Thursday, 28 August 2014

Bombora: Shaman of Centraxis 29
Shaman of Centraxis 29

He glances about but can see no sign of fishermen, beachcombers or anyone else save he and her, all the way to the hazy horizon. When his eyes return to feast on her beauty he’s distinctly aware of the heartbeat thudding within his chest and the synchronous pulse that beats in his groin.

An utterly girlish hand lands on his leg and an index finger drills into the meat of his thigh, but those perfectly addictive pink lips hold every iota of his attention. “You sure you want me to bore you with this stuff?”  She answers with a twist of her digit. The world revolves around her as words bubble from his lips like the well-rehearsed lines of a meaningless pantomime.

“Uhuh... um… my grandfather was active in the labour Bunds around the time of the Russian revolution,” he begins, sidling closer on the blanket and sliding his hand under her bikini bottom to fondle a firmly globular girlish cheek. “You sure you want me to talk while…” Her eyes roll upward to meet his and her brow crinkles beneath auburn waves as she nods impatiently. Her nodding elicits a heartfelt moan from her boyfriend as her hand creeps up along his thigh.

“Oh, baby… I’ll keep it, uh, short” he assures her while her tongue polishes his knob. He feels rather than sees her smile at his denial of the obvious. “Oh, Nasher… you don’t want me to come– not before we make love again - do you?” She shakes her head around the lever of his rigid pole and one cheek protrudes outward, stretching tautly about the bulbous crown as she replies; “Mm-mmm.” The sensation is indescribable.

“Oh, Nasher! Mm… uh… anyway, uh, before the revolution he published tracts and pamphlets, and in one of them he criticized the Tsar. So the Tsar’s secret police gave him a life sentence in Siberia… mm… of course… mmm.... ah... ” His fingers outline his girl’s tautly stretched lips when they draw back wetly along his shaft. The fleshy membranes pout and bulge outward around the pythonic head of his glans and her eyes close while she concentrates on sound and sensation. When he stops speaking she stops sucking, so he continues – and so does she.

“But the secret police were sticklers for paperwork, you see, and oh fuck… they couldn’t just jail him, so they called him in for a medical examination... Mm…” She stops suckling and waits for him to go on, so he does. “When he got there, uh, when he got there the guy at the desk asked for his papers so he handed them over, and the guy nodded at a door and said, ‘Now just head into that room for your examination.’ ” She swallows his length right into the maw of her throat and he gasps and groans to a halt, so she stops with his crown jammed in her airway until he starts again.

This time it takes much longer before he speaks and her face is red and darkening when he recovers his train of thought. He continues as quickly as he can to finish the tale and get onto more important things; “And he says, ‘The welfare organisation told me not to go anywhere without my papers,’ and the guy assures him it’s all right and he’ll only be in there a while and his papers will be safe. My grandfather says, ‘I’m not going anywhere without my papers,’ and the guy looks at the guard by the door and the guard cocks his rifle and growls at my grandfather. So he goes in through the door.

“And on the other side there’s a man at a desk with two armed guards and he asks, ‘Where are your papers?’. And they gave him life in Siberia for having no papers. Oh, Princess…” She glides back and forth between his thighs. Her hair tickles his scrotum and her hands rove his torso – and she stops again.

“They wouldn’t jail him unless they had a reason – on paper. The Bolshies let him out after the revolution and he grew up and had a family – he was only a teenager when they arrested him, a uni student…. mm, oh, Nasher…” His fingers outline the girl’s hollowed cheeks and high curving cheekbones while his thumb gently strokes her sealed eyelids. He raises his hips and watches himself slide further inside her stretching lips. “Ngo omng,” she murmurs around his pole as she gradually works her way down its length.

She stops him with her teeth, softly but determinedly holding him in place while her hands work the rest of his length. “Nmo ong.” He realises she’s urging him to ‘go on’ and reaches beneath her flowing mane to stroke her neck and shoulders.

Only when he begins speaking again does she release him from her ensnarement. She lets him work his way more deeply into her tenderness while he talks. “Then in World War Two, Stalin’s men decided to send him and his wife and son to Siberia – to separate camps. After all, if he’d been capable of criticising the Tsar, he was capable of criticising anyone... Oh, darling… oh fuck.” When her tongue laves his head inside her mouth his long pianist’s fingers entwine in her hair to grip her locks and hold her in place. He can barely contain himself. “My father was fifteen… oh, Nasher, let’s not waste it… let’s make love…” He attempts to withdraw but her hands bear down on him and her perfect white teeth lock firmly into place again.

