Sunday, 24 November 2013
Wild Life 14
The Sun was high in the sky when they awoke in twinned tangles late the next morn. Both couples staggered naked into the new day from their shadowy, half-flooded boudoir and slowly made their way toward the banks of the overflowing stream. They variously paused to piss and blink, murmur and drink in the dazzling daylight, exposing soft city skins to the blazing sunlight while currawongs regaled them with pentatonic love songs.
The river had risen appreciably overnight. Washing and preening amidst the strong currents without being bowled over was a challenge to the hungover hippies. Ona and Reema both retained the presence of mind to bring toothbrushes and towels along (unlike their boyfriends). They said barely a word as they scrubbed the sticky caked detritus of the night’s sweaty strivings from lover’s bodies in the turbid water.
When they’d been cleansed by their mates the men sat on the bank, content to watch the day unfold around the focal points of their girlfriends laving water over supple female bodies in the rising heat. “You don’t know what’s about to happen to you here in Oz,” Mark confided to his guide while they watched the girls washing and brushing. Ram’yana looked askance at the smiling German tourist while he explained further; “Everything’s about to change between the sexes – nothing will be the same as it was for our fathers ever again. Believe me. It’s already happened in Europe and coming here is like stepping back ten years and watching it all happen again.”
“Watching what happen? Equality between the sexes? It’s about time!”
“Ah, but when women become equal they are the ones who end up running the show. They decide everything anyway...” He winked at Ona, who waggled her bum in reply. Plashing water concealed his words from the young women. “It’s not so bad actually when you get used to it – and the women are much better in bed now, much more fun; so some older men tell me. But it’s a very lonely world for guys who don’t get it. It’s going to be a real shock to a lot of old-style people.” He regarded Ram’yana with a serious expression. “But I think you get it. You’ll probably be okay when you see that women have all the real power now.”
“You know, people used to say the world would be a better place if it was run by women,” said Ram. “You’d hear it all the time, right up until Maggot Hatcher was elected in Britain – Margaret Thatcher,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, she was brutal, but any woman who makes it to the top in a patriarchal system has to be at least as bad as the men she competes with,” Mark said as he tossed a stone into the centre of the stream.
“That’s what feminists say about her, too. But you don’t hear much about how good it would be with women running everything any more. I think equality is better, and that’s what everyone really wants.”
“Ya, but when women are equal they’re automatically superior.” They both turned to watch the girls, who were standing shin-deep in the flow and beginning to paint patterns onto each other’s faces and trim naked bodies, using russet ochre from the bed of the creek. “You see? They can’t help it. Look at them. They’re just superior…”
Caked, cracked ochre was peeling from Ona’s and Reema’s suntanned skins in a blast of approaching noonday heat by the time they returned to Grey’s half-built house. Partying the last hour of morning away with their amicable host was inevitable. “The creek’s going down - you should be able to make it back across by noon,” he assured them. “But stay as long as you want, guys. There’s plenty more local produce on this side of the river!”
Midday arrived with the sweltering blast of a summery scorcher and they all happily elected to wait another hour before giving the crossing a try. They sallied forth when the flow had subsided enough to make an attempt that wasn’t an outright act of suicidal bravado. By the time they were settled into the Nexusmobile all the travellers were baked in more ways than one.
The riverbed was invisible beneath swirling currents of soil-rich water and the crossing seemed more than a little wider as they rolled toward the place where the twin muddy trails of the driveway disappeared into turgid murk. Grey stood on the bank in a Balinese sarong and directed them onto a better course than the driver would have chosen. Nonetheless, the van floundered and wallowed midstream once again, threatening to capsize or be swept away. “Oh, shit!” Ona cried from the back she waved to Grey. A crazed leer accentuated her high boned Scandinavian features while Mark’s eyes grew as large as duck’s eggs..
“It’s okay,” Ree assured the tourists while small waves battered her passenger door. “We have enough clearance.” The van wallowed midstream, almost lifting from the bed as it rocked and swayed in shifting currents. She turned to Ram’yana, who manhandled the steering wheel and gearshift with both eyes riveted to the far bank. “Doesn’t it?”
“Maybe too much…” The van swam like a dolphin, diving and bucking through the deepest hole yet, wheels bouncing from the uneven bed while the passengers clung to the nearest handhold. But the worst aspect of the crossing was unfelt and invisible. Beneath the seat of the clench-teethed driver the van’s radiator was slashed open by the plastic cooling fan, which deformed with water pressure when the vehicle half floated through a scarily deep pool. The radiator emptied almost instantly without any noticeable sign while the vehicle’s tyres struggled for traction. They barely made it back across.
When they reached the far bank and drove across muddy cow pasture to the unpaved road the temperature gauge indicated no problem whatsoever, and they all breathed smoky sighs of celebration and relief. They trundled along the winding dirt road that led back toward ‘civilisation’ unaware of any problem, singing along with the cassette player and emptying more of Ram’s travelling stash.
Perhaps the odour of burning oil ought to have alerted the driver as they approached the nearest tiny town, thirty klicks distant, but he’d spilled a little fluid on the engine when he topped up that morning and thought nothing of it. The tape deck filled his ears with Ree’s choice of Annie Lennox compilations and the couples were in high happy spirits as they wended their way through picturesque vales past forested riverbanks.
After thinning stands of battered trees gave way to grassy fenced fields and overgrazed paddocks they reached the little logging village and pulled up to the kerb outside the service station on the main street. Just as they pulled over a terrific caterwauling erupted from nowhere and everywhere, stunning the party into silence.
The Nexusmobile stopped with the same hideous metal-rending squeal and noxious eruptions the Sydney Harbour Bridge would make if it unexpectedly fell onto an oil tanker. Noxious gouts of greasy black smoke enveloped the vehicle’s shuddering body and all four clambered from the doors coughing and choking. They fled the foul cloud that billowed across the wide street to besmirch the police station.
The village was a strip of old wooden clapboard shops fronted by wide verandas. That they’d broken down directly outside the only garage for miles seemed particularly fortunate - at first. When it became obvious that the van’s problem was probably severe the hitchhikers somewhat sadly bid their host and hostess a warm adieu and thumbed their way off toward the coast while a scrum of backwoods mechanics poked around the smoking body of the Nexusmobile and perused the damage with dollar signs for eyes.
The prognosis wasn’t pleasant; it would be days before they were mobile again. Reema suggested they go back to Grey’s place for the duration. They crossed the road to the only public phone in town, hoping the heavy rain hadn’t cut off Grey’s line. When he finally answered after Ree’s first fruitless attempt the isolated hippy said he’d be glad of the company for a few more days and – after picking them up from town and ferrying them across the river with sundry supplies – made them heartily welcome again.
“I hope Zsuzsi gets in contact soon,” Grey said between pulls on the helmeted head of his Ned Kelly bong when they’d settled into the converted sunroom kitchen. “I have to tell her about her cat.”
“You mean Bast?” Ram’yana well remembered Zsuzsi’s Siamese; two of her kittens awaited him back home in the Emerald City. “What about her?”
