Saturday, 18 May 2013
Sunday, 14 April 2013
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 28
When the newly initiated High Priestess staggers toward the dazzlingly bright kitchen seeking another refill of wine, a wordless inner voice prods her onto a different course. Following an intuitive urge the proudly naked young tripper pauses at the shadowy foot of the stairs, where she balances against the doorframe to collect her disparate selves before venturing back into the gloomy longhall.
Raucous sounds from a resurgent tide of swelling revelry seem to pour directly into the Lady Racheal’s mind as her tribal initiation party continues apace without her. Swirling shapes surround her head and a bevy of transparent deep purple bats flit around the margins of her vision. The wooden doorframe is a carved limb of living flesh that bends to her touch and the rug beneath her bare soles slithers about like a skittish skateboard..
Her eyes adjust to guttering candlelight and she catches sight of the glazed haze of the tribal initiation mirror, where her own dim reflection stands above strange serpentine shapes twisting in fire-fringed shadows. She’s instantly transfixed, shocked by the vision of her own amazingly perfect hourglass figure, and absorbed in the swirling patterns that swim across her glowing white skin. That’s me? Racheal marvels, and the thought resounds inside her skull; …me… me… me… Her eyes light up like Catherine wheels. Can I be that… that… She feels a blush rush up her throat: …that graceful swan?
A flock of words pours through the air, too swift to catch or understand. While she tries to disentangle rumbling music from highly spirited exclamations and less audible murmurs of conversation, the pale reflected shapes at her feet slowly resolve to a pair of slim feminine limbs. Fernlike patterns illumine the snaky forms from within and spread through the hall, extending to unseen horizons. Though certain she doesn’t move at all, Racheal’s face nods and winks back at her from the looking glass and she turns away to focus on her own side of the mirror.
When she peers down at the legs that twist near her feet flamingo-pink ethereal flames engulf the low couch and conceal all details with dancing veils that shift through violet and purple. She sways and raises the cup to her lips to down the dregs of the oversweet mead and a foxfur coat brushes past her back as her naked hip bumps against another’s, encased in rough rasping denim. She absently drops the mug on the rug and steps from the draughty doorway, emerging into firelit exposure in the tribe’s crowded longhall.
Racheal instantly feels attention strike her with probing thrusts, hooking barbs and questing tastes of myriad eyes that fix upon her blatant nudity from candlelit nooks and deeper shadows. The swaying priestess averts a warping gaze to focus on the bed where she’d so recently left her shaman lover. In another few moments, while high-pitched music spears through her brain and flashes of light erupt in the night, she recognises the familiar musculature of Crystal’s long white legs limned in fluorescing orange fire. The rest of the redhead’s rocking little body is concealed by a larger, hump-backed, white delphinine mass that moves across her smaller frame in undulant rhythmic waves.
Through swimming vision she watches the younger teen’s thighs enwrap and flex around an equally pale naked torso suffused with living, pumping, glowing colours, and sees the girl’s calf muscles swell as she draws her mate closer. That isn’t Arné… the tripping hippy witch girl realises, and when firelight flares and she sees who plunges between Crystal’s spread thighs, the Lady Racheal’s swaying knees drop to the gritty rug and her hands fall onto the edge of the mattress.
A huge hand settles onto her bare shoulder and gives her a squeeze while pressure builds behind her blinking eyes. “You okay, lovely?” The masculine voice is completely unfamiliar, grating down from the darkness while colourful Aztec motifs flare in her retinas. “Need anything?” Rough fingers shift to stroke a lock of her hair, twisting a golden strand before blurred eyes that remain fixed on Crystal’s partner. Another large hand presses between her shoulder blades and her hackles rise as the stranger begins stroking her skin with a slippery palm. “Need a hand?”
A wave of rage bursts upward though her and in the next instant she launches herself back up onto her bare feet and sways, dizzied, in semidarkness. The massive hand keeps stroking her back and slides further downward as a muscular arm surrounds her naked waist, tickling her midriff with a wiry mat of fuzz – but the importunate contact is scarcely distracting before the swelling rush of jealous anger that strangles a rebuke before she can utter it.
The stranger obviously takes silence for assent and pulls her closer. Evidence of the night’s passions slithers down her inner thigh as she staggers away and totters against the edge of the stairwell. She shakes medusa strands of snaking hair from her shuttered eyes and feels the growl swell in her throat until it bursts from her lips.
“Leave me be!” she warns as the hand slips lower, but her half-withheld shout is drowned beneath a rumbling squall of heavy metal. She knows she can call any man in the tribe to come to her rescue any time she chooses – most are still awake and present in the Centraxian stronghold – but is fain to betray her position to the rutting teens just beyond the threshold. Twisting aside doesn’t help; the sandpaper fingers slide around to lightly cup her bare buttock, and despite her best intentions Racheal’s body trembles with an inconvenient shock of undeniable drunken arousal.
You’re free as a bird…. a booming inward voice intones; and so is he… Shocked at the thought, she drifts away and watches herself from a nearby distance; faintly surprised her hair’s still so straight, disturbed by her strangely slowed reflexes, filled with scorn at the helpless lust that flares in her animal body at the simple trigger of a tickling finger. The meaty hand seems content to stay where it is without further manhandling, so she decides to ignore the intrusion for the moment and concentrates on seeing through the brick wall that stands between her and the longhall.
The living image of her smiling prince instantly fills her eager mind in a draught of revivifying elixir. His long hand beckons and his full red lips say something inaudible as she slips back into her body and prepares to lean around the doorjamb to meet his emerald eyes in the flesh. A shocking thrill rushes up through her spine when the sliding hand slips from her cheek and dandles her tailbone, but she’s so thoroughly drunk, drugged, angry and jealous she can’t be bothered giving much of a damn about this annoying new violation. She needs to know – to be certain her eyes aren’t playing tricks and leading her astray into fearfully insecure delusions – so she resolves to ignore the hand when it starts stroking her flank and circling round to finger her belly.
Far too much has happened in all too short a time for anything so minor and meaningless to distract her at such a pressing moment. A pair of street urchins rushes past, delaying her for another few infuriating seconds before she takes a slow motion step into the bathing heat of the firelit longhall. She steels her nerve for the scene that awaits, already etched in her blinking eyelids. Her tormentor pursues her with an arm that slithers around her waist.