Natasha’s eyes open with a viridian glow of yearning need. He watches her sozzled eyes twinkle as her hands and lips and tongue work at his cock, attempting to make him jet inside her mouth once more. When one of the intoxicated girl’s dainty hands tenderly cups his testes before wrapping around behind his hairy sack, half encircling the root of his shaft, he breathes more deeply and manfully resolves to hold his seed in his balls for as long as he’s able. Her other hand milks his swollen girth, bumping between her lips and his balls as that thoroughly delectable mouth slips and slides with rapid, frenzied determination.

“No point trying to stop you now,” he tells her breathlessly. “Not when you’re so busy practicing…” Oh, fuck, Goddess, he thinks, oh, wow! Ohh…

He turns away from her gorgeous face so he isn’t dazzled into orgasm by her beauty. Her alluring glamour draws him into semi-hypnotised thrall, and he watches the distant steamer plodding slowly along the horizon, barely visible in the salty distance. He breathes deeply into his diaphragm, all the way from his depths; he’s found that sometimes helps to hold back the flood of youthful spume. Sometimes it works – when the primal, secret wish to fill a girl’s womb with spraying semen doesn’t overcome his desire to stay electrically hard and potently virile for them both, so they can fuck for eternity in Tantric bliss. Or when a female’s luscious talents overwhelm his restraint and he joins with her in a race to the finish.

Distracting himself can work sometimes, too – so he scans the impossibly wide and distant horizon and all the ruffling billows and white water churning between them and the end of the world, while the younger teenager pleasures him with surging, sucking, swallowing abandon. His cock curves slightly and she groans as it jostles into and out of her throat. His hands flow down along her breasts, across her ribs and past her inward curving belly, through her curly underbrush to the bold button of her clitoris in its bright rainbow gift wrapping. She moans and twists around his length. He can scarcely hold back the eruption contained inside the small palm that caresses his balls.

When her other hand releases the base of his shaft he yanks backward with a twist of his hips and his cock pops out of her succulent heat into the salt-dry breeze. He falls sideways onto the blanket and pulls the bikini halfway down her thighs.

“No!” Natasha yells. She grabs the stringy fabric with both hands to stop it from ripping or sliding any further down her flanks. “Let go!” Her sudden fury seems genuine, intensely implacable, so the young shaman releases the bikini and leans over her near nakedness to reach for the hash pipe. “I told you – nobody gets to see all of me! Why d’you stop?” Her face is squelched into a knot of confused drunken anger. “I was jus’ getting into it!”

“Sorry,” he says, stroking her calf with a hand that completely encircle her slender limb. “We could leave them around your ankles…” He sees his attempt at a joke is a bad idea. “I want to make love with you again…”

“We were making love!” Natasha springs out of his hands and sprints down through the dunes to the empty beach. Ram’yana watches the pneumatically pumping muscles of her backside and the wild dark trailing pennant of her hair for a moment before he drops the pipe, rises and dashes after the predictably unpredictable teen. He’s slightly hampered by his erection and by the time he reaches the foaming juncture of land and sea the girl is already diving into the first line of massive breakers.

He hesitates. The fury of the surf has subsided a little while the young lovers lay entranced by their private pleasures, but the waves are still pretty huge. Dangerously huge. Like Alice through the looking glass, Natasha’s pink legs disappear through the first rolling hill of a wide breaking wavefront that scrolls toward the beach. Ram’yana races into the water with a high-stepping gait, feeling the undertow already pulling him toward the horizon.

 Great, he thinks dazedly as he scans for a sign of his girlfriend beyond the foaming whitecaps. A rip. He’s abruptly aware how drunk and stoned he is, and how completely naked before the fury of the surf. By the time he dives through the first relatively low wall of water, with his heart pumping even more rapidly than his kicking legs, his forgotten erection has shrunken away.