“Yep. She left her here with me when she and Ricco had to split,” Grey sputtered through a cloudy stream of cremated bush buds. “But she came on heat and ran away into the bush. Haven’t seen her since.”
“She loves that cat. I’m surprised she didn’t take her.”
“She couldn’t – not overseas on a holiday – and when she went on heat…”
“You can’t control a Siamese on heat,” Ram’yana commiserated.
“Or a Japanese,” Reema assured them. Her jest was rewarded with a disconcerted frown from Grey and an annoyed expression from her lover. “Come on,” she said, “you know what she was like when she lived with you...”
Ram’s brow furrowed further, approaching a glower. “I don’t like to discuss my lovers with others.”
“With other lovers, or others in particular?” she asked with a grin and a sidelong stare at Grey – who looked out the window and made himself busy shelling pecan nuts. “Come on - we all know what she’s like. I just want to know what she likes…”
“She likes her little Bast more than anything in the world,” Ram told Reema as her fingers combed through her tangled tresses. She smiled. “Not anything, surely? What about boys… and girls? Didn’t she share a bed with you and Fae for years? What was that like?”
“I might start cooking dinner,” Grey announced and hastily fled for the kitchen before Ram could reply. “Come on –you can tell me,” Ree persevered. “I heard what she sounded like when you were fucking her. Everyone did. She screamed like a banshee. She must get it on with girls, too - she must have, when you were all fucking each other. What was it like having those two gorgeous wild creatures at once, every night?”
Ram’s glared was offset by the hint of a wistful smile. “If you must know, they usually took it in turns.”
“Ho ho!” laughed Ree. “A different one every night, eh?”
“No – they’d swap each time, every night. All night, or until one of them passed out, usually.” Reema’s hand began stroking his leg. “How gallant of you to stop when they fell asleep. Usually. But surely you all did it together, too?”
“Only when Fae felt like it.” He chose not to mention that he and Racheal had made love with Fae almost every night when they all shared a home and bed.
“So you did all do it together – and Fae was your number one wife, not Zsuzsi?” Her fingers reached his inner thigh as her lips approached his mouth. “I’d like to meet her one day.”
“I don’t number my mates.”
“Just as well or you’d lose count.” Her lips hovered an inch away and her eyes locked with Ram’s indulgent frown. Spry fingertips began stroking his hardening manhood through slim cotton trousers. “What number would I be, I wonder?”
“Whomsoever I’m with is always the only one,” he said. Just before their lips met Reema replied; “Charmed, I’m sure. Now tell me more… in a minute…”
A few days later the mechanics in the little village’s ancient, crumbling converted wooden smithy finished rebuilding the Nexusmobile’s engine and the lovers began their drive back to the Emerald City during a promisingly bright moonlit night. At first nothing seemed amiss, but after less than an hour a strange background noise suddenly rose in volume.
“Sounds bad,” observed Reema.
“Sure does. I’ll pull over…” They raised the seat, but an inspection of the engine showed nothing obviously amiss.
“Maybe it’s just the tappets…” Ree suggested.
“The wrong sound for tappets, I think. Let’s press on and keep an ear out for trouble.” All the way home to the comfortable bungalow dubbed Delta House, Ram’yana wondered why the motor was making such a godawful racket. He stopped to inspect the engine at three different petrol stations but found nothing obviously amiss except the ongoing clattering noise somewhere beneath the alloy head.
The Rooster - his usual mechanic back in the Big Smoke - delivered the bad news, preceded by a question; “How far did you say you drove it after they changed the head gasket?”
“Oh, about five hundred klicks.” The mechanic wiped his hands on greasy overalls and rolled his eyes at an equally greasy offsider. “No way,” he replied. When he saw Ram’s querulous expression he continued. “Not possible.”
“What? Why not?”
“Whoever butchered your engine did such a bad job they put some of the parts in upside-down…”
“An’ ’ey left other buts out completely,” his Kiwi assistant concluded. “No way et made et five hunnerd kays.”
The battered van, which had already been deformed by years spent in service to the previous owner (a safe building company’s solid metal constructions had torn away all the interior padding and irreparably dented the bodywork) lasted another year. The rebuilt engine finally gave up the ghost as the beast was put out to pasture, when there was nothing left to weld together except spreading patches of rust.
It served as a guest bedroom for itinerant hippies and ferals for a time, slowly subsiding into the block of land whose title deed Ram’yana ultimately purchased from Ricco (Decades later the Nexusmobile still resides there, a rusting hulk slowly disappearing into the black rainforest topsoil, slowly cannibalised by mechanically minded locals and eventually cut in half to make room for a concrete composting toilet).
A few nights after their return to the Big Smoke, Ram’yana was staying with Reema at her place near the beach – a comfortable bungalow surrounded by similar brick boxes ranked in wavy streets strewn along eroded, denuded hills and the salty, grass-studded sandy banks of an ancient dried-up estuary; prime real estate. “Have you ever had Andrella?” she asked, apropos of nothing while he languidly moved within her; “Yet?” she amended with a smile and a squeeze.
“Uh… Andrella?” he puzzled as he slowed to a halt between her slick thighs. He’d been brought up to think of discretion as a hallmark of gentlemanly nobility and, despite varied and tumultuous experiences, he was still disturbed by the way many women seemed to revel in gossiping about the most intimate, private matters.
“You know, the redhead,” Ree said and began rolling her hips for them both. “That English rose – or Welsh lily, maybe… mm… I’ve seen you looking at…” He found his rhythm again and interrupted her with slow deep thrusts. “No…,” he said, “not yet.” Their smiles were simultaneous and identically wicked.
“Oh yeah…” she breathed, “Mm… I’ve been trying to get into that fair maid’s panties for months now, mm… a bit like that, yes, oh, oh… but she seems uh… impervious to uh my charms… oh, oh, fuck, oh yes…”
Even as Ree’s mention of Andrella fixed the redhead’s image in his mind, Ram concentrated on making love with the aggressively responsive, moaning young woman beneath him - yet it was soon all but impossible not to imagine he was making willowy, lithe Andrella scream and writhe with undoubtedly genuine passion on the queen sized bed in the house of Ree’s father, instead of the tumultuously orgiastic young Reema.
“If you get her,” his vexatiously erudite and sensual predator fuck buddy said half an hour later when they were sharing a post-coital smoke, “just let me know and I’ll come over.” She assumed he knew she was talking about Andrella, as though their earlier conversation had simply continued, uninterrupted by athletic sex and multiplex orgasms. Naturally, he did.
“Please don’t put ideas into my head,” he entreated while stroking her softening nipple. She placed the joint between his lips and said, “Someone sure needs to. And I just know you’d like to put more than ideas into that hot little redhead. I certainly would; I surely do. And I’ve seen the way she looks at you, too, when you’re not watching.” She sucked on the spliff while he exhaled. “Why not give her a call?” she sputtered. “You never know til you try.”
“Not much chance of that; Andrella’s hardly ever spoken to me.”