When she takes a deep breath and gazes down on the low couch she sees the lovers have exchanged positions. Crystal’s fey shape is starkly outlined by an orange glow from the resurgent fire. The inebriated priestess’s treacherous body threatens to crumple back onto the floor beside the squeaky mattress when she sees her lover’s rigid cock – her cock! - stretching the younger girl’s pink lips wide. Fury fills her and she turn around to face the nearest light, twisting out of the anonymous slippery grip as she strides toward the kitchen. Brilliance blinds her dilated eyes and a rasping crackle announces the advent of another track from the overhead speakers;
“I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever you’re around…” +
A barking laugh escapes her lips when Racheal steps into stark blinding light and hears the lyrical lyrics. Her bare soles slide in a pool of spilled wine and she literally glides across the room on a chequered expanse of slippery linoleum. Two bearded hippies gape and ogle her naked body with unsuppressed surprise and dawning admiration. Two sets of hands start to rise to catch her as she reaches between the goggling men to steady herself - and incidentally grabs an apparently abandoned goblet from the mantle in a single fluid motion.
“Milady,” a voice entreats as she raises the clay vessel to her lips. She spins about to see a familiar figure bow and doff his feathered cap. “Awa Ken, Milord Marco,” she replies with a curt little nod as his eyes stroke the length of her body. “I’ll fetch thee a stronger tipple,” he says with a wink, “and thy robe while I’m at it.” He strides out of the room with a flap of his cape, closely followed by young Princess Moonshine (clad in fishnet stockings, high black boots, a short fur jacket and little else) who flounces past a hulking onlooker that lurks in shadows, watching from the foot of the stairs.
“Oh baby, when I see your face, mellow as the month of May,
Oh darlin’, I can’t stand it when you look at me that way
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I feet my heart start to trembling whenever you’re around…”
The tribal High Priestess spots a slightly older woman in a polka dotted dress and matching headscarf, staring at her naked body with approbation glittering in slitted brown eyes. She stares back until the woman looks away, then spins on her heel and gives the half-crowded kitchen a good look at her posterior as she slides back toward the longhall.
“Ooh darlin’, when you’re near me and you tenderly call my name
I know that my emotions are something I just can’t tame…”
Her glide is interrupted when she bumps into the unmoved but animated Lady Ringell, whose extraordinary guffaw further delays her return to the orgiastic scene that still hovers before her eyes. “No,” Fifi is saying to a glaze-eyed Li Po, whose golden arm drapes over an equally drunken Freedom’s shoulder. “I shan’t be going north tomorrow after all – I have another engagement…”
“Singing?” Freedom asks with a reverent expression.
“Not this time my dear, ’tis an acting part. Mayhap ye’d like to accompany Li Po and Arné on Kha-Aan’s expedition to evict Captain Kell and reclaim the stronghold… Milady!” she exclaims when she turns about and sees Racheal’s pinkly bobbing breasts. “Taking them out for a stroll, are we?” Racheal glances down and shrugs. Her eyes bore into Fifi’s while an unplanned decision pours from her lips fully formed; “I’ve a mind t’ take thy place on that trip… if there’s space.”
“Another trip so soon?” Ringell’s eyes twinkle as her cheeks deeply dimple. “The boys will always make room for thee - our grand, beauteous and unsurpassably wise High Priestess! But they’ll be leaving not long after dawn, my dear – wilt stay up through the rest of the night?”
“Just watch me,” their new High Priestess answers as she shoulders her way through the group, heading toward rising sounds of merriment.
“Why not? No doubt everyone else will,” Fifi observes while Freedom releases a suppressed giggle.
“I just a-lose control down to my very soul
I get a common cold all over, all over…
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky a’tumbling down
The shadowy figure no longer bars Racheal’s path when she returns to the shadows. She pauses at the foot of the staircase, lifts the goblet to her lips and finds it half filled with spicy mulled wine. A strange gritty texture pursues the lukewarm drink down her throat while a cool draught from the open back door pimples her perspiring skin. The teenage witch steels herself with another gulp, certain she’s inured to the sight of her lover disporting with the other girl again. Then she enters the gloomy longhall and suddenly halts at the expected spectacle that nonetheless confronts her with stunning lividness.
The last of the sweetly strong drink spills down her chin and splashes from her breasts to cascade onto Ram’s undulating spine and bunching buttocks. She watches him jerk with surprise between Crystal’s thighs “Fuck this!” she yells through the party’s ebbing tide in the dimly lit longhall. “’Tis my party and I’ll have whom I want, too!”
Ram’yana freezes inside Crystal’s spry body, poised atop her and halfway withdrawn. The little pixie lies beneath him with her heels in his hocks, still and unmoving, her breath withheld as she peers through his hair and over his shoulder. When his glance inevitably follows the red haired girl’s he’s rewarded with a memorable tableau. His Lady’s statuesque silhouette steps from the doorway and enters the hall, striding right past their interlocked bodies. Her white skin flares with a flaming liquid sheen as she passes through the large shadowy chamber and boldly faces the shadows within.
Though he’d been certain few strangers and fewer Centraxians remained in the hall, it seems as if a multitude of glittering eyes swivel and flash to the stark naked teenage High Priestess when her bold declaration reverberates from the graffito-clad walls; “I am what I am!”
“And we love what you are!” yells a voice from the pack, fast as a shot with echoes of laughter.
“Take me or leave me!” The priestess’ cry twists in Ram’s mind like a multilayered oracle as Chrissie’s hands grip his shoulder blades to pull him closer. An instantaneous hubbub greets Racheal’s invitation as half a dozen male voices shout or grunt or call out in wry reply. His beloved stands out as a shining beacon in turbulent night and, along with everyone else in the hall, Ram’s eyes are riveted to her utterly nude flame-tinted young body.
A slender Goddess naked and white as the last flaming candle that laves her form with licks of light she twists and sways, slowly aglow in the magnetic midst of a bombed out ruin, and intones as she twirls; “I call on a knight in the long dark night…” Her voice is uncommonly husky and deep, vibrating right through the crowded room. The new High Priestess spins on the spot like a swivelling lighthouse, arms akimbo with long blonde hair streaming in living flames in a vortex that threatens to fly apart. “…a champion waiting t’ enter my sight…” she slurs as she spins to a halt.
