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Saturday, 18 May 2013
Sunday, 14 April 2013
Tit for Tat: Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 28
Tit for
Tat
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.
Continues…
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
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
Cookie Lady: Psychedelic Water 28
Cookie Lady
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
Continues…
- R.A.
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