“I know. It’s a real pity. I’ll probably have to wait months for you to bring her to my bed, unless I can find someone else who’s up to the task. It’s too hard to get her alone at the Oasis. Or anywhere. They flock around her like flies.”
In the event it took more than a year. Reema stayed in the city when her shaman lover moved to the bush a few months later, to plant and tend trees and build a new home while keeping the magazine going in a small two room shack. He bought the deed to the land where Zsuzsi had been living with Ricco, in the next valley over from Grey’s place.
He came to the city every couple of months to see his infant daughter and to arrange printing and distribution for the magazine, and embarked on three or four more relatively serious serial relationships. And when his next vehicle eventually succumbed to the rigours of rural life he had to return to the Big Smoke yet again, to buy yet another new second-hand Nexusmobile.
Ram’s desperado neighbour C.C. offered him a lift to the city along with another associate (who was doubtless in search of higher grade heroin than was available in the remote villages that serviced these wild men of the bush; the tyranny of distance presented a common problem for alcoholics, junkies and addicts of most kinds in those ancient days).
They arrived in the Emerald City after only two run-ins with the highway patrol. Ram’yana bid the others farewell and was pleasantly surprised to bump into gorgeous red haired Andrella only an hour later. He was cruising one of his more usual haunts when a streaming waterfall of bright orange hair caught his eye. She sashayed toward him through the crowded venue, willowy hips swaying, her breastbone revealed by an unfastened bolero jacket. Her gaze was locked to his as she pressed her glass of red wine into his hand. They broke into effortless conversation and were soon speaking with heads leaning closely together, their long manes mingling in amber candlelight.
The shaman’s usual experience was to bed a girl on the first night he saw her; on rarer occasions the second time they made acquaintance. This was the second time he’d met the mysterious, artistic Andrella and he swiftly found the lissom young women utterly captivating. When she found he had nowhere to stay she immediately invited him back to her flat.
He didn’t call Reema.
The next morning C.C. phoned Andrella’s place (he’d somehow sussed where Ram was staying) to offer him a lift to the nearby Great Dividing Range, where he said he knew of a van for sale. He announced he’d be around to pick him up in a hire car a couple of hours later and the newfound lovers took full advantage of the time.
C.C. hired the cheapest transport available for the journey – a three cylinder belt-driven Russian Lada – with the explanation that his smacked-out companion needed their other car to sleep in. The Lada was a tinker-toy whose buttons and handles all snapped off at the lightest touch; strangely, they seemed designed that way and could easily be snapped back into place.
When they finally arrived at their destination atop the nearby mountain range, C.C. announced that he had to go inside and arrange the deal for the van alone. It soon became obvious that Ram’s neighbour was – unsurprisingly - in pursuit of some heroin after all, and a van had never been part of his plans; he’d simply been worried about dealing out large sums of money alone. Ram fumed as he waited outside the nondescript fibro shack at the end of a sandy road, staring into sparse, burned bushland while C.C. did his deal. I could still be in bed with Andrella…
After a surprisingly short interval C.C. slowly emerged from the door, glassy-eyed and mumbling as he climbed back into the little toy car. He’d thrashed the Lada so mercilessly when he raced up the mountain that the little vehicle’s rubber band gear train had stretched; he’d managed to hire an improbable belt-driven car. They barely made it back to town.
They stuttered along in fits and starts through masses of weekend traffic. Ram’yana sat silently scrunched into the passenger seat, wondering if Andrella would be home when they returned. He fixed his gaze on passing scenery and was soon fuming almost as much as the tiny two-seat car. C.C. finally dropped him off at Andrella’s apartment block, leaving in a fuddle of pin-eyed apologies. He promised he wouldn’t call Andrella’s place again before driving off to his associate, who expectantly awaited a delivery of opiates in C.C.’s parked hatchback at a nearby vacant lot.
It was all very depressing. Heroin was rife in the decades following the Vietnam War (essentially an Intelligence war over control of drug supplies). Most suburbanites barred their windows and placed security screens across their doorways to stem regular and widespread burglaries by junkies in search of something to steal and exchange for smack. Ram’yana was all too accustomed to being confronted by shock troops in the ‘War on Drugs’ wherever he looked, and tried to put C.C.’s disappointing journey behind him.
The next day he found the new Nexusmobile – a diesel powered commercial van covered on all sides with the worlds ‘Effective Damproofing’ – in an auction yard, and drove back in triumph to the fey redhead’s door.
He hadn’t told Andrella much about any of this in the few days they’d been together. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now, judging by the expression on her face as she watched him pack his bag, he never would.
“Remember the genie bottle,” she said, and handed him the present she’d given him the previous night – an exotic looking hand painted, gold leaf embossed piece of glassware stoppered with a cork and sealed with beeswax. He watched the smile that didn’t reach her eyes and tried to think of some way to breach the palisade she’d hastily erected between them.
“Don’t open it until it’s time to release the Djinn,” she said through that crooked little smile.
The last afternoon in town was reserved for his beautiful firstborn child. The three hours he was allowed with the little toddler dispelled any vexing thoughts of Andrella and Seheal. They went to the park and fed ducks, geese and swans with the vestiges of a picnic lunch while she enthusiastically divulged her plans. “I’m gonna be anastic star, and you have to write ‘nastic star’ on all the labels on all my clothes.”
“No, nastic star!” she said in a tone reserved for all slow, doltish adults.
“Okay – but what’s a nastic star? Are you changing your name?”
“You know,” she said as she hurled a scrap of bread to a small duck struggling at the edge of a quarrelsome gaggle of geese. “Someone who does nastics really well of course!”
“Of course…” By the time they’d circled the pond he realised she meant ‘gymnastic star’.
“And so,” he says to a bemused Seheal a few hours later, “now I have to write it on all her labels instead of her name.” He isn’t sure he should broach the subject of his daughter (and by implication her mother) with the gorgeous teen, but decides that discretion has nothing to do with valour and everything to do with ego.
And survival… and success… an unceasingly pondering part of him muses as he envies the alluring pink tongue that’s whetting the astounding redhead’s perfect lips.
“I always wanted to be a gymnastic star, too,” says her luscious smile as she stands before him, swaying to the beat of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Her body slides through a thin cotton dress while she undulates barefoot on polished wooden boards and the bright, warm blessing of her grin beams down into the open vessel of his frank adoration.
“Relax, don’t do it, when you want to go through it…”
Somehow her entire body glows, impossibly yet undeniably. Her skin shines with a lucent gleam that almost blinds him and the intricate flames of her curling hair seem surrounded by a brilliant nimbus. He’s certain it isn’t his imagination or a sign of failing eyesight; everything else around her resplendent form seems completely normal. Yet Seheal is so brilliantly white that she’s literally phosphorescent in the dingy yellowish light of her shared subterranean lounge room.
Firm round breasts roll under her gown and he watches the hypnotic points of faintly pink nipples snag against the translucent fabric. Breathless and stunned, he reorients his gaze on her glittering eyes and is pleasantly surprised to watch them rove his body with identically obvious interest. He inhales a field of fresh pink roses that seems to flow from the billowing dress and holds his breath lest he break the spell.