Firm nubile breasts bounce unerringly skyward and the prince can’t help notice his paramour’s nipples are hard and erect as she moans her spiel to the rowdy crowd. Her huge wide eyes flash with sapphire brilliance as a blue glow lights her high pale brow, and her alluring figure seems surrounded by another, larger form that shines with an unearthly pulsating aura. “…an’ join with me t’ show his might…”
She swirls between the lover’s bower and the rest of the hall, and doesn’t even glance in Ram’s direction but slows to meet the stares of everyone else in the chamber with a flashing white grin. He watches her profile as glinting eyes rove the darkness to spy Arné’s unmistakeable naked body, half sunken into an oversized lounge chair; the young monk appears to have crashed out after his impressive exertions. “…enflamed on th’ pyre ’f love’s delight…”
Ram’yana is sure he can see her mind working behind her showy rhythmic spiel, writ clear as words in flitting masks that flutter across her familiar face; I’ll have her man, and see how she likes it - I can soon rouse him, she seems to decide on the nonce while he stares. As she strides further into flickering rays from the fading fire – the only remaining bright flux of light -the naked teenager’s slim naked body, all aglow in the swelling dark, is surrounded by shadows that close in around her, eclipsing her flame-edged form from Ram’s sight.
The longhall steams with sweltering heat. “My sleeping knight, so filled with might, to waken thee’s a boon by right…” her lover hears the witch girl declare, and feels Chrissie’s body contract around him as a viridian wave of possessive jealousy jolts through both their spines. He stares across her flaming mane with watery eyes, transfixed by the show with most everyone else at Racheal’s surprisingly boisterous party. “…to have an’ hold ’til daylight bright…”
Each stanza evokes a hypnotic parade of illustrations that pass though Ram’s mind while he watches her sway before Arné’s sealed eyes, scant inches from his idle hands and an arm’s length from the corralling crowd. When the priestess kneels between Arné’s knees and leans across his generous lap, her lover turns to the unmoving drunken pixie whose boyfriend Racheal now wakes with caresses and kisses and intimate touches that twist the girl up in Ram’s close embrace. “…and flee with me on thy northerly flight…”
Crystal’s eyes are gleaming liquid pools.in the flicker-shot dark. He feels her mind cringe along with her body, feels her relax as the thought arrives with Free Love’s bold entrained refrain; I don’t own him…
“…that we may do this f’r a month of nights…”
And I don’t own her… Chrissie’s mouth opens and she pulls him down onto her, all the way into her, and sighs. “An’ I’m having you,” she slurs into his hair. She starts to move him deep inside her, guiding his hips with all the strength of her rolling pelvis and limber young legs, propelling his hardness with both bony heels.
Yet he can’t shake the visions that mar his awareness – the stark vivid image of Joe’s stout black baton reaming his lovely blushing mate (or was it a dream?) even burns through the stupendous reality of beautiful Crystal’s slippery labia wrapped tightly right around him, fucking him as if there were no tomorrow. Next he sees – or thinks he sees -a roused Arné Stook lifting his Lady Racheal’s fine slender frame up astride that buff body and cramming her down athwart his thick member, stretching her wider than ever before as he fills her womb with sticky gouts of his swarming sperm while cheers and jeers erupt all around.
The cheering and jeering is already too real and liquid thumpings of slapping flesh come from various humping shapes in the dark. The longhall seems to pump and thrum with the seamy, steamy, swelling heat of impending eruption, and a voice begins to toll in his mind like a resonant bell; Be… Here… Now…
Then a group of cloaked and hooded figures - all using Racheal’s body at once - bursts into Ram’s befuddled mind with the sudden recall of her recent admissions. He drives them away with Crystal’s kisses and tries not to remember his lover’s confession of guiltless pain; The reason for this, her strange behaviour, he assures himself while he strokes Chrissie’s breast and stokes her afresh.
Even as Crystal moans into his hair when he pounds her body down into the mattress; even as he spreads firm cheeks wide and jams her closer with both large hands, more than filling her tight little pussy with rampaging, thrusting, pulsing man-meat; even as her soft, tight, surprisingly full and swollen breasts mash and slide on his smooth hairless chest; even as the clasping, grasping teen’s unclipped nails rake strips from his shoulders and her slippery tongue crams into his mouth - he sees Racheal’s climax writ on her face, feels Racheal’s ecstasy respond in her body, feels Racheal’s encouraging heels on his flanks and rides Racheal into a screaming, steaming, molten mass of orgasmic fucking femaleness.
He makes ungentle surrogate love with his beloved High Priestess, willing her to feel his cock fucking her through the sex magick medium of Crystal’s sympathetic femaleness – transmitting his intent through the other girl’s body and willing himself to ride inside the male who pleasures his beloved like a puppet master, that he might be the one to truly bring her to ultimate ecstasy.
And all the while an inner bell tolls; HERE… NOW… while slow opening strains from the overhead speakers lead up to the line that already sings an harmonic refrain in the far flung boondocks of Ram’s flaring brain - ‘Love the one you’re with!’
His hands grasp her breasts and he holds on tight, pressing the girl right down through the mattress. He pounds and plunges and rides their wild tide of mutual lust to the heartfelt encouragement of strident screams that resound from Crystal’s wide open throat, almost drowning the staccato sounds of slapping flesh and horny cries that emanate from the other end of the suddenly populous longhall. He slides his hands beneath girlish hips, grabs two firm cheeks and pulls the pixie up off their bed while four slim limbs grip his rigid frame and lock him close inside her. “Oh, Ram,” she pants inside his hair, “oh God…”
Strident screams of impassioned sex pour through the hall and his Lady Racheal’s unforgettable voice resounds from the walls – rhythmic cries echoing regular slaps of firm young flesh that bespeak her penultimate pleasure. Ram’s eyes are slitted and totally blinded by turbulent passion, livid desire, jealous rage and dazzling light. The hall is displayed in brilliant flashes that paint the walls with unforgiving brightness, revealing cracks and smudges that despoil the pilaster and dispel the romance of firelight. Someone’s turned on the strobe…
He squints right over Crystal’s head, propelling the smaller teen up and down with her vigorous aid, aroused and vital and vainly jealous beyond all human measure. He blinks through shadows and blinding light to peer past a grove of sapling legs that conceals a scene already stark in his lustful imaginings.
There on the lounge betwixt looming shades his Lady has found her chosen knight on this, her greatest night of nights. Ram’yana freezes in Chrissie’s embrace as Racheal’s sleek body bucks and bounces, jolting and flopping in fitful flashes espied between gaps in the shifty crowd. She jerks in a cascade of frozen images, wanton expressions lit bright and white and lividly vivid in the stark blinding light of the racing strobe. He watches her mount her chosen male, riding Arné’s fat cock on the padded chair, rising and falling in a broken string of bright serried images; framed by admirers, a crowning jewel in a bracketing brace of coupling couples, drunken, stoned, tripping – at least - and utterly shameless.
