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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Sunday, 18 May 2014

Hearing Voices: Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 29

Hearing Voices
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 29

The thunderous Voice – a prepossessing person or personality readily recognisable after so many sojourns - resounds through the tattered dross of revenant thoughts that cavort through the shaman’s psychedelic mindscape. Booming like the Voice of God (a deification identification mistakenly made by so many), the clarified commands scatter his bleary cogitations into feathery scraps; a flock of disputatious seabirds dispelled by the wake of a roaring jet.


The words transform into echoing shapes and multicoloured sounds that pour through his thoughts to define his surrounds. The teenage mage can’t recall where his body is lying, stretching and flexing at the core of a dizzying vortex. Bacchanalian images cavort past his eyelids while the sweet funk of sex fills both flaring nostrils. Livid sensoria of sliding, gliding feminine membranes begin to draw his awareness back to an urgent, fluid, ecstatically animalistic reality.


Thought forms and sigils he recognises from the silverfish-riddled pages of ancient tomes slide and warp, twisting through woven strands of intent and meaning. Interpenetrating veils of divergent perspectives echo in shouts of revelry and cries of encouragement that surround his naked thought-filled form.


He feels the attention of a host of participatory witnesses glide along his exposed skin while his lover’s caresses define its existence. 
Commandeering statements stream through his being even as he blends and melds with the grasping inner flesh of his wilfully pliable, indomitably malleable ladylove; thrums through his being while his lips taste the breathless breath of lithe young femininity, describes the sensation of his tongue outlining the edges of her pearlescent teeth as she gasps a wordless paean.

An image of unbending tree trunks, swelling, growing leafy crowns and arterial branches infiltrates his vision while his fingertips slide across the liquid curves of his Lady’s perspiration-slicked, oil-anointed skin.


Lips so soft and sweet. Hands that bless, refine and xtrude his shape from a gallery of infinite possibility, stroking his skin with reverential caresses while slippery flesh squeezes tightly and tighter around his exultant perplexity.


Every single thing and sensation seems doubled and redoubled - arms and thighs, sides and belly, flaring flames of crowning hair and disjointed feet of limpid clay, all caressed and blessed at once. Two pairs of lips meet around his, three tongues explore the torrid cavern of a sweet female mouth. Four breasts impress his torso, pliant and warm, while a forest of fingers cages his scrotum, driving his splendid hardness up and into the flexing belly of a nubile goddess, making Her gasp and grasp, rise and writhe in ecstatic counterpoint to insatiable satiric lust.


Inciting shapes swirl into indefatigable sensations of two girls moving together as one. When two distinctly unique young females become a single shapeshifting being of labial, receptive, inspiringly attractive womanimal responses it’s impossible to distinguish whose body he fills and whose lips kiss his in palpating, palpitating darkness.

The Voice is indistinguishable from his own, yet casts shadows loud as booming thunder;


The Voice answers and dispels all unspoken queries at once. Smooth feminine hands stroke the young shaman’s limbs, his chest, his belly and neck while his flat-planed male body meets and melts, thrusts and busts into the sacred seams of soft, firm, responsively acceptant young flesh.

My father’s voice, speaking with mine own accent?...

Thought of his father spins him around, alters the world, turns his identity inside out. Images swarm and twist into monkey-puzzling knots of mating bodies and twining vines while vivid odours of wine, incense, beer, smoke, sweat and magmatic smegma infuse his nostrils and fill his lungs.

He peers down from above, through trellises of ripe blushing grapevines that cast crisscross patterns across his witch-bride’s smooth body. She lies nakedly newborn athwart a small grassy mound, limbs flung out to the world’s four corners, the fulsome orbs of her conical breasts pointing skyward in sharply edged beams of glowing blue moonlight, their peaks rouged a radiant blush of berry magenta by cooling veils of nocturnal vapour.  

Racheal’s face is half concealed behind untidy waves of her long golden mane, but he’s somehow certain she’s fast asleep. He moves closer to inhale her scent and his strangely disjointed hand moves up along a long pale thigh, strokes a line along her belly and gently closes around a soft, firm, utterly alluring mound of nubile feminine flesh.