Pure magic… The thought whispers through his astounded mind. Beyond merely human… the numb stream flows on; A Goddess… He hasn’t felt so smitten since… he can’t remember when.
When Seheal’s eyes meet his he’s utterly stunned. Sapphires or emeralds? He can scarcely believe his overwhelmed senses. A gleaming cloud suffuses the teenager’s extraordinarily beautiful pixyish face. Slender arms and graceful hands emerge from the short wide sleeves of her virtually sheer and shapeless white nightgown. Limber white legs and pale dainty feet flow and glow from the flowering hem, and all of her perfectly gracile form is aglow with an eerie fey light. A bluish whiteness flows all around her like pure cool flame. Her teeth sparkle like stars, gleaming with a radiant dazzle as she says, “You must be so proud.”
“Proud?” he replies to the uncannily glowing, incredibly beautiful young goddess who’s deigned to make his acquaintance. “Oh, she’s amazing and wonderful and I’m so happy to be her father!” The stream of words pours forth of its own accord, unedited by his befuddled mind; “But her life is her own - she’s her own being, not mine – nothing she is or does is something I’ve done to be proud of, really.” He watches amusement dance in her eyes while he tries to take command of his rambling speech. “But I know what you mean. Of course I’m proud of her…”
“And you were with her all afternoon?” she asks with an even wider, whiter smile they reaches right into his heart and squeezes. The sound of her voice is a surprisingly deep mellifluous blend of silk and honey. Each word is perfectly, guilelessly articulated. “That’s lovely! I hardly ever spent a whole afternoon alone with my father.” Her lips press together, erasing twin crescent dimples as she glances away. For the briefest moment her glow seems to fade like a moon’s eclipse.
The shaman tries not to entertain the thoughts that arise unbidden from spooling programs that litter his mind. He tries to avoid the insistent insinuation that even such an amazingly attractive teenager may be insecure enough to crave an absent father – or a surrogate father figure. He dispels the idea with an internal shudder and concentrates on admiring Seheal’s patrician profile, the generous mop of her coppery curls and the graceful equine curve of her throat.
I want to be her lover, not her father… he tells himself while another part of him makes a swift calculation. Anyway, I’m not quite old enough to be her father….
Another facet of his mind chimes in; Don’t flatter yourself; she’s probably just getting a lift up the coast with her things, as she said… This young goddess could have anyone she wants, anywhere, anytime… and she probably wants a younger guy…
Yet as he stares into the shining eyes that swing back toward him he’s somehow certain that the sudden smile she bestows upon him declares an unmistakable intent. When their gazes meet her blinding luminescence returns in full strength and the rest of her form mists over, hazing into shimmering light. “Most of the afternoon…” says his grinning mouth.
Seheal’s native scent suffuses the room, drowning the freshly fragrant memories of another very different redhead that still linger on his freshly washed skin.
After he’d dropped his daughter back home he retrieved building materials (second hand throwaways gleaned from renovation sites in the more upmarket ‘aspirational’ suburbs of the Emerald City) and filled the back of the new Nexusmobile with doors and windows, lumber, pipes, fittings, flashing and wooden panels. Only when he was finally ready to head off and pick up Seheal and Yeti – a wild British immigrant - from their respective abodes in adjacent suburbs did he realise he’d left his address book in Andrella’s bedroom.
It wasn’t far to her apartment and the Sun was still a few degrees shy of setting. He judged he had enough time to pick up the notebook (and maybe smooth things over with the lovely young woman, if she was home) before heading to Seheal’s.
He didn’t ring ahead but turned up on Andrella’s doorstep unannounced, come what may. As her silhouette appeared in a crackled glass panel he steeled himself for a confrontation, yet when the door swung open Andrella was immediately effuse with unbridled apologies.
“I’m so glad you came back,” she said as she ushered him inside. She appeared surprisingly contrite and inviting, her lean, pale body half dressed in a short unfastened towelling robe. Long, wet, radiant orange hair streamed down across her shoulders and dangled to her partly covered breasts. “You remembered your camera after all…” She nodded toward a bureau and he saw his SLR perched on a silver platter. Her smile broadened and quirked when she handed it to him and said, “There are some vivid memories in there – and room for a few more. I didn’t think you really forget it. Or them…”
Does she mean it… The notion of taking more pictures of Andrella’s completely exposed beauty was irresistible. She’d been a perfect subject over the last couple of days, even if she’d balked at being photographed while actually fucking him. She led her surprised guest straight through the living room and into her sundrenched bedroom, where she suddenly turned to face him with head tilted quizzically to one side. He barely had time to raise his eyes from the firm rocking hemispheres of her half revealed derriere. …or does she really just want one last goodbye fuck?
She might have been listening to his thoughts. “I really wanted us to part on better terms,” she said without a trace of a smile. “You know I’m going to the Mother Country in a couple of days and…” Time stood still. Her eyes peered up into his as she bit her lower lip. Her fingers twiddled a bright orange strand of hair. He dropped the camera onto her bed. They reached for each other at the same instant.
Her mouth was a liquid torrent of kisses and her smooth white skin was taut and enflamed. Rigid nipples and the pliant cushions of firm nubile breasts pressed into his chest. His fingers slipped under the skimpy robe and slid all the way up along her flanks, her sides, her upraised arms. As her perfumed mane poured down round his face he flung the towelling onto the floor. A long lean leg twined about his thigh while he stroked and cupped her heat-flushed nakedness.
“I thought…” he began as they came up for air.
“…too much,” she said while a deft hand unzipped his fly and slipped into his pants. “Or perhaps not enough.” Andrella picked up the camera and handed it to him again as she dropped to her knees on the rug. He sighed and watched her eyes blink and bulge while her slick pink lips stretched wide and wider around the mushrooming crown of his already swollen stiffening cock. What a shot… Both her hands began to stroke his shaft, feeding it into her inch by inch until her nostrils flared amid his pubes. He groaned with animal pleasure and unclipped the leather cover from his camera.
Andrella’s cunning tongue swirled around his length even when her mouth and throat were chock full of thick, hard man-meat. Her fingers dug into his buttocks and pulled him in as deeper than he dared, as deep as he could go. Her eyes squinted shut as she pushed him up against the wall. She held him there with a palm pressed against his belly while her throat constricted around his shaft with rhythmic, serpentine contractions.
Even with mouth misshapen and stretched by his swollen girth she was an amazingly photogenic young woman. He stood in the pooling heap of his pants and hoped he was focusing the camera on the place where her lips swelled, stretched and puffed around his shaft. How can she hold her breath this long? was his last rational thought for a surprisingly long while.