And her eyes… As she rides astride Arné and twists right around to face the crew that surrounds her display, those beaming searchlight sapphire orbs pass through the onlookers, one by one, blinking and shining and glowing with joy, widely open and obviously unseeing as she screams a wordlessly rhythmic refrain.
Arné’s grin is a feral leer of emboldened release, the mask of an orphan freed to escape to the fantasyland of a cherished dream. He fucks like a satyr, lost in throes of blind lust born of longing - and of Mandrax, grass, acid and alcohol mixed with the essence of dreams. The huge boy’s hands grip the curving hips of his long sought lover and lift her up to mash her back down, tossing her body around on his lap like a slippery doll of white silk and plastic. Her breasts roll around in a figure-eight, bouncing and rolling in time with her cries while he licks her long neck and sucks at her shoulder. Sheer sexual ecstasy transforms their faces with the glorious glamour of wanton desire, all captured in glimpses of gasps and moans, wide eyed bliss and wide mouthed cries that burn Ram’s eyes and ring in his ears like clanging chimes.
He vaguely notes he’s mimicking their vigorous and rhythmic play, using Crystal’s small frame - her avid responses and whole hearted pleasures - as a surrogate for the lover he craves. “Oh yeah!” the girl moans as he jerks her body round and about, back and forth, up and down while he watches his beloved’s face and imagines it’s he who fills her eyes with blinding desire and unleashed grace. He’s wondrously lost in dimensions of lust, bold as a lion and strong as a bear; Just like Arné… a little voice tells him; This is what he feels right now, as he uses her as his fresh new silk-lined blow up living fuck toy...
Chrissie swoons in his arms and her taloned hold and scissor grip unlatch away from his rocking frame. Her breathless cry is almost a whimper; “Oh yeah, o fuck, like ’at, like that!” Her upper body falls away like a raggedy doll’s to hang from Ram’s grip and wood-hard lance as he uses her flesh with merciless zeal. Just like Rache… He lifts her high and pulls her close, inspired by voluble cries of assent from near and afar. She’s light as a feather, he wonders anew as he uses the girl’s entire body to stroke and suck and pleasure his cock, thrusting and fucking her back and forth round his swollen, rigidly horny cock while she growls like a kitten, screams like a woman and cries his name with unmistakeable unstopped notes of matching insatiable teenage desire.
And all the while he watches his true love fucking his hearty comrade and friend, and faithfully copies their frenetic efforts to make her come and come again, over and over before shadowy strangers and peers of the Court. The young shaman knows the spell will continue ’til the first rutting male blows his swarming seeds right up into a wide open womb and loses the unspoken contest - and Ram suddenly sees the primordial program that’s actually driving his unfree will and fucking flesh through Crystal and Racheal and all the fertile fields of womanhood in the vast blue-green realm of the Goddess Gaia. An endurance test, a primitive duel, witnessed by all the females here to prove our fitness to endure…
Some of the onlookers have turned about to face the prince and his sexy kitten, occluding all sight of his paramour’s beauty just as she reaches the summit of climax. When Racheal’s orgasmic scream fills his ears he closes his eyes and pulls the girl’s body up against his, determined to savour every slick inch of Crystal’s silk skin and the fabulous heated vice of her pussy as though it were Racheal’s own.
He buries his face in fragrant hair, inhaling the teen’s unique spicy scent to help banish the flagrant tormenting visions that dance through his brain – and in a few more moments of absorbing fucking he’s genuinely amazed by the uncanny quality of the slim fey creature who’s chosen to bless him with her most intimate charms. “Oh, oh, oh!” she pants and calls beyond upthrust breasts when he pulls her away to regard her beauty; “O yeah, o fuck, o man, o God!”
Goddess, the prince belatedly realises, staring into the teen’s shining face; She’s absolutely fucking wonderful! And though he knows he’s already bedded the girl once before, this time it’s somehow for real.
Yet he can’t bring himself to lift his face from her hair and once more glance across the longhall. Several looming forms have approached to surround them in any case, blocking the scene of Racheal’s strobe-lit public initiation. “Ooh, look!” A high-pitched voice squeals. “More fucking hippies!” He sees slender feminine braceleted ankles, the calf-length boots of would-be cowboys, flip-flopping thongs gripped by hairy toes and fish-netted legs perched on white stilettos – a quartet of voyeurs all watching his cock slide in and out of the gorgeous young runaway, who stares right back and bucks and screams and comes for them all in a gasping display, breasts upthrust for their predilection and obviously proud of their focused attention.
Her screams and grunts of abandoned lust encourage Ram’s own innate prideful exhibitionism. He plays Chrissie’s perfect miniature body like a highly strung instrument for the looming onlooker’s vicarious amusement - stroking her skin and stoking the furnace of her fur-lined loins again and again with unquenchable need, thrusting and fucking her rag-doll body even after all her cries cease and she hangs from his cock, unmoving once more and almost insensate.
It’s only as his own climax approaches that the drunken, tripping, lust-lost prince finally realises what he’s doing. He slows his movements and hoists the floppy teen’s light little body up once again, close to his chest to limit the sozzled girl’s total exposure to the giggling, grunting, commenting strangers – and buries his face in her thick red hair when he totally fills her tight gripping pussy with long hard cock and groans gouts of jism up into her womb.
He reels on his knees, barely able to stay erect while his newfound playmate moans with joy as his seed pumps into her tautly trim belly. Her lips grip his shoulder and slide along the nape of his neck while she squeezes him inside and out. “Don’ worry,” an obviously inebriated female voice whispers into his ear while ragged applause pours down on their bodies. The fluttering butterfly of another small hand settles lightly on his shoulder. Crystal’s chin slips over the strange little hand and her entire body starts insistently fucking his come-slicked cock afresh.
He knows she’s watching Racheal – and Arné – through the veil of his mane, and even though the strobe has been suddenly extinguished and darkness fills most of the hall, he’s sorely tempted to twist about to follow her gaze to where sucking, slapping, moaning sounds rise from several matched pairs of undulant bodies. At that very moment a silken sweep of long flowing hair and a soft pair of lips brush against Ram’s cheek. He turns and slips into a full throated kiss from the surprisingly libidinous and uninhibited Princess Moonshine, and feels her other hand start stoking the place where his body meets Crystal’s.
Is she trying to distract me from Racheal? He hasn’t lain with the exemplary girl since the Lady Racheal moved into his bed a few months before, when Moonshine had seemingly lost all interest in pursuing him (or a likely threesome). Are both of them? It occurs to the befuddled prince that this surely seems a perfect time to reacquaint himself with the generous teen’s lustrous young body. There was a time, not long before, when they spent entire fornicating days and nights in each other’s eagerly willing company, and Princess Moonshine’s twinkling eyes assure him she’s not forgotten a whit.