Her skin… Her need… Her body… Not my hand?

Yet as long bony fingers caress the pliant surface of his Lady’s smooth round breast he’s aware his other hand urgently fiddles with a brace of belt, button and zipper somewhere below. He gazes down on Racheal’s ribcage, feels it rising and falling beneath his palm as he stares at the glowing, gaping glory of her nakedness though dappled moonlight, savours the sight of a slim shapely midriff, the concave flow of a trim, firm torso while his touch drifts across a slight curve of feminine belly, past the ovaloid vesicle of her recessed navel to the downy place where her long legs meet and part - and as he looks down upon the perfect nude body of his recumbent teenage bride he’s instantly filled by a foetid rush of unfettered desire.

His cock rises at the intimate elemental fellatio of a cooling night wind and as he swells and hardens he focuses upon a glittering ring that slides past Racheal’s flaccid nipple. The lord’s signet, he realises as his other hand enfolds her free breast and squeezes the fleshy aureole upward - a silken puckering mound surmounted by an utterly enticing crinkly strawberry peak.

When he leans down and blows across that tender skin, the soft little nubbin hardens in the freshening wind of his breath. “I’ve awaited thee… this… quite a time, milady…” Feels almost like my voice… not quite my flavour… Yet his lips touch her nipple as his generous whiskers encounter an amazingly soft, smooth, delicate pink membrane. He gently kisses the swollen tip; then he sucks her entire aureole into his mouth and tongues the whole satiny mound, gently squeezing the pimpling surface between his teeth. Honeysuckle sweetness fills his mind and his hips automatically rock forward and thrust his erection toward the streaming heat of his sleeping idol’s steaming sex.

His nubile High Priestess lies beneath him, unmoving, neither protesting nor acceding as his tongue laves a trail across the uplands of her breast, along that elegant collar bone, up her equine throat and around the sharp curve of her chin while he squeezes those perfectly malleable breasts.

The heat radiating from the peak of her parted thighs is simply irresistible. He feels firm naked legs slide along his furry shanks, stripping back his half-mast trousers. Delicate feminine limbs rise higher and spread wider about his muscular thighs when he moves up closer, above and beneath, to encircle the witch-girl’s ensorcelled nakedness. The touch of her skin electrifies, inspires, hardens his cock to painful rigidity. He lightly nips her soft white throat with sharp male primate teeth. His hand slides down across bony waves of elegant ribcage to caress the slim, flat beach of her teenage belly as he moves his piston into position, dawdling long and longer at her simmering threshold. She seems smaller…

“Milady… Racheal…” he whispers into her lips, and smiles though the Centraxian salutation; “Awa Ken, High Priestess mine… Awa Ken…” His lips brush the girl’s unlined brow. “This, our time, hast arrived at long last… awaken…” He gazes upon her face from a hand’s breadth away, admiring her beauty while her breasts squeeze up into his chest and her nipples rub against his own – and, in the back of his brain, part of him puzzles at his own unlikely words while he savours sensations of tactile bliss.

“Or not…” his lips murmur, “ ’tis time… high time… irresistible time…” His entire body vibrates with desire as he breathes the words into her mouth and licks her lips with a tobacco-laced tongue. “Irresistible…” He can restrain himself not a moment longer and reaches down around her slender flank to swiftly cup a firm smooth buttock and squeeze her girlish cheek inside his long, large hand. “…even sticky with sweat and the seed of others…”

Roughly rasping fingers extend long-nailed tips to wander into downy margins of faintly fur-lined liquid silk. “Ah, Lady Luck, blessed fortune…”  Fingertips pause to caress the faintly bulging globe of a finely formed clitoris while his thumb stretches round a soft, cool cheek and slides up against the velvet valve of the girl’s virgin quoit. As her hooded bulb swells to his rotating touch, his fingers slip to transgress the clasping heat of the teenage witch’s elastic lips. “We’ll wait no longer to taste thy charms,” he hears himself say to the sleeping priestess, and kisses her full on the lips.