He catches a glimpse of pale rainbow-split derriere as he emerges from the other side of the wave into a low trough. Natasha disappears into the base of a fifteen foot wave that’s bearing down on him and he swims in a desperate attempt to go through or over it before it breaks on top of him. The riptide helps, drawing him over the crest toward Natasha, who twists aside and floats like a cork in a rolling, roiling, foaming beer keg. Going over the top of the wave is like hitting the crest of the Big Dipper in Luna Park. The view is awesome in more ways than one; Natasha’s pink breasts bob and rise as she waves at him and calls something that’s barely a squeak by the time it reaches him; he’s high in the sky above her, lofted and buoyed into the air. He calls back urgently as he plummets down the back of the wave – “Behind you!”

Natasha half-turns toward the impossibly rearing wall of water that’s suddenly rising behind her and he sees the terrified expression on her shocked face just before she’s bowled ass over tit. The girl attempts to dive beneath the smashing wall but is carried tumbling deep within its churning vortex. She’s nowhere to be seen when the monstrous wave comes down on him in a blinding, literally breathtaking rush and the world is blotted out.

A bombora!


Air is a memory, encapsulated in tiny bubbles that stream around the young shaman as he rolls through roiling chaos. He’s a foetal primate buffeted within the primal womb of the Great Mother. A dark pounding caul presses tightly round his skull, blinding him amid twisting currents in successive waves of lengthening oblivion. He spins through a vortex with no clue to guide him up or down, toward life or extinction. Desperately craving clear blue sky he surrenders to the bombora, letting it swallow him into its depths. Moments stretch between here and eternity until he swirls from the watery cyclone’s grasp, feeling the last of the air in his lungs buoying him in a direction that’s almost certainly – hopefully - up.

            His arms burst into the freedom of space a split second before his mouth opens to draw in the all-pervasive salty water. He’s born anew, gasping in the white wash, flailing in the brilliant glare of the summer Sun. A shadow rears over him. He shakes his head from side to side and sucks in a quick lungful of air as he dives toward the base of another mighty wall of water. The wave smashes down on the spot he’s just vacated, breaking into a bone-shattering dumper onto the swirling sand revealed before its clenching fist – many, many tons of water pounding on the unresisting shore of the Great Southern Land. The teenager narrowly avoids a hidden basalt boulder encrusted with serrated barnacles and knife-sharp coral as he collides with the unexpectedly close sandy bottom and rebounds toward the surface.

The surf drops him back onto his feet in a deep trough for a jarring second and his only thought is to escape the murderous water. He surges upward, only to be swirled back toward another wave by a rip that snatches the sand from beneath his feet. Then – with eyes stinging and limbs struggling for purchase in the unopposable, unappeasable currents – he remembers Natasha. Where is she? The teenage mage has no time for more than a glance at the expanse of foaming eternity before another wave encompasses the world. His instincts guide him into motions rehearsed since infancy at gentler suburban Bondi Beach and he strikes out ahead of the breaking wave, bodysurfing towards the foaming shore through turbulent white water.

His smooth chest scrapes against the gritty sand as he gasps for breath. He claws his way out of the vestiges of the rip that still sucks at his legs like a hungry beast. He pulls himself out of the foam and rolls onto his back, blinded by salt and sunlight as he coughs up a throat full of seawater. His first attempt to get up is foiled by a flood of salty foam that explodes from his nose and he reels sideways onto one elbow. As the sneezing fit subsides he sits up and slowly climbs to his feet, shaking a rainbow spray of water from his long chestnut hair. Then he shades his eyes with both hands and scans the length of the beach and the unremitting vista of surf. There’s no sign of Natasha. He begins to call her name, painfully conscious of the resounding, pounding beat that’s drowning out all but the shrillest squawks of the wheeling gulls.

“Natasha!” The waves roll in as Ram’yana steps forward into the swirling tide and is almost pulled off his feet. The water’s no deeper than his ankles, but the soft sand swirls around his feet in the relentless currents and he sinks and slides back toward the dashing waves. “Natasha!” He struggles backward onto firmer footing and runs along the beach for twenty paces, then runs back to his starting point. “Natasha!” He hears the cry before he sees dark hair swirling amid white bubbles; “Bring me a towel!”

The diminutive girl emerges, hunkered down below the surface only a few yards away, crouched in the rip as it drags her body sideways, parallel to the beach, with her hair streaming out beside her. “A towel!” she screams. “Now!”

“Get out of the rip!” Ram’yana yells, rushing toward her along the surf line. He steps carefully into the churning water with arms extended toward her and she shrieks at him shrilly; “No! Get back! A towel! Bring me a towel!” When she waves him away the current pulls her over sideways. He stands motionless, torn between rushing in to help and obeying her command.