Yet he was intent on fucking the willowy redhead until she screamed his name over and over - before they parted on the best of terms. He barely managed to restrain himself while she did her best to milk and suck his seed down through the surrogate vagina of her elastic lips and way, way down into the gripping tubular vice of her throat. I want to feel the real thing… and give something back…
And I may have to save something for Seheal…
When the exiled shaman realised he was thinking of the other girl – even one so attractive as that glorious, pixyish, other young redhead - while Andrella was trying her best to bring him to a blinding orgasm, he felt craven and despicable. But the thought of that magnificent younger girl magnified her presence in his mind until it was Seheal’s mouth wrapped round his cock, Seheal’s hands stroking his furry balls and Seheal’s breasts pressed against his flexing thighs as he rocked backward and forward, fucking her unforgettable face.
When he finally realised what he was doing he tore himself free. Pulling the last few inches from Andrella’s suckling throat took every iota of will power. He dropped the camera onto the bed and lifted the slim young woman up onto her feet by her shoulders, slid his hands down over her breasts and belly and into the gap between her slim thighs. “You’ve shaved,” he observed, and hoisted her up with both palms cupping handfuls of firm ripe cheek. He parted her thighs with his forearms and pulled her onto and right up along the full length of his manhood with a stupefyingly rapid thrust. She was blazing hot, gushingly wet and thoroughly ready.
She pressed her body’s full lean length against him, threw her arms round his neck and groaned as he filled her completely. A wintry sunset poured in through the window and drenched them with fire. He gripped her tighter, unmoving, and turned to pin her against the sun-painted plaster. Her hips worked to draw him in even closer as he spread her wider and throbbed up inside her. “Nail me to the wall,” she breathed. So he did. “Hang on tight,” he whispered as he lifted her legs with a flex of his arms and planted her ankles up onto his shoulders.
Pretty as a picture,” he said, and started fucking her into a mindless frenzy. Her teeth gripped his throat and her hands grabbed his buttocks to steer his machinegun thrusts. Her silken vagina gripped even more tightly than the wet rings of muscle inside her throat. He closed his eyes to savour each moment and tried not to think of Seheal.
A True Story
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Monday, 30 September 2013
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Shaman of Centraxis 28
“So good,” she says before her eyes prise open, “…even better’n… than…”
“Practice sex?” her boyfriend suggests. Natasha tongues liquid saltiness that drips from her nostrils and dribbles from her lips and chin in sticky, torpid runnels. Her sozzled mind riffles through blurring lexicons while unfocused hazel eyes prise open into rays of slanting sunlight.
“Better than being…” He almost says, “rudely interrupted by your brother?” but stops himself, unwilling to remind the breathless girl of her intrusive sibling. She attempts a frown and continues as though she hasn’t heard him; “...than the firs’ time… first time y’made me come…” Her eyes drift to his. “…back at camp… ’member?”
“Every moment,” he avers, watching her eyes blink open; making an effort not to slur his words in drunken mimicry of the gorgeous girl’s mumbles while he admires the smooth, angular perfection of her aristocratic features. “Random access memory,” he reminds her while childhood recollections heave and toss like the roiling sea nearby. “But that wasn’t like… this…”
Natasha attempts to heave herself up on one elbow but abandons the effort and subsides into the sand, still pressed partway beneath his sand-studded flesh. “Ev’ry moment? Everything?”
“Everything.” Ram’s body freezes with this bold declaration. His mind is suddenly impaled by recurrent images of a little girl falling away into darkness –long blonde tresses and duck blue cotton skirt waving goodbye as her mouth opens into a scream. Natasha shades her eyes with upraised forearm and licks the last of his offering from her lips. “I bet y’don’t ’member being born.”
He’s glad of the distraction; “How much?”
She sniffles to clear her nose and glances down at their interlinked nakedness. “How much y’have on you?” Her eyes linger at the place where her hand grips his already rehardening shaft. She drops the meaty tube onto her belly and pulls at the band of her bikini briefs to stretch sandy material away from their loins.
“Same as you.”
“Don’ be too sure. Y’never know what a woman’s hiding away…”
“I know a way to find out,” he whispers. He grabs the knee that lolls on his hip, hoists her leg upward and rolls closer - unerringly meeting her juicy labia and squeezing halfway inside her tight threshold in a single smooth motion. When she gasps and scrunches closer he fills her to the brim with blood-engorged flesh. Her eyes slip backward, then roll and blink before locking onto his with fixed intensity. He watches her mouth and eyes form three wide circles and waits, stilled, for her bleary sight to refocus. “See?”
“Mmm… man…” Natasha moans before composing herself. “ Well?’ she demands with a toss of her mane as she eases away an inch or two. “D’you remember being born, or not?”
“In this life? Well…”
“You don’t.” When he eases a little further away, long nails claw his bum to hold him in place and she squirms beneath him with a delicious twist. He closes the gap and embeds himself more firmly inside her.embrace “Mmm… Nasher…”
“Don’ change the subject,” she insists. The tight flex of her thighs travels all the way up to his deeply buried crown as soft, firm, slender legs slide round his torso.
“Oh, babe… doing this is pretty close to the subject…” He settles into the cradle of her hips and holds his weight above her sun-pinked breasts while he whispers down into her parted lips; “Uh… to tell you the truth, my first solid memory – in this life - is a couple of seconds later.”
“Oh?” she says, flicking a sandy fingertip against his navel. What, when they cut yer cord?”
“Around then. It was the smell of the doctor’s aftershave – I think that’s what brought me around… getting a whiff of that chemical burn while he was holding me upside-down in front of him. Or maybe when he slapped me on the bum – it all sort of happened at the same time.”
“Sure… course it did.” He ignores the doubtful jibe. “He had thick black frames on his thick lensed glasses – they distorted his watery eyes, made him look like a fish. They looked huge. I could only see half his face, above the green gown and mask. He was sweaty and reeked of alcohol – aftershave, he wasn’t an alco…”
“You reckon I’m an alco?” she asks. “Wish there was more… there’s still some hash…”
“And there’s more of this…” He shows her how much, pleasantly surprising her into silence as her gaze weaves downward along his body. He sweeps their hair from her face and slowly glides back and forth while staring down into her glazing eyes. She succumbs to the gradual tidal motion, rocking and rolling her pelvis round his probing hardness. “Don’t change the subject,” she breathes through a crooked grin.
“No… I don’t reckon you’re an alcoholic…”
“Not that…” She slaps his bum and a seagull leaps from the esky at the loud report of skin on skin, flapping aloft to join hovering colleagues that ride the wind like hungry kites. He judders into her with unintended force and she cries out when he jabs up into her cervix.
“…Uh… we could have another pipe…”
“Ohhh… mmm… not… now… juss like that… don’ move…” Her lips are far sweeter than wine, more intoxicating than hashish. His eyes slip shut while he savours sweet bliss and tastes the inebriating fragrances infused in her breath. The sensation of her shifting beneath and around him is utterly absorbing. Her sighs waft their hair from his face as she slides, grinds and bumps in the sand. He watches her eyes suddenly snap open and she struggles to push him up off her breasts. “Oh fuck,” she says, “you came!”