He caresses her outer labia, sliding a smooth shaven flap between thumb and forefinger. “Dandled and dangled before me no longer, mine sweet dear Lady…” he kisses her sealed lips once more; “…my Priestess…” another, longer dalliance while his finger moves up inside her; “…my Racheal…” He licks her lips and kisses her eyelids while another finger joins the first, squeezing slowly inward, but she doesn’t even twitch in response.

I know that voice, he assures himself while the fingers extrude from hot fleshy succulence and wipe sticky fluid smears along his ladylove’s faintly downy flank. Not mine… How?... the young shaman wonders. Kha-Aan… and Racheal?... He recoils inwardly. A vision of the past? Where? Just a dream or… did this happen… or is happening, now? So fucking real

Even as he feels the lusty promise of an impending fuck swell his hardening flesh to almost painful tumescence, Ram’yana tries to dispel or delay his arousal with unanswered questions; Is this really… are all these thoughts, these acts mine?  The sight and sensation of Racheal’s utterly familiar, luscious feminine body poised open and ready beneath him is unutterably exciting. I want her so much… but she seems so small… young… fragile beneath me… so fucking beautiful… It’s like having her for the first time, all over again…

“Methinks to have thee now, sleeping beauty, whilst at least thy soul’s unsullied still…” his voice says into her mouth while probing fingers stroke and stoke his bride’s unresisting, unresponsive, alluringly taut and entrancingly silken, delectably perfect little vagina; “…verily, milady, veritably pure, despite this spume that sullies theeso awaken for thy just reward, and mine…”

The entire world is pushed aside, eclipsed by the hypnotically attractive vision laid out before him, a gloriously warm and tender feast of moonlit white womanhood splayed out on a blanket of cool dewy grass. Perfect breasts point unerringly skyward, slowly rolling in synchronised tandem as he pulls her heat closer. The hot, succulent promise of her pinkly shining loins engorges his thrumming body and mind. Her fine young form is seemingly impossible to resist – and he knows how much she enjoys it.

Is this what I will? he wonders. All thought of the experience being a dream is completely dispelled by the sheer tactile glory of Racheal’s proximity; her taste, her scent, the feel of her flesh all familiar as his own, and twice as lucid. Yet his mind blathers on; Am I… possessing Kha-Aan, guiding his acts… or only a witness to our liege’s hitherto hidden desires?

“Awaken to me!” he says far more loudly as the soft heat of her thigh caresses the tip of his sceptre, but she responds not at all to his lordly command. Is this what we both want – Kha-Aan and I? He yearns to sate the lunging, plunging, all expunging desire that thrums all the way through his meat and bones. He feels an overpowering lusty urge to wake his sleeping priestess with a singular hard deep thrust – to ram his manhood between the taut, moist, radiant lips that hover an inch from his hardness and hear her cry to the Moon with shocked delight He longs to see those gorgeous blue eyes burst open in surprise and witness her wonder when she wakens to his lust moving deeply within her. His lips move, seemingly of their own volition;

“…or not, as ye will, my hand picked nubile Priestess…” He leans down to whisper into her ear and the tip of his cock glides up to the top of her inner thigh; “Surely thou feigns slumber still… for though we’re not thy first this night, my sweet fair wanton witchy wench… and certens…” he whispers, almost panting -  with Kha-Aan’s voice, he’s almost sure, “…not thy last…” He bends forward and feels his tongue slide between her slightly parted lips to lightly stroke her upper teeth, then whispers into her fragrant mouth; “…this tribute comes from thy best and fondest admirer, oh Priestess mine… surely canst feel this…”

Why all this talk? He ponders for an instant while Kha-Aan’s hands caress Racheal’s nakedness and his hirsute lips suckle at hers. Guilt? What does he mean by… and when he says, ‘we’… does he know I’m here, or…

He’s surprised at the way his facial hair caresses her mouth when he kisses Racheal’s soft, lush, unresisting lips. His big bony hand squeezes the firm round rump of her left cheek to pull her upward, lifting her supine hips from the grassy hillock until the bullseye core of her radiant heat laves the arrowhead of his thoroughly rigid shaft.