As she dives into deeper water he can see that her rainbow bikini has been dragged from her body by clutching currents. A huge wave approaches, rearing to smash itself down onto the rocks and sand only a few body-lengths from the struggling girl and she’s sucked back into its maw while he watches. The foam that surrounds her is drawn back beneath the striking fist of salt water and she turns and flips herself into the rising wall.

Ram’yana catches a glimpse of flashing legs and a darkly furred cleft and despite the dire circumstances he feels his cock begin to swell. Foolhardy or not, he overcomes the urge to watch and wait; he’s still recovering from his last desperate foray. Undistracted by his sudden arousal he abandons all caution and plunges in after her. Determined to reach her, he’s instantly stymied by the magnificent force of the endless ocean, completely helpless in its violent embrace.

He realises he has no chance to even see the girl, let alone reach her in the hummocks and hillocks of white-capped ocean. He struggles to free himself from the rip that’s pulling him along the beach at a rapid rate of knots while waves roll him along the sandpaper bottom. The pull of the rip is so strong it’s created a wide, deep ditch in the sandy shoreline and the Centraxian shaman is tugged through a channel of deep water filled with swirling debris.

There’s no point fighting the impossible current and he uses his waning strength to propel him at right angles, to emerge from the rip into momentarily shallow water and drag his heaving body onto drier sand once more. This time there’s no coughing or sneezing to delay his recovery, but he feels the dizzying effects of the alcohol and hash and the rapidly diminishing vigour of his youthful body as he clambers to his feet.

His muscles feel strained and slow to respond as he sprints along the beach in search of his lover. He’s relieved to see her drag herself onto the shore and huddle down on hard wet sand fifty yards away, sitting at the water’s edge with long dark hair plastered across her naked pink body. She squats in a few inches of pulsating foam, wraps her arms around herself and turns to face him as he approaches.

“A towel!” she roars, water pouring from her nostrils. “Now!”

He skids to a stop beside her. “Are you all right?”

“I will be when you bring me a towel.” Natasha glares at him with a chill, brittle stare that freezes the heat of the summer day as she backs into deceptively shallow white foam. Ram’yana strides forward and stops when he reflects that he’s standing stark naked in front of her with his recovering youthful tumescence only an arm’s length from her glowering face.

“I’ve seen everything you have to show…”

“Not all at once you haven’t!” Natasha squats down deeper in the shallows amid the buffeting currents, her athletic calves and thigh muscles straining to hold her in place as she slowly sinks toward the rip tide. “No-one sees me naked! No-one!”

“All right,” he relents. “Just get out of the water, okay?”

“Can you see my bikini?” Ram’yana is dumbstruck, unsure how to reply. The surf is deafening and he feels dizzy with mortal shock that renders him sympathetic to Natasha’s plight, but momentarily unable to respond. She flings her hair back from her face. He’s aware that she’s aware that he’s staring at her nakedness, but he can’t take his eyes off her straining flanks, the perfect curving line of her bum, the bulging swell of fulsome breasts when her arms cross about them, the artful arrangement of her ribs; the way they distend and contract with each rapid deep breath. The flint in her eyes softens and she licks her lips. He belatedly realises that his erect penis is the focus of her regard.

“Get me a towel and we can make love right here.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Hurry!” He needs no further incentive to break into another sprint that slows to a jog when he reaches soft sand. The winding footprints of their flight from the dunes are the only marks marring the random traceries of a windswept surface. Ram’yana slogs through the ankle-deep fine powder, obliterating the marks of his pursuit of Natasha. The colourful mushroom of their beach umbrella rears above the dune-line, but as he approaches he sees that there’s something definitely wrong. Its fabric hangs in tattered strips from the bent and broken frame. A belated warning beacon flashes in his pounding head and he begins running again when he reaches the grass-fixed slope of dune.

When he breasts the crest of the slope a swarm of seagulls flutters away in surprise. The teenager stops and stares motionless at the scene that confronts him. He’s unprepared for the disarray that is all that remains of their pleasant campsite. There’s almost nothing left except the empty esky, which has been tipped onto its side. The ice has been strewn onto the sand and the champagne bottles and food are nowhere to be seen. Even the beach blanket is missing.