“Not in you… I mean…”
“But there’s prob’ly still sperm in you!” She twists aside and extrudes him with unexpected strength and he flops from her tight wet heat before he can match her movement. “God, hope I sucked it all out of you…” Natasha rolls back onto the blanket and covers her precociously magnificent breasts with the thin cloth of her bikini top. She starts to fumble with its ties while she glances around the empty beach, but can’t manage to tie the strings into a bow while she sways on the sand. She gives up the attempt when she’s certain they’re still quite alone. He watches the cloth peel from her oily skin and flop into her lap and caresses her knee while she inspects her thighs and pubes for sign of semen. “Let’s have that pipe,” she announces, avoiding the glance he casts toward her.
God she’s beautiful…
The twin barrelled compass of her sight slides to his pole. “I think we’re okay,” she says through a strangely shy smile as she stretches her briefs back into place, completely concealing her freshly trimmed pubic hair. Perspiration dews the ultrafine down that graces her cheeks, her neck and her high smooth brow. Her catlike eyes shimmer in sunlight and carefully manicured nails draw oily trails along her sandy flank. Every detail of her perfectly sultry being is magnified by his passion. “An’ you’re still so hard…”
When an index finger slides up his length from scrotum to cap his erection jerks against her palm. “Issat painful?” He considers respinning the old yarn about how dangerous and painful it can be for an aroused male not to come, then sees laughter dancing in her eyes. She looks away and he follows her gaze, seeing the crest of a foaming wave unroll beyond her gleaming shoulder. The swell pours in from the far horizon and majestically, slowly, progressively smashes itself to foamy oblivion on the endless shore of their private world. The sunshine is blindingly brilliant and basting even in mid-afternoon.
Black rocks glitter in dazzling sunlight. A few yards from their sheltered nook an unfelt breeze swirls eddies of fine grit along a bare patch of sand while Natasha rummages through her bag for the small briquette of exotic Himalayan cannabis resin. Her scent is a compelling mix of coconut and slippery sex; her breasts are even more distracting, and he reaches for his camera while she retrieves the pipe from a drift of sand.
“Uh…” she begins when she notices he’s aiming the wide angle lens at her. He presses the button and her startled expression is momentarily occluded when the shutter snaps open and shut. A slender, down-dusted forearm rises to cover her breasts while she crumbles resin into the diminutive bowl of the pipe. “Wish you wouldn’t. What if…”
“Honey… you’re just so beautiful. It’d be a crime not too.” He watches dimples appear on either side of the bow of her curving lips.
“Uh…” she looks down past her breasts and her smile widens at the sight of his enduring hardness. “Only if I c’n take some of you, too.” The intensity of her regard almost makes him reach for a towel to drape over his erection, but he decides to stay firmly, proudly naked before his alluring girl. He still hopes to tease the last vestiges of cloth from her slick near-nude body. “Sure…” He holds the camera out to her; “Now? I’ll set it for you…”
“In juss a minute… after a smoke…” As she lifts both arms to light up he snaps another rapidly refocused shot. “Not while’m toking!” she hisses through a bluish cloud. “Ah,” he says, “but you could be toking on anything – even red clover…” She frowns and mumbles round the pipestem; “So wass the nex’ thing ’at happened?” His mind swirls for a moment before he deduces her meaning; the swell of her ribcage and the way her breasts point even higher when she inhales is thoroughly distracting.
“My mother’s eyes – a little while later, after a blinding flash and a feeling like bursting from underwater up into air. Everything was shimmering golden amber, and I saw a pair of whirlpools appear in the midst of a gently swirling, pulsating glow…”
“Whirlpools?” Natasha’s sight is riveted to his, through rapidly dissipating smoke which wafts away along the beach in a discrete little cloud. Memory superimposes itself upon her beautiful visage as he slowly raises the camera.
“Spinning whirlpools - completely hypnotic, holding my gaze. While I watched they slowly changed into a pair of eyes – my mother’s eyes – staring down at me; into me. And then her face slowly took shape around those eyes, and…” Natasha bursts into a coughing fit and hands him the pipe.
“Sorry,” she sputters, “what a waste…”
“I’ll finish it.”
“Finish the story first,” she insists, peering at him through reddened eyes.
“That’d take forever – what do you want, my whole life from go to whoa? I remember it all…”
“To whoa? Yer not dead yet, man!” She tilts her head to one side, her expression unreadable as her eyes twinkle and glisten. “Come on – y’can’t remember everything. What about your dreams?”
“Most of ’em,” he replies, lighting the pipe with a match that blows out before the bowl ignites. “Particularly the ones about you.” He lights it on the second try and fills his lungs with smoke.
“I can just imagine…”
“You ever dream about me?”
In reply she leans back, throws her perfect bosom in his direction and sings a short stretch of a Monkees ditty with a surprisingly loud yet sweet lilting voice; “Oh what can it mean to a daydream believer and a homecoming queen…”
His brow furrows. “Cheer up Sleepy Jean?”
“Alla time,” she says and her hair whips around her face as she shakes her head from side to side, hiding any clue that might define her meaning. He takes the opportunity to snap another shot while the dizzied girl tries to brush sand from her oily body and stares around askance to check anew for visitors. “So, Mister Randomly Accessed Mammaries – is there anything you don’ ’member?”
“Uh… I don’t know – I don’t remember.”
“Ha fuckin’ ha. Come on…” She reaches for the pipe and he taps the bowl out against his bare heel before handing it over. When their fingers touch and begin to entwine his inner sight drifts through his earliest years, following the weft and warp of his life’s meanderings. The panoply of imagery grinds to a halt and his memories revolve around the vision of a toy xylophone and a falling, screaming girl – an image that freezes the breath in his smoky lungs.
“Hand it over,” Natasha insists.
“Okay,” he says without realising she’s referring to the pipe he still clutches so tightly. He barely notices her beautiful face and stares straight through her exemplary body to a far horizon while she removes the stem from his slackening grip. “There is something I don’t remember…”
“Oh?” she says as she refills the bowl.
“One thing… I don’t recall all of my third birthday…”
“Um,” she says, reaching for the wooden matchbox. “Did y’have a party?”
“Of course,” he answers, staring straight through her. “With lots of other kids and a big blue icecream cake that had an icecream steamship floating on it – but the cake half melted before the party and the ship was sinking into the cake when mu… my mother lit the candles.”
“So y’ do remember…”
“No; not all of it. Not everything that happened after the party.”
“Far out; why – were y’drunk?”
“Ha ha. Only on icecream.”
“Wish we had some of that ship right now.” At her mention he espies a distant steel-blue steamer cruising just over her shoulder near the horizon, uncannily like the one on his birthday cake. The synchronicity is momentarily stunning. “We could go for a cruise,” she suggests. The idea seems hilariously outlandish and his smile threatens to break into stoned laughter until he realises she’s serious. “I’m so hot,” she says, fanning her breasts with one hand while taking the pipe from him with the other; “even a lifeboat’d do.”
“You’re a hot chick all right,” the hippy replies through a dense bluish cloud. He’s surprised to see the blush that flushes up along the nearly naked girl’s breasts, throat and cheeks, further reddening her slightly sunburned white skin.
“So what don’t you r’member then?”