I’m bigger… he realises in shocked surprise; …in every way… and so fucking horny for her… but… she’s asleep, unaware… He draws back from her lips and his voice rambles on through Kha-Aan’s mustachios; “Feel the best man who’s to know thee ’ere the coming light of dawn…” he pants into her sweet wet mouth while spidery fingers fondle her buttock and spread her into position, “…the best you’ll have til Chaos is replete with thee, sated by this thy splendid… freshness…”

“Wake up!” they both cry to Racheal’s bruised-looking eyelids through Kha-Aan’s lips, but each for different reasons –equally heedless of potential discovery in the secluded little wasteland. He moans when he clamps his lips to hers and jerks his beloved’s body upward, jamming her utterly familiar tight pink labia onto, across and around his thick purple crown with a quick, determined twisting thrust. The sensation is scarcely describable – like taking his bride as an utterly naive virgin once again, but somehow even more vivid through the unfamiliar oversized lens of Kha-Aan’s expectant flesh.

“Forgiveness, fair Racheal,” he gasps into her mouth, “that we must truly know thee at last, here, like this…” His fingers shift her surprisingly light pelvis round and about his first few inches as he pleasures himself with the heated grasp of her female heat. “…but time is constrained…” He rams all the way up into her, raising her splayed body from the small hillock with a single thrust of his rigid horn, and sighs to the stars. “Oh, Racheal…”

The young shaman forgets to wonder whether he’s along for the ride or somehow the puppeteer of these events; lost in the bliss of the lusty moment he ceases to doubt that the body that fucks his sleeping bedmate is his own. His hands grasp her buttocks to spread her wider as he buries himself to his balls. He mashes her clitoris against his pubic bone, glorying in the sensation of hot liquid quim caressing every last inch of his manhood. “Oh, fuck!”

He bends down and hoists her astride his hips, pressing her breasts beneath him while he spreads her bum in his hands. “Fuck, girl,” he says, withdrawing and thrusting, watching her face and feeling her loins for sign of response while her widely spread legs bounce up and down, smoothly stroking his hips and sides. “Awa Ken, milady, awaken… feel this…” he entreats her, “with me,” he demands, beginning to fuck her with ever more diligent zeal, “…before… oh aye, fair girl, awaken… oh fuck, sweet priestess… young temptress… oh fuck milady… oh, fuck, what a fucking female thou art…” he gasps the endless refrain into her open mouth while he manoeuvres her pelvis around his cock and crushes her breasts beneath his roughly clothed chest, “Racheal, mm, oh, fuck us now, while thy soul’s still thine, and mine…”

His ceaselessly distracting soliloquy is suddenly stilled when he pauses to experience the deepest squeezing inch of the witch girl’s uncanny heat. It seems she’s beginning to move in response as he hesitates on the brink of cramming his crown all the way through the valve of her cervix. Then, gasping, he continues; “…Time hast come, High Priestess, hast come at last, for us to fuck thy sweet, tight body royally…”

So small… He crams her closer about his cock and Ram’s thoughts are totally crushed in a rush of sheer sensation. He wilfully pulls her slack-jawed body up around his, savouring the feel of her satiny skin while his tongue slides all the way into her mouth, not stopping until he almost fills her irresistible innards from both ends at once - and then pulls partway back out until her inner labia are a slick round tube of translucent pink skin wrapped round tautly gripped inches of rigid male meat. He barely resists the urge to explode inside her then and there, without further ado.

“Oh Racheal…” he moans, “So good to be a man, with thee… to have thee at last, before thou art used and abused…” He pauses, revelling in the glorious feel of elastic teenage pussy clamped all the way round half his hardness, and shifts twining golden strands of hair so he might gaze down upon those wine-dark sealed eyelids, those unblushing lightly freckled cheeks – those slightly parted pouting lips; “…and used up….”