His first ludicrous surmise is that the seagulls are responsible for the shambles - until he notices that all their clothes are gone; as are their bags and other possessions. And the towels are nowhere to be seen. Ram’yana stands stark naked in the bright afternoon sunlight, sand plastered to his pale legs. He realises he’s on the edge of the Tasman Sea, many miles from civilization with an equally naked young girl – and someone has made off with all their belongings; someone – or a few someones - who may still be lurking unseen.

He’s torn between rushing back to Natasha with the news and scanning for tracks, and possibly recovering their possessions while there may still be time. His mind reels when he considers the girl’s reaction when he gives her the news (and fails to return with her towel). He turns the esky over in a frantic search for anything she can use to cover herself, impelled by the knowledge he mustn’t leave her alone any longer than necessary.

There’s nothing. He desperately rips one of the remaining strips of material from what’s left of the beach umbrella and notices the fabric has been neatly slashed by something very sharp before being torn away. All that’s left are useless vestiges along the bent and broken struts, thin as ribbons and shorter than shoelaces.

In mounting desperation he furtively climbs the highest dune adjacent to the small sandy dell of their love nest and peers over the summit. He can see as far as the empty car park a mile or so down the beach – and realises that Natasha’s panel van is no longer parked on the gravel. Nothing is.


She takes it pretty well – far better than he expects when he approaches her, huddled within a bulbous shroud of yellowish seaweed at the high waterline. She only panics for a moment or two, then arranges a few strands of weed across her shoulders so that they mingle with her long lank hair to conceal the twin foci of her nipples and much of her perfect pink breasts. Both teens are preternaturally pale and easily sunburned.

            “Well someone must come here soon,” Natasha insists. She seems dispirited and bedraggled as she squats in damp sand. “You’re sure the van’s gone?”

“ ’Fraid so. But you’re right - we’ll be able to get a lift sooner or later.” Ram’yana eyes the Sun, so low in the sky he can observe it clearly. “At least it isn’t going to rain,” she says.

            “Might be better if it did. But I guess you’re right. Besides, there’s a town somewhere down that way, isn’t there?” He gestures vaguely into the distance and Natasha squints dubiously into the spray-shrouded horizon as he scrunches down beside her.

            “Not for twenty miles. Or more.”

            “Well – that’s not too far. We’ll be fine – but we’d better find somewhere to get out of the wind.” He covers his eyes with his hands as a spray of fine sand peppers his naked skin. “It’s just coming up again.” She stiffens when he reaches around her back to comfort her, and he wonders if his confident tone is in any way reassuring.

            “It usually does in the afternoon.” Natasha looks around, craning her neck to see anything out of the ordinary without standing up and exposing herself to her attentive boyfriend. Ram’yana can’t decide whether her behaviour is comical, exasperating or simply maddening, but calms as he sympathises with her plight and stares at her bright nubile beauty. When her lips part to speak he longs to kiss them. “I remember a cool place… I think it’s over there where those rocks are.” Her eyes regain their usual twinkle and her voice betrays a slight bemusement behind her vexed tone. “Getting’ cold, huh?” she asks with a nod at his wrinkling penis.

“A little.” She leans into his embrace and he admires the long lean curves of her freckled flesh, follows the curve of her subtly swelling bicep as she shades her eyes with one hand and automatically covers her breasts with the other. “I wish we had some more champagne,” she murmurs – and he remembers the good news. “I feel stone cold sober now.”

“I stashed the stash under a shell automatically before you ran… before we went for a swim.” The small pipe and cube of hashish – and their only box of matches – is revealed in an envelope of slashed material in Ram’s extended palm. “Well… they missed it, I suppose” he ventures with what he hopes is a winning smile.

“Let’s collect any driftwood we see,” Natasha suggests, flashing white teeth at the stash. She keeps one hand cupped over her pubes. “It gets cold here at night. Thank heaven for the matches! Come on – I feel too exposed here. Let’s get out of the wind. After you – and don’t turn around, okay?”

“All right,” he sighs.

“Promise.” It isn’t a request.


Meandering between lines of flotsam and partly buried ranks of jetsam, they collect fragments of driftwood and broken packing crates. He carries most of it, mildly exasperated that she keeps one hand concealing her loins at all times and follows him all the way. They find a singleton useable rubber thong and a few illegible fragments of newspapers and glossy advertisements before they finally approach the weathered stand of basalt boulders surrounded by a fringe of low scrub, far above the high water line in the base of the first dune. By the time they reach the rocks the Sun is almost setting.