The moment their kissing begins afresh there’s no turning back. All three teens are equally stonkered and blown away by copious drink, powerful smoke and even stronger LSD and all inhibitions have left by the back door aeons ago in the mists of time. He’s soon enthralled by both girls at once, barely able to distinguish between one pair of lips (or rumps or breasts) and another in the occasionally flash-lit darkness. Even the light in the kitchen is out, leaving them bathed in a liquid darkness that’s fully populated by ravishingly salacious images which echo flagrant realities being enacted throughout the Centraxian stronghold.
So blown away is the shaman prince he doesn’t even imagine that he’s making love with beloved Racheal while the twinned young beauties share him between them, in turn and at once, for an immeasurable interval of wheeling stars and succulent tactile labile delights.
Even when single - but no less blinding - flashes erupt in the darkness (attesting to Vostra’s attempts at candid photography, presumably in role as Tribal Scribe), he barely turns to watch his ladylove disporting with his friend for more than a few seconds at a time. He concentrates on emulating the rocking rhythm of Crystal’s hips while sucking Moonshine’s outthrust tongue and exploring her interior alongside Chrissie’s sticky little fingers while they all rock and roll to the rock and roll that blares through the longhall and guides their flesh – all joining in a sacred choir of harmonised molten bliss.
Some while later Ram’yana emerges from rapturous joy. A short sharp glance informs the prince that a closely packed enthusiastic scrum of shadowy figures still surrounds the seat where Arné was so hastily wakened – and is doubtless now well past the point of pleased surprise, if Racheal’s full-throated cries and flashing glimpses of her naked white body bouncing athwart a masculine torso are any guide.
As he’s about to turn back into Moonshine’s arms he spies the half-clad figure of Lady Ringell squat over Arné’s hulking reclining body. She moves in a pool of lambent streetlight on the bottle-strewn floor, slowly grinding down on the lad she knows so well right beside Racheal’s feet – and Ram’yana understands what he’s seeing; his beloved is allowing another man to take her on her makeshift throne before a gaggle of other willing males, who move in to surround her more closely as he watches. One by one, each in turn, or all at once? he wonders while at least half a dozen men and women start tentatively stroking his beloved’s body and sucking on her flesh,; closing in around her until he can hardly see an inch of her pale glowing skin.
He tries to tell himself not to be concerned, but can’t look away even when Moonshine kisses Crystal’s breasts while he keeps nailing the redhead to the floor. Moonshine rubs her sex against the smaller girl’s hipbone and they both bring the dark haired teen off with busily twining fingers while Chrissie twists and squirms on the bed beneath them. Ringell will watch out for her, he tells himself when the Centraxian princess cups his scrotum and drives his shaft up into Chrissie’s trim belly. And so will Arné… With that thought he returns to the task at hand and begins licking both girls’ tongues inside Crystal’s open, quietly moaning, ever so sweet little mouth.
A single last glance at the flashbulb-lit scene reveals Racheal’s riveting upturned face through an orgiastic crew of allies and strangers. The sight of her wide open eyes staring directly into his while she moans and twists in manifold hands is weirdly arousing and petrifying.
Actinic afterimages of his Lady Racheal’s enraptured expression thrum through his mind with stroboscopic intensity even as Crystal fucks herself with his suddenly immobile rigidity; even when the teenage mage regains enough presence of mind and body to kiss one comely girl while screwing the other; even while each teen takes turns fucking the other with his rampant staff; even as he caresses a breast of each girl while they stroke and suck and stoke each other to mind blowing climax, again and again, while he mounts them with satyric glee – even, especially, when he comes inside the screaming, madly gyrating body of Princess Moonshine, Racheal’s gloating, red-rimmed eyes continue to fill his vision.
It’s as if they’re all one fucking feline female in multiple forms. He comes inside her, and inside her, and inside her, in varied permutations and positions while the party slowly thins out in ember-lit darkness. But each time it’s Racheal’s trim belly he fills with hot white jets of fertile jism – every time he hears her scream out another mind-blown orgasm from the other end of the longhall in the arms of yet another stranger or tribal sister or brother or other, it’s Racheal he feels convulsing beneath and around him.
His Lady’s cries only fade with his dimming awareness when his mind slips away in the gathering dark.
A True Story
- R. A.
Images – Author’s
+ I feel the earth move under my feet – lyrics by Carol King (Copyright)
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
Sex & Drugs & Rock ’n’ Roll 28 – Tit for Tat
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a small donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
Saturday, 6 April 2013
Friday, 22 March 2013
Psychedelic Water 28
The band plays on while the hermetic shaman departs the market. He passes through rainbow archways of brilliant demi-heraldic fabrics and negotiates a cunning obstacle course of shin-high wooden benches designed for undernourished five year olds. The old public school - a regimented rabbit warren closed down years ago with the demise of the Baby Boom, now taken over by a far hipper community - occupies most of the triangular central block in the phantasmagorical little village.
The recycled wooden buildings are now filled by community groups, studios, workshops, the local FM radio station, eateries, galleries, a kindergarten and childminding centre, ‘youth groups’ and rehearsal spaces.
This weekend all the yards and outdoor passageways are fringed by a market of Byzantine proportions and complexity, where any number of useful, useless and luxurious items and substances can be found at reasonable rates (and barter is common at Mardi Grass, during the peak of the harvest season).
He turns onto the main drag and a hirsute Nimbin original from the era of the original Aquarius Festival - whose family has lived in the area since hippies first began resurrecting the cattle-devastated fertile hills - assails him from the nature strip in mercantile greeting; “Ah, here’s someone who’ll be interested in this new generation of alarmingly great psychedelic t-shirts! Step right up and take a gander at these enlightening images, kind sir!”
Cagliostro’s eyes are concealed by gilt-framed purple octagonal sunglasses, encircled by deeply etched laugh lines that bite into sunburn-pinked cheeks. Count Cagliostro - perfect clone of Phineas Freak (replete with a propensity for subverting the dominant paradigm) - holds up a brilliantly designed portrait of an elderly gent riding a bicycle through a warping field of psychedelic flowers, the lid of his top hat blown away to reveal a coruscating array of lights pouring into his head. Around the image the words ‘Hats Off to Hoffman!’ gleam in vibrant fluorescent dyes. “So what do you think? Like them?”