“There was a girl…”
“A little blonde girl – she gave me a xylophone as a present, and when it was time for her to leave she came up to my bedroom...”
“Hey, we were both only three… and… uh…”
Nasher leans closer and blows smoke into his face. “What?” she asks, obviously brimming over with salacious expectancy. “She taught you how t’play?”
“I don’t remember.” Natasha leans back and taps out the pipe while she watches his cock slowly begin to soften and fall; “What don’ you remember?” His mind skirts away from a ball of darkness that roils beyond a frayed turquoise quilt where his three year-old self cowers in abject terror – and settles on another unsettling detail embedded in those same distant months. “Um… My bedroom had a balcony that was lined with chicken wire.”
The change of subject goes unnoticed as Nasher combs tangles from her luxuriant hair with sandy oiled fingers. “Chicken wire?”
“To stop me from climbing up the wrought iron railing –and falling off.”
“Must’ve looked pretty ugly,” she says with a frown. He doesn’t want to tell her that his family’s first home had been nothing like Natasha’s palatial abode – had in fact been a shabby, narrow little rented two bedroom terrace, firmly embedded in a row of identical working class dwellings; hardly a slum, but nothing to impress the beautiful well-heeled girl whose body glows with enticing vitality - her smoky champagne breath washing over him from less than an arm’s length away. “It was like that before we moved there – the previous family lost their son. A three year-old boy… he fell off the railing and impaled himself on spikes between the fleurs-de-lis on the front garden fence.”
“Wow!” Nasher’s hand lands on his knee and slides up his sandy thigh, bringing him back to the present. “Bummer.” Her eyes gleam with turquoise fire as she leans toward him and removes the camera from his slackening grip. “Did you ever see his ghost or anything?”
“Sort of…” he says through a suddenly dry throat. “Uh… need something to drink…”
“Drink this,” she insists, and jams her tongue inside his mouth while pushing him down. Her skin is an irresistibly enflaming lure as they roll onto the blanket, immersed in the bliss of a suckling kiss. Slim slippery thighs slip along his flanks and an equally firm pair of nubile breasts slide across his hairless chest and fall into his waiting hands. She squats above him and spreads her thighs until their sex almost meets; her cloth-covered heat hovers just beyond the straining tip of his instantly rekindled erection. She holds him at bay with an unremitting fist and rubs herself with his crown while tongues and breaths entwine.
She comes up for air and a trio of gulls wheels above her glorious face in a cloudless expanse of aquamarine. “Maybe I left one of dad’s flasks in the van…” She kneels higher astride him and her eyes wander in the direction of the distant car park. He fondles her fulsome globes and is swiftly rewarded with the answering swell of hardening nipples and quickening gasps of breast-raising breath. “We can check before it gets dark,” he suggests, attempting to draw her back into afternoon’s delight.
“Less find a place to camp on the beach f’r the night,” she says, peering onshore behind him, “instead of the car park. Maybe behind those rocks.” The sight of her glorious form rearing above him rekindles yet another series of flagrant memories.
“There’s something I want… always wanted… to ask you...” He pauses, wondering how to word his inquiry while her inner thighs slide against his midriff. “Back at the camp, when we were in the tent together and all the other girls started chanting…”
A seagull squawks and suddenly springs aloft from a nearby declivity, its presence unseen and entirely unsuspected until it starts flapping in the salty air. Natasha’s hands fly to her breasts and cover his grasp as she flings herself down upon him. “Someone’s coming…”
“Someone’s coming Lord, Kumbia?”
“Shh!” A pair of long sticks festooned with fishing lines emerges from the dunes, bobbing and swaying in slanting sunlight, soon followed by a pair of floppy fishermen’s hats. Natasha ducks closer as bearded, sun-wrinkled heads appear in profile against the startlingly blue sky.
Sumptuous breasts press deliciously close and his hardness pulses up between their squeezing bellies. Long auburn hair surrounds his face as the full smooth length of her well-oiled skin presses and slides against his. He hears the squeaky slide of passing feet in the powdery sand, feels his girlfriend’s heart race beside his, smells her fragrance mingled with coconut, alcohol and spicy hashish. His hands slip free to caress her flanks and skid beneath her bikini pants.
As the footfalls retreat Natasha’s slippery little body slides downward, hard nipples trailing twin paths down his torso while the luxuriant veil of her silky hair cascades down his face. “Are they gone?” she whispers, and her breath bathes his shaft with a tantalising breeze. “Aye,” he replies without even bothering to check as the squeaking sounds fade into booming surf.
Time slips, slows, stops and suddenly scintillates when a slippery tongue slathers round his crown.
He groans and screams and comes and creams as she gulps and swallows and strokes his triune balls and washboard belly with wondrously teasing hands. Waves smash against sand as spume jets and bursts down her throat in gouts of spicy liquid maleness. “Ulp, umm,” she mumbles, swallowing gulps as she pulls away licking the creamy overflow from her delectable lips. “Wow… thassa bombora.”
Her young mate is too dumbstruck to reply. “You know,” she continues, “a little tidal wave… like some’f those waves out there…” She points at the breakers and smiles. “Tastes so good… want s’more.” She grabs her glass and drains the last droplets, then lowers her head to his groin again, long hair shimmering; a dark waterfall concealing her face and hands.
O fuck… His mind reels while his eager girlfriend suckles. O wow… His eyes slide open to witness the emblazoning image of the beautiful girl of his dreams - perfect little mouth stretched tautly round his girth through dark veils of hair, lost in her own private reverie as she lustfully savours the tastes and rhythms of a mouthful of salty cock. O aye, my princess, like that…
“You do that so well,” he breathes aloud. It’s hard to believe she never did this before yesterday… His mind mumbles below the sensation-lit peak of tactile awareness as he lies back in hot sunbaked sand and surrenders to serious sensuous ecstasy.
A nearby squawk distracts him enough to slit his eyes against the glare. He sees the inevitable gull wheel up from a grass strewn hummock, where a bluish lump resolves into a floppy hat that ducks out of sight just as he spots it. He ponders alerting Natasha for all of half a second before closing his eyes, and studiously ignores nearby sounds of startled seagulls and squeaking sand until there’s nothing left of the world except her liquid mouth and soft, flexible, dextrous fingers.
“Sometimes the urge to write it all down is irresistible…”
“Write what down?” Natasha has discarded her bikini top and her pert breasts point pinkly skyward as she lies beside him on the blanket. Cascades of dark hair shade her freckly face from blistering bright sunlight and a small oily hand rests on his slightly furry thigh as he idly scans the nearby dunes for fresh sign of voyeur or interloper.
“All this! Like taking a picture of you,” he explains, nodding at the 35mm SLR. “All these wild experiences ought to be recorded – be written down in a journal or something…” He leans back watching the tide-turning cycles of quivering water while he strokes her slim body with a sandy hand. The waves roll in from the horizon, rewrite transient messages on the shoreline in foaming wakes before slipping away on never-ending journeys, echoing and re-echoing around the globe.