Natasha has already exhorted him not to turn around on four occasions and he resists the urge to look at her as he calls into the rising wind; “Is this it?”

“Just past the first rocks,” she calls back. “There’s a shelter – almost a cave.” Ram’yana leads the way through jumbled rocks at the base of the boulders and skirts their dark grey bulk. He emerges into a sand-strewn windbreak between tumbled basalt blocks that form a horseshoe-shaped hidden space in the dunes. A small rock circle surrounds a few blocks of charcoaled wood and a rusted tin can, and a few sheets of torn newspaper have been stashed beneath a sooty overhang that partially shields the fireplace.

“Looks great. You’ve been here before?”

Natasha ignores the question and strides past him to the overhang, where she grabs a nearly intact broadsheet of newsprint. “Home sweet home. And it even has a wardrobe!” She wraps the crinkled paper around her waist and holds it in place with one hand while she crooks a fine, lithe leg, bending her knee and inclining her hips in a caricature of a modelling pose. “What do you think?” The smiling black and white newsprint face of a football hero leers sideways above her loins and a rubber-capped bevy of water polo heroines smiles at him, arrayed down one of Natasha’s athletic thighs. A headline curves around the arch of a hip; ‘Win In The Water’. Bulbous vine-like growths of seaweed hang over her breasts alongside thicker strands of the yellowish sea-stuff.

“Very fetching,” he says. “A very urbane cavewoman. Feel better now?”

“I will when you fetch some more wood and we get this fire lit,” she replies, fastening the paper against her hip with a thin white length of bone from a fragmented seabird. She seems completely sobered. “This little cave here under the overhang stays really warm. And then we can have some hash.”

“A fire might not be a great idea,” Ram’yana demurs, unwilling to directly mention the possibility that the thieves may still be lurking unseen. “Besides – we haven’t enough wood to last all night. Let’s wait until we need it.” Natasha’s eyes and teeth flash toward him from deep shadows beneath the overhang. “We can find some more before it gets darker,” she says. “And we can warm up some rocks and cover ourselves with newspaper if we have to. And of course, there’s always body warmth…”

“Sounds great to me –we’ll be fine, darlin’. But a fire will be seen for miles – the smoke I mean – until it’s really dark. Maybe even then…”

She bites her lower lip. “You said the van’s gone, right? You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“You’re probably right – but let’s just wait a while, okay? I’ll go and get some more wood if you like.” He climbs toward the mouth of their hidden shelter.

“Come here first.” He turns and smiles into the shadows; Natasha continues talking as he approaches. “I think I like you better naked. You can be my willing slave, if you like. I’ll treat you pretty well.”


“Of course!” She reaches out and grasps the solid length of his penis and her expression becomes serious. “But promise me you won’t try to see me naked again. Promise.”

“I promise, sweet Nasher.” He knows better than to argue with her, no matter how antiquated he thinks her notions; Natasha is saving that glorious sight for her husband in his marriage bed. “But you know, it still isn’t safe…”

“Well what can we do? Hide here until we starve to death or die of thirst or exposure or frazzle to a crisp? I’m totally pissed off about the van and all my – our – stuff…” Her grip becomes painful and she notices him grimace. “Sorry… but whoever stole it split with everything. They’re long gone by now. Our main worry is finding someone to help us get back to the city. There isn’t even a public phone, would you believe it? But… it’s dark enough, now…”

He can barely see her in twilit shadow. Only the whites of her eyes and flashing teeth are truly visible; the rest of her is a pale blur. “Come here… make love to me… and don’t rip my skirt.” She tugs him further into the darkness of the small declivity by his swollen cock and drags its hard length toward her heat. “Careful…” She leans back against the stony wall, lifts her paper skirt and her hips thrust forward as she pushes him inside her incredibly hot, tight, wet little vagina. He enters her slowly, suspending his body from the rock wall so that the only place their bodies touch is at the throbbing juncture of their lustful teenage loins.

At last…

They both sigh as he squeezes forward and Natasha’s inner labia completely envelope him. She holds him in place, unmoving, as their lips meet in a lingering kiss. He presses her full-length against the rock and when he reaches the summit of her sweet depths they join in a silent timeless moment of deep contact, eyes locked and chests rising and falling in unison. He pulls away until they’re just far enough apart that the girl’s hard jutting nipples caress his hairless chest with each inhalation. Her fingers stay wrapped around his base.