Dr Hoffman – the ‘father’ of LSD – discovered some of the miraculous mould’s unexpectedly extraordinary properties while riding his legendary bike from work, where some of the compound had come into contact with his skin. His familiar trip home became an extraordinary adventure. The properties of time and space were fundamentally altered as his thoughts boomed through resonant ventricles of suddenly expanding mindfulness – and the modern shamanic Acid Trip was born.
“Fantastic!” The her(m)etic hermit is truly impressed. “They’re the best psychedelic designs I’ve laid eyes on since the ‘80s!”
“And we print them ourselves. The technology’s come a long way since the old silk screening days down in the Bush Factory. And cheap, too – but fine grade cotton. For you, fifteen bucks.”
“Done.” He rummages through his hip pocket for some brightly coloured slippery plastic currency. “You put these together on your Mac? I recognise some of your artwork from the website.”
“That’s right,” a younger man agrees from behind the rack of clothing, “on the Apple. How’s it going, Ramses?”
“Aloah! It’s been great, except for the drought in the middle of the season. So you’re involved with this notorious change agent, are you? Well met!”
“That’s right.” The second generation Nimbinite shakes his hand, using the first three stages of the universal rainbow arch grip. “Perfect day for it, though. No rain on the parade this year.”
“So ’twould seem – a great drying year, perfect for curing.”
“You got it,” Cagliostro tells him, pocketing the cash. “That’s why there haven’t been many locals around for the past couple of days – they’ve been too busy. And here’s something else for you, if you want it – a special bonus gift for our hundredth customer of the weekend!” He produces the small clear phial of colourless, odourless liquid capped with a rubber eyedropper. “How’d it go?”
Thrice in as many days? Ramses considers the weighty question with all the gravitas it deserves for all of two seconds. “Perfect – but now my tolerance will probably be pretty high.”
“Burning the midnight oil does that. Well - in that case five hundred mikes may be enough. What do you say?” The Count measures a dose out in the dropper. “Do you want it in the eye or under the tongue?”
Ramses opens his mouth and tilts his head back in reply. Cagliostro squirts the LSD under his raised tongue and the slightly viscous fluid slips down his throat, clean, pure and ineffably familiar to his experienced palate.
“I think that was more like seven hundred,” the bearded salesman admits. “But you can handle it.” He passes the t-shirt over and the three museketeers settle down on a narrow grassy strip alongside the concrete footpath. “I had that much about half an hour ago and it’s coming on nicely right about now.”
“Me too,” agrees his partner, reclining in sunshine a few feet from the passing footfalls of a thousand strangers; tuning into the music rolling over the landscape from the market stage. “You know, you’re not really our hundredth customer. We’ve been doing okay, but not that well.”
“Not as well as at the Channon market,” Cagliostro concurs. “But the website’s starting to turn them over like hotcakes and we don’t have to store any stock – we just print them up when the orders come in.”
On the rack above their heads glowing pyramids topped with spangled eyeball capstones hover over pentagonal dayglo symbols of the Sacred Chao of Discordia, alongside warped and adapted reproductions of Robert Crumb originals. A basket of Gilbert Sheldon’s Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comics is mounted on a small carved wooden table, alongside hemp incense, hemp oil lip balm, cannabis massage oil and hempen cigarette papers. “Feel like a number?” Ram’yana asks.
“I pick number twenty-three,” Cagliostro replies with studious intent. His satisfied customer produces a long pre-rolled reefer and passes it to him. “Congratulations! - that’s the winning number!”
They pause to watch a bevy of Ganja Faeries saunter past, nubile, subtropically tanned bodies slightly concealed beneath green spangled bikini tops and short grass skirts. They carry large shield-like effigies of marijuana leaves through the passing throng, making their way to a nearby rehearsal space. “Looks like the parade’s going to be great,” Cagliostro observes. “A fine crop of Faeries this year. There are even a couple of males in among the dancing girls, to seed up the crop and give the women something to look at.” A group of citified hive dwellers pauses to surround the stall and Ram winks at the Count, stepping away from the sudden congregation as the salesman starts spruiking his wares.
Only a few paces up the road the shaman stops at another impromptu stall spread out on the side of the footpath. Two boys barely larger than infants smile up at him through gaps in yellowing milk teeth. Arrayed on a paisley silk scarf spread on the ground before them is a carefully contrived cluster of crystals laid out in a complex mandala. The grinning boys proudly display the semi-precious stones to their prospective customer, who kneels down to inspect the crystals more closely.
The change in altitude is momentarily dizzying and every surrounding sound shifts in a weird Doppler effect. Even after he kneels he’s still looking down at the tiny cross-legged urchins. The boys and their stall are surrounded by a forest of dozens of pairs of legs, their glittering wares ignored by everyone else.
“We found them all ourselves,” the sandy-haired spokesman pipes up. A three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle of clear, citrine and milky quartz intermingles with blue-green fluorites, subtly psychedelic agates and a variety of less easily identified crystals form a rough circle on the concrete footpath. Highlights glisten within the fractured fractal surfaces in the bright midday sunlight and babbling voices weave and flow in a verbal river of intermingling multilingual thought-forms. It certainly is coming on fast, Ram’yana realises. And on a full stomach, too.
He notices that all the crystals have been cunningly arranged around – and partly conceal – an oddly shaped purplish stone set in the very centre of the mandala. Looking up at the two boys he sees a pair of ancient wizened gnomes inhabiting the bodies of three year olds, smiling up at him and nodding cannily. “These are really impressive!” he exclaims. “Where did you find them?”
“Just down the hill.” The sandy haired creature points down toward the river, hidden behind a fringe of trees that stands between the hilltop village and the escarpment of fabled Nimbin Rocks - jutting outcrops rearing up from the depths of a primeval volcano that was once as tall as Everest, to guard and brood over the Rainbow Region of Oz. “We found them all down there.”
“You didn’t have to dig for them?”
“Nah – they’re all right there in the river.”
The shaman jiggles a pale blue stone set beside an orange quartzite. Both abut the strange central crystal, half concealing its perfect purplish miniature phallic form. “These are particularly brilliant,” he says, catching the boys’ eyes. “And they hide this one in the centre so well – the one you don’t really want anyone to see or buy.” The gnomish lads glance at each other and a look of pained concern passes between them. “This weird and magical gem right here, with the strange shape.” The long sharp nail of his little finger hovers over the central stone, not quite touching its gleaming lustrous patina. It’s a natural talisman, he understands, a fertility amulet and attractive fetish – like a love potion set in stone.
A pleading look comes into the eyes of the ancient earth sprites that inhabit the village children, their young bodies frozen in hushed expectation as they watch the squatting hippy. But it’s not something to need or want – how can you know that a woman loves you if you use a token like this? It’s a trap for the unwary and unwise… “Don’t worry,” he tells them, taking a clear quartz double terminator from the edge of the stone circle. “How much for this one?”
