’s body and erases his mindfulness. Let them see how amazing she is when she comes, and know how thoroughly she loves me…

A true story

Continues…

- R.A.