“Lay me down, but don’t come in me,” the seaweed-draped cave girl entreats him. “Please… don’t come in me…” She tugs him even more deeply up into her belly and wraps all four strong slim limbs around his naked flesh.

Her weight seems inconsequential. He kneels with her skin plastered to his and she pulls him down to press her into soft yielding sand. She groans and licks his face and throat before her tongue plunges between his teeth. Their hair mingles in their mouths. Ram’yana sucks on her fleshy tongue as she begins to buck and moan beneath him with a rocking rhythm. He mounts her fully, deeply, and reams her over and again.

Darkness enfolds them as they make enraptured love halfway beneath the basalt half-roof of their shelter and a pulsing indigo sky. The teenagers are both still partway drunk, stoned and in shock from their near-death experiences in the frantic ocean and forced exposure, and cling to each other as if they were the last couple on Earth. The heat of their union and the sunlight that still bastes their bones are all the warmth they need as they explore each other’s passions and membranes with the increasingly frenzied abandon of unbridled young lust.

Natasha grunts and emits small gasping screams in time with Ram’s thrusts as the tempo of their rocking increases. She spreads her legs widely to vouchsafe him complete access and he sheathes his rigid flesh almost full length into the scarcely experienced girl’s muscular marrow. He withdraws almost completely with each exit before plunging back into her steamy embrace. Her paper skirt, scrunched and discarded, is completely forgotten as her thighs and calves move him faster, harder, deeper.

“I’m coming! Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” she screams into his long hair as it shrouds their faces. “I’m coming oh don’t come in me oh fuck fuck ooh don’t oh Ram oh Ram oh don’t stop no don’t come in me oh Ram oh Ram oh Ram oh Ram oh RAMMMM! OHH! Uhh… uhh… uhh… ohh…” A loud tearing sound signals the final demise of Natasha’s short-lived skirt but she appears not to notice. Her screams and moans and gasps rebound from the stony walls and are joined by her young man’s deeper tones; “Oh Goddess, oh come, oh come oh Nasher, oh, honey mm, oh fuck, darling, mmm… uhh… Oh LOVE!”

He pins her to the planet with every thrust, revelling in the strength of his rutting young body and glorying in the pleasure he gives her. Her legs close around him and hot liquid muscles bunch round his shaft each time he withdraws, sucking the seed from his balls.

He tries to pull back out of her grasp when he feels swarming semen readying itself to jet into her equally eager womb, but Natasha’s heels press him down inside her with irresistible strength. Her hands grip his buttocks, forcing him all the way into her crushed little body as she screams and writhes in orgasmic ecstasy.

“Aahh! Ohh!” she cries, “Fuck me! Oh yeah! Thass it! Ohh! Uhh uhh uhhh… ohh, ohh, don’t stop, don’t stop, ram it, ram it into me, oh it’s so hot and real, oh fuck me, fuck me with your big hard OOHH!!” The sounds, the smell and feel of the young horny beauty coming and coming, naked beneath him in fine silky sand, her barely visible face rocking from side to side in a tenebrous halo of hair, make restraint almost unendurable. His need to come inside her is an ache he can scarcely contain. “Don’t stop!” She cries between gasps. “Ohh, don’t stop!”

It’s all he can do to slow his thrusting inside the girl as she moans and fucks his hot thick length of blood- engorged cock. Natasha’s hips rise from the sand to thrust upward and roll around him with unbearably pleasurable squeezing, roiling, fucking self-impalements as her nubile little body automatically struggles to suck his seed into her womb.

Her mind is blown away and she reels in ongoing waves of overlapping orgasms. He’s thoroughly, sorely, lustily tempted to lose it inside her, but resolves to hold back as long as he can.

Sweat plasters their skins and long dark manes of hair together as they slide and glide along and inside each other’s tight flesh, while their hands explore post-pubescent bodies with intimate, desperately clutching caresses. Their motions are so naturally ingrained that the lovers are unaware of their own movements, riding the eternal wave that flows through their bodies, all tongues and loins and flesh and juices in a unity of fantastic, glorious, unending teenage sex. The wanton, incarnadine lust blazoned across Natasha’s lovely face in the barest glimmering of starlight and the heaving, eternally unsated need of her perfect young body are experiences Ram’yana knows he’ll remember forever.