“For posterity? Or to mull over when you’re sitting in your rocking chair with a shawl over your knees?” Natasha laughs, continuing swiftly before he can react; “Or for you to jerk off over, maybe?” Her hand rides up his thigh and cups his half-hard, sun warmed cock through the thin material of the tiny borrowed swimming costume.
It’s obvious she’s half pissed and saying the first thing that enters her provocative mind – so he does the same. “No,” he says with a smile. “That’s what you’re here for, woman She refuses to rise to the bait, merely squeezing him and holding more tightly to make him stiffen in her pulsing grasp. “How could you write everything down, anyway? You’d make a lot of enemies that way, for one thing...”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Everyone has things in their life they don’t want anyone to know about - and you can bet that those would be the most interesting things they could record. There are probably things you wouldn’t want anyone to know about you…” The young shaman watches the bright young teen for any reaction but she remains warmly relaxed beneath his caress, eyes shuttered against the sunlight while she explores his penis with inquisitive fingers. When she starts stroking his cock more energetically his palm cups her right breast and stops its fluidic roaming across her chest. More than a handful… just like the rest of her… “…and I’m sure they’re very interesting.” Natasha’s fingers knead the length of his ever-ready erection while he slides his hand from her hardening nipple, glides it across her slippery coconut-oiled sternum and climbs to the peak of her other breast.
“Me? I’m jus’ a normal girl who goes t’school and does her homework an’ piano lessons - and I go to Temple almost every Shabbas. This’s the first’ time…” Natasha laughs at herself, “the first time I’ve done anything I wanted to in ages. It’s the holidays and mum and dad’r away for a change, or I’d be lying by the pool right now instead’f enjoying the real world and this bright blue sky with th’ breeze on my skin – an’ enjoying you stroking my tits, darling. Enjoying it so much.” Her hash and champagne-affected eyes attempt to flicker completely open but instantly close against the glare. “Normally nothing interestin’ ever happens to me. Nothing interesting ’nough to write down - ’cept this, an’ I wouldn’ write this down!” She strokes his length at a faster pace and blows a breeze across his crown.
“Oh, Nasher…” He stops himself from asking “Why not?’ and succumbs to indelible pleasure. “All you have to do is step outside your door, outside your comfort zone…” he begins instead. She stops and sits upright before him.
“Like – would you write this down?” Natasha successfully opens her intoxicated eyes and squints up at his wide grin in the shade of a raised forearm. “I know I would, maybe…” she continues before he can reply, “but who could I let read it – aside from you, maybe?”
“You can’t be expected to let people read your diary…”
“Until after I’m dead, that’s for sure! I guess you could write it down, though. Up to you.” He loves the way her breasts jiggle when she shrugs. “Who’d want to read it anyway? Everyone always lives in fas’nating times and hardly anyone reads anymore. So it’d be fine to write it all down ’cept for one thing…” Ram’s left eyebrow rises quizzically. He watches her whet her lips while he recommences massaging an unavoidably alluring breast. “We could be carted off t’ reform school for making love together, or be charged with being exposed to moral danger or something, jus’ being here drunk ’n’ naked like this. And you couldn’ write about the hash, either, or we c’d go to jail for years. Bein’ smart enough to write stuff down doesn’t mean you’re actually intelligent. You have to be careful in this world – anything can happen.”
“Even good things,” the idealist concurs. “Like being here with you.”
“Y’know where flattery’ll get you.”.”
“You can tell it’s true by the lie detector in your hand. It never lies.”
“That’s not true – I’ve seen it lie down a coupla times.” She winks and gives him a squeeze that he instantly reciprocates, filling his hand with ripe teat. “Mmm…” they hum in unison. “Ready for a swim yet?” she asks.
“Maybe I’ll be insane enough after we have some more hash.”
“You tripper,” she smiles. “Go on then, open it and we’ll get totally smashed. I’m sure there’s some whiskey in the van, too – for emergencies.” Ram’yana reluctantly releases her flesh and leans across to open the esky. His sudden movement makes his swimmers snap up over his hardness. The usual gaggle of furtive seagulls launches into the air to hover, screaming ‘Mine!’ while he pulls a small brown block from her bag.
He begins to unwrap the foil while Natasha unpeels the elasticised swimming trunks back over his erection. “Don’t you know that getting into trouble for writing things down is in my blood?” he asks as he nips a piece of resin off with a long thumbnail. Nasher looks up at him and her mouth lolls open, tongue poised an inch from his cock. She shakes her head before commencing to lick the full length clean of their orgasmic juices. “Oh, princess,” he moans as he tries to concentrate on filling the pipe’s small bowl.
“You were saying?” She engulfs the head of his shaft with the tight torrid heat of her mouth before he can reply. It takes almost half a minute before the endlessly unreeling scroll of his primate mind manoeuvres its way back into control of his larynx. “Never mind,” he says. Her lips slip back over his glans, leaving him high and dry.
“Really,” Natasha insists, taking the pipe and holding it up between them. “I wan’ t’ know. Can’t you talk an’ receive fellatio at the same time?”
“No-one’s ever asked me to before – it seems a little rude.” He reaches for the matchbox. “Health, wealth, happiness and love!”
“Go on – oh, sorry; health, wealth, happiness and love! Can’t you jus’ act aloof and uncaring an’ keep talking to cover the fact you’re a young teenager who doesn’t know what t’ do in life – or with a girl for that matter - like most guys? You can do it if y’ try – I’ve seen you.”
“That was a long time ago…”
“Remember when I sucked you off under the trestle table when we were havin’ frishtik that time an’ you kept talking to Joe and Leo through, well, most of it anyway?” He lights the pipe and starts puffing it into life, then quickly passes it over. “All right,” he admits while she takes a long pull - before swallowing his crown back into the silken enfoldment of her taut little mouth and wrapping her small hands around him. “You have me there, ahh – but it was only to stop anyone noticing - hng... uhh… What was the question again?”
Natasha doesn’t take a break in her lusty ministrations and the lad moans for a few solid minutes before his train of thought climbs back onto its tracks. “Mm, oh, honey…” He pulls Natasha’s long enshrouding hair away from her face and her faintly bloodshot eyes snap upward to meet his rapt gaze. The sight of her beautiful face suckling at his engorgement, waiting for him to continue, is a wonder matched only by the feel of her young flesh kneading and sucking his rigid sex, and squirming to meet his roaming oil-swathed palms. Ram’s fingers massage her firm, well-muscled body from her toes to the point where his cock meets her lips as he tries to focus on the words streaming from his mouth.
A true story
Images – author’s (click to enlarge)
Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -
Shaman of Centraxis Part 4 - To Infinity and Beyond
Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living
Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way
Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden
Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders
Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games
Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 5 - Land of the Living
Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 - All the Way
Shaman of Centraxis Part 7 - South of Eden
Shaman of Centraxis Part 8 - The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis Part 9 - Crossing Boarders
Shaman of Centraxis Part 10 - Believer
Shaman of Centraxis Part 11 - Behind the Veil
Shaman of Centraxis Part 12 - Peace, Love & War Games
Shaman of Centraxis Part 13 - Pole Dancer
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The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com