Ram’s awareness rises on a wave of jealousy and crests into foaming anger as Kha-Aan pulls her face to his mouth and tongues her lips, her teeth, the inside of her cheek. “...and filled up… How dare he use her like this!? Yet he’s also stricken by the awareness that some part of him is enjoying the sumptuous delight and power of experiencing his ladylove through the hulky frame and sturdier musculature of a fully grown man, in place of his slighter teenaged form. “…Infiltrated…”

Her breath is cinnamon, sugar, wine and smoke when his mouth closes over hers, sealing her breath with his own. Her lips possess a softness he’s forgotten, that he scarcely recalled existed until now. Her flavour is so delectable he pauses far longer than he’d intended. He inhales the breath right out of her lungs, sucking it into his chest as he presses down to feel her breast rub and slide against an exposed patch of hairy pectoral. Then he lunges all the way in, right up inside her with a high diver’s singular full-length plunge and exhales all their intermingled breath into her unconsciously pliable body.

Tides of guilt and waves of anger war and clash within Ram’s spinning mind, yet are totally subsumed within the lusty rush toward full consummation. He’s awed, disturbed and thoroughly shocked by this unheralded strange style of one sided mating – and surprised even more by the rush of assent that rises unbidden within him while the sheer bliss of his beloved’s smooth nubile femaleness rubs into his skin, slides past his fingers, encases his cock with glorious, grippingly sexual heat.

“We’re fucking thee royally - so awaken milady! I’d not waste thee, waste this, not now, not after this…” He’s surprised by the desperate tone of entreaty that drives the plea. “I prithee,” he says with a flurry of thrusts, “awake, my Priestess, that we may yet forget that thou art due and return to the tribe!” He tears his shirt open and squashes her breasts against his chest, buries his face inside her mane and fucks her flailing body with desperate urgency, pounding her up and down his full length while her limbs jerk about in parody of wakefulness.

Even while he witnesses - shares - the guilty pleasure swirling though Kha-Aan’s mind and body, the teenage mage feels two half-minds warring within them both; one cautiously glad that Racheal is ignorant of what’s transpiring, the other deeply sorrowful – and both feeling that way for utterly conflicting reasons; struggling with compassion, guilt, trepidation, lust, and gleeful rampant frenzy. And all the while the Lord Kha-Aan unceasingly uses the unconscious body of the tribal High Priestess of Centraxis as though she were a blowup fuck doll – raping the innocent teenage girl, really, with utter impunity, and taking yet another guilty pleasure in the full knowledge he’s unlikely to ever be caught, or even found out by the victim whose womb he now prepares to fill with his seed.

“Fuck, awaken fair goddess! Oh, fuck! Awaken, there’s still time…” He rises onto his knees and lifts her up as he kneels erect, wrapping those intimately familiar long white legs round his waist with queerly oversized hands. “…before thou art all filled up with unfettered Chaos…” He pins both slim ankles behind the small of his back with one large hand and hoists her up with the other, draping both her limpid, supine arms over his shoulders; then, when her body is locked in place around his, he begins to fuck the unmoving priestess with deliberate, long, rotating strokes, sliding her soft skin and silken breasts against his hirsute frame - enjoying a pleasure long denied the Lord who rarely denies himself anything, save reticence.

Ram’s mind is subsumed in a tsunami of lust, barely able to form the thought; Is this truly, really what he did, or wishes to do… or my own weird imagining… my own unseemly fantasy… what I’d do if I wert he?

“…And now, for now, thou art ours, all mine, our living dream, our living doll, you fucking little beauty… to do with as we please…” And as he starts to really ream and stretch the innermost membranes of the unconscious tribeswoman, pressing her loins right up around the massive piston of his bulging hard cock with ever increasing speed, Ram’yana fucks the overheated sex of his unconscious mate too. He rides inside her beautiful body along with his liege lord, tasting the older man’s form and thoughts while Kha-Aan does just as he pleases for as long as he dares in this moonlit courtyard, delaying en route to the impatient Court of Chaos… Ram gleans from Kha-Aan’s wildly diverging thoughts; Whom await her delivery with great expectation…

Though he wants to take his blessed time, he’s ready to finish far too quickly to truly, fully, completely savour this brazen act of rapine passion. He has to come now… When the swelling pressure becomes insuperably urgent he drops Racheal’s