Then his balls tense and rise along his shaft and he feels the fiery beginning of his own orgasm. He holds himself rigid as the screaming girl uses his body to pleasure herself while he feels her unending orgasm rise up his spine and fill his entire being with semi-vicarious absolute pleasure. He breathes deeply into the base of his belly, poised on the brink of exploding inside Natasha’s barely ripe loins and filling her trim little belly with a potent rush of white-hot sperm.

The shaman prince holds himself still, deep inside the palpating muscles of her convulsing vagina until the waves of her rocking, fucking, screaming, panting, hugging, convulsing loving finally subside. He sighs with mingled pleasure and relief, still poised on the edge of an unspent orgasm that slowly recedes into his balls as he breathes the life force back into his belly and up his spine. He holds her body close all around him and they roll onto their sides in the sand with her legs wrapped round his waist. Their tongues talk to each other for a while, first inside her mouth and then inside his, while his larger hands cup her pert bum and spread her wider. The teenage caveman pulls his young mate’s flesh tightly about him, clothing himself with her heat while she moans around their tongues.

He’s never known such unsullied bliss. They lay motionless inside each other from here to eternity, gasping, twinned conjoined amphibians washed up on the shore of the airy world, unwilling to separate by even an inch, in a kissing clinch that goes on forever.

And then she moves. Natasha slides his weight from her breasts, rolls aside, somehow climbs around and onto him without releasing his hardness. Through besotted eyes somewhat adjusted to darkness, he watches the ghostly glow of her wondrous shapeliness rise up his pole until only his crown remains inside the darkly furred lips that squeeze around his most sensitive portion. He watches her silhouette shift against the purpling sky as she spears herself down along his shaft. She starts to fuck him in a returning tide of heated hormones that slick his pole with faintly phosphorescent white foam and rides him faster in the gloaming, her breath ragged with interspersed moans.

Ram’yana finds it a fraction easier not to come, lying beneath Natasha as she rides her steed to another orgasm. He settles back in the faintly warm sand to enjoy the incredible sensation of the young girl’s first ongoing exploration of ‘real’ sex, and resolves to last as long as he can for her. The sight and sounds and smell and taste and feel of her are overwhelming, incredible, urgent and eternal, an unbelievably requited celebration of lust that’s the culmination of years of youthful fantasising. I’ve dreamed this, he realises. Not just imagined it, but dreamed it too…

The livid, fevered reality of the innocent young schoolgirl paramour of his dreams making tender love with him and then fucking his brains out in horny abandon is too good to let slip away. He holds himself back, making the ecstatic moments stretch through the minutes - and then he sits upright with cupped hands spreading her cheeks wide and jams her all the way down into his lap and up again. He fucks the girl in a timeless fugue of rutting union as he lifts and drops her light tight body to his preferred rhythm, and hers.

When she starts moving for both of them his hands roam her lean little buxom body, continually returning to the full swelling waves of her breasts while her hair whips their skins and she grinds herself around his shaft. He exults in the consummation of his athletic mate’s lithe blazing lust and is awed by her abandoned surrender to pleasure, amazed at her prodigious ability to come screaming like a cat in heat, over and over again. Her cries resound and rebound from the cavernous walls and burst upward to greet the first shining stars.

She finally falls gasping against his chest, saliva drooling from her lips as she sucks at his nipple, hips still slowly rising and falling  -apparently of their own volition - as she groans in exhausted, exulted satisfaction, splayed across him, forgetful (at last) of her utter nudity.

The applause, when it comes, is totally unexpected.

A true story



- R.A.

Images – author’s

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From The Prince of Centraxis -


Monday, 30 June 2014

Free Marijuana

Free Marijuana


Free Marijuana (28:16)
Free Marijuana at Nimbin

An entheogenic window into the 22nd Annual Nimbin Mardi Grass Protestival 2014 - 4:20 and the The Mardi Grass parade at the most (in)famous settlement in the Rainbow Region of eastern Australia. 

Who stole their land? Featuring this year's fabulous crop of Ganja Faeries, the Rolla Dooby Girls and assorted colourful change agents, culminating in wise words and didgeridoo from indigenous AbOriginal elders

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All music by Neil Pike and other local artists at the protestival.

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kombi konvoy 2012  

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