The spokesman’s sidekick erupts in glee. “A dollar!”
“Better make it one each,” the shaman suggests, handing over a double-headed two dollar fool’s gold coin. “Always keep the Elder’s face up and the Queen’s face down,” he winks at the gnomes.
“Thanks, mister!” the sandy-haired youngster exclaims.
“Boys,” Ramses says, “these are really good crystals, offerings of the living Earth. You’ve done amazingly well to find these – they’re beautiful.”
“They’re okay mister,” the gnome replies, “but we can get plenty more.” Ram smiles, shakes their tiny hands. He rises to his feet, tottering slightly as Doctor Hoffman’s patented potion surges to his brain. He bows to the beaming boys and makes his way across a sea of undulating stone-flecked concrete waves that guide him toward the centre of town.
He takes less than two dozen paces before another original settler - an evergreen stalwart still heavily involved in spawning the alternative society of the Rainbow Region – stops to greet him, hugging him warmly. “You’re here every year,” Lisa observes when she holds his whiskers at bay. Only the wild cut of her colourful clothing appears to have changed in the last three decades.
She looks almost exactly as she did at the dawn of the Aquarius era that transformed the subtropics of Oz, smiling, well-tanned face beaming with health and vitality. Good vibes, a great environment and faithful adherence to an honourably alternate path – one she and other visionaries saw, clearly laid out, when the hippies first discovered themselves in the fertile paradise of this ancient volcanic caldera – have combined to preserve Lisa’s beauty, brilliance and edge.
“How’s it going down your way?” she asks as a blonde woman strolls toward them with a ship-shape rolling gait.
“All’s fine in the rainforest,” he replies, smiling at the obvious impatience of the newcomer, who strives to catch Lisa’s attention while subtly edging him aside with the personal space of her capacious aura. “We have to get to the showground soon,” she announces in a tone of implied remonstration.
“Of course.” Lisa glances at her watch.
“Just one thing.” Ramses feels words swelling within him, forming somewhere beyond volition, apparently arising of their own accord from some mysterious inner source. “Before I say anything…” he hurriedly tells them before an unknown muse can spirit his volition away, “don’t pay any attention to anything I say.” The blonde’s grey eyes roll and Lisa’s smile becomes a trifle brittle - then the tidal flow is upon him; “It’s obvious there was some friction at first, with the Permaculture village opening up on the edge of town – many Nimbinites saw it as the thin edge of the wedge of straight development...”
“Oh, that’s coming anyway,” Lisa interjects with a quizzical smile. “Land prices are going through the roof…”
“They sure are,” her friend agrees with gleaming eyes and a guardedly miniscule nod.
“…and if there’s one thing Nimbin and the Rainbow Region need to continue as models of alternative living, it’s more environmentally aware people – and more Permaculture, to help keep the asshole developers at bay across the Queensland border, where they belong.”
“Maybe,” Lisa says, “but it’s put a real strain on things; the town didn’t really want to expand in such a single huge step, without more services being in place first.”
“Understandable – but now it’s not only a fait accompli, but a great green boon to the place.” The shaman still wonders where all this is coming from and going to as it pours from his mouth. “Look around - there are thousands of people here from all over the world…” They all glance outward, away from their small clustered circle, as a river of undulating bodies parts around them and reforms on the downstream side. “More like tens of thousands,” the unintroduced woman agrees, “and one raindrop raises the sea.”
“…and all these people aren’t just here for the drugs…”
“…or all the sex and rock and roll,” the blonde interposes, eyeing the shaman with a full-length sweep of her glittering gaze.
“…they’re also here for the dream. Nimbin’s a showcase of possibility and everyone here suspects the future that’s coming down on them is less than ideal. Most exist in lives of apparently pointless struggle and wonder if they - or their children - will have a future…”
“Oh, there’s a future all right,” Lisa assures him.
“The future’s so bright you’ll have to wear shades.” The blonde smiles behind her mirrored sunnies.
“Of course – but you know what’s going on; they’re all looking for solutions and a better life. Nimbin could do a lot worse that grafting Permaculture onto its label; the hope of the future’s revealed in the word. Permanence is what everyone craves, and the hope for something far more than subsistence – the dream of a vibrant ongoing culture in harmony with the Earth is what everyone really wants.” Lisa looks at her watch and he feels the rushing stream of words sputter toward a halt; “And that, after all, is what Nimbin is!”
“That’s an interesting viewpoint,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes, “and now we’d better be off.”
“Or we’ll be late,” her white rabbit friend agrees. The sounds of Nimbin suddenly return and increase in volume and variety, and a tide seems to turn in the fragrant air. Echoes of drums and trumpets filter through the tumultuous noises of the crowd and many brightly clad people seem to be making their way toward the source of the semi-musical sounds.
“See you at the parade!”
“See you on the street,” Lisa agrees, giving him another hug. The women wander up the road, immediately engrossed in ongoing conversation. Ramses makes his way past the pair as he flows around an eddy which temporarily snags them, weaving quickly through the multitude to bypass the clotting knot of interweaving wills.
The clear bubble of LSD expands to further transform his dizzied awareness. The shaman watches people step unconsciously from his path, a narrow track forming before him and closing as he passes through the surging protoplasm of the crowd. He tastes their expectancy, ambition, lust, boredom and wonder, their dawdling absent-mindedness and tightly focused concentration, their wary paranoia and effervescent glee as his aura touches and mingles with the multitude.
Marijuana smoke fills the streets, an aerial mixture of resinous scents from all over the country and the far-flung world, whose international denizens make regular and incessant pilgrimages to this little painted village on a nondescript ridge inside one of the largest volcanic calderas on the land surface of the planet – long extinct, we’re told by the science of usurping newcomers...
He unbuckles a small camera from his utility belt and checks the battery as he stalks along the edge of the road, dodging a Jungle Patrol clad in green and fluorescent orange t-shirts who are trying to keep the roadway clear. His carnival garb seems to forestall any objection as his swift passage continues unimpeded. He strides up the double-lined centre of the main drag but soon steps to one side to observe a dynamic duo of gymnasts. A surprisingly petite teenage girl in a blue tutu and matching sequined bikini top stands balanced on the outstretched hand of a long-haired Germanic-looking blonde man, who holds his diminutive partner aloft above the concrete with a studied semblance of ease. The girl performs a pirouette on his palm to the enthusiastic applause of a growing circle of admirers and the floppy velvet hat at their feet begins to fill with coins. The shaman adds a jingling token and glances up to meet the teen’s serenely smiling eyes.
The girl holds his gaze as she shifts her weight to bend over, then places her hands upon the man’s shoulders and rises into a handstand atop him. Their heads touch as barefoot feet arch and purple toenails point to midheaven while her long brown hair falls down over both their faces. Out-of-it males leer and cheer to the disapproval of envious girlfriends as the girl’s tutu flops down to reveal slim tubular pillars of spry legs surmounted by a gymnast’s muscular buttocks. With only a tiny G-string to preserve a vestige of the teen’s scant modesty, nude flesh gleams and muscles bunch to flex pneumatically before a red-rimmed beast with a hundred greedily lustful eyes.
The shaman’s gaze shifts to surveillance cameras that perch on thin towers above her twirling form, slowly scanning the crowded street and transmitting images to various government agencies with an abiding interest in whatever goes on in the village of Nimbin. Ramses notes a camera tilting down toward the upthrust girl and sees lens elements shift as it zooms in on her near-naked body while she twirls and somersaults head over heels to land astride her partner’s shoulders.
The crowd cheers and applauds as he turns away. A hundred yard queue all but blocks one footpath, snaking up past the packed museum to the only autoteller in the village; it’ll surely be emptied in a few hours or less. A clutch of street sellers stands a few paces removed all around the machine and a clot of enthusiastic buyers brings the plodding pedestrian traffic jam to a standstill. Ram swerves to the edge of an opening that leads from the narrow human aisle and pauses to avoid a police car coming the other way.
“Cookie? Chocolate?” A willowy green-gowned girl leans a naked feminine flank against Ram’s hipbone. W when she presents a wicker basketful of goodies he can barely see a face through her pointed hood and the serpentine mass of long dark tangled dreadlocks that spill from it. “They’re really good – not leaf. Here, smell this.” The name attached to the familiar voice teeters at the edge of recall. The cookie she breaks beneath his nose releases a scent as strong and delectable as good hashish, almost completely overpowering any other olfactory charms the small cake provides. “Chocolate and cinnamon, too,” the vendor informs him in a playful contralto. As she warily glances from side to side he recognises her– a fellow feral forest blockader from rambunctious and bucolic times shared in remote tree-canopied wilderness.
“Lacy! Long see no time!” She pecks his cheek with fluorescent lime lips.
“Now I’ve put my mark on you! Here – have half for free.” Amanda pops a crumbling brown mass into his mouth and in a breathtaking pause the rich redolence of well-isomerised cannanibols fills his awareness, just as a squad of riot troopers swaggers past. “I recognised you by your winged hat.” She tosses her hood back and smiles through a suddenly revealed and alarmingly dense barrier of sharply pointed facial jewellery. “You look like the parade’s about to start! Oh look – there’s Joel!”
The feral girl climbs up onto the towbar of a handily parked van and waves across a multitude of heads. He can’t resist staring at the smooth brown legs that rise up and up until they disappear into an artfully torn ultrabrief leather skirt, scant inches from his nose, and wonders at his endless propensity for primate longings.
He looks away and espies deep ranks of merrymakers sauntering beside and along the road. Most wear sunglasses and disport an array of private surveillance devices – mostly digital but a few film cameras remain, still and video, and a few audio recorders as well as the ubiquitous cell (damaging) phone cams. “Good to see you again, Ramses,” the young woman yells over her shoulder. Not a girl any more… He corrects his earlier appraisal, recognising signs of an undeniable passage of time since last they met and mingled. “See you in the Rainbow later, okay?” Her eyes glow greenly luminous through the long dark dreadlocks pouring from her hastily replaced hood.
Images of their last trysts well into his awareness, erasing the living present with memories graven into his heart, mind and loins – fond recollections occasionally resurrected from the vault of time across a hand span of flowering years. The sight of her face coming and coming again, screaming wide-eyed while her body keeps relentlessly, automatically, unendingly bucking and fucking beneath him, when he lays her down in the moonlight beneath dappled shadows of a vast primeval forest canopy; the first time they truly met…
Bobbling breasts, taut and firm in his hands as he tastes her nipples while she presses his flesh into a soft carpet of yielding moss by the side of a rock-strewn waterfall in dazzling sunlight…
The sensation of her luscious lips sliding over and around his quivering glans as he hardens inside her mouth and slides deeper into her throat; the sweet, salty taste of her quim on his tongue while soft, smooth, slender thighs press against his ears and feminine hands inflame his naked body with intimate caresses…
The image of the beautiful grrl's post-orgasmic expression as she lies half submerged on a smooth bed of pebbles, massaged by the ever flowing waters of a secret, perfect, pristine rainforest rock pool, inciting him to higher, further, deeper pleasures…
Past gives way to present and her eyes seem to be delving into his thoughts when awareness returns. He’s certain she can see – and feel – a semblance of his imaginings when a corner of her lips quirks upward. He can still feel her loins wrapped around his length, squeezing as he moves through her, even as they’re jostled by strangers in the crowded street…
“I’ll hold it to you,” he says with a wink, speaking around the delicious consolation prize of her cookie before noticing his tongue-tied slip, and swallows the gift before returning her widening smile. He toys with the notion of dallying with her through the rest of the day, in hopes of experiencing more exemplary, untrammelled, uninhibited and unencumbered sex with the gorgeous young woman - but he can see she has other things on her mind.
As she turns away she keeps his dreams smouldering with a laugh, a light slap on his chest and a phrase; “I’ll keep a spot warm for you then. Later...”
His thoughts begin to boom and echo through the cavernous ventricles of his mind as he hurries away, and he turns to continue up the street unimpeded by Jungle Patrol members who direct most others from the road. Bright protest banners and rainbow flags wave high in the distance, held proudly aloft to proclaim the ever-approaching End of Prohibition. Next Year Jerusalem…
“Ah!” A jubilant voice drawls a path through the sardonic thought. “We meet again… already!”
“And you still haven’t come down?”
The Alchemist’s eyes roll in their sockets while his skeletal body reels round socketed hips. “The time will come the wall rose bled, to peak - and peek - at many things.”
“Uhuh…” The shaman’s mouth opens and words pour forth; “of Jews and slips and seething flax and carriages of bling? And when, pray tell, will this auspicious creature come and sing?” he asks in response as huge winged creatures pass above, pummelling swathes of air with resonantly beating wings that perfectly match the rhythmic cadence of a hundred intermingling drumbeats and the beating of his expectant heart.
A True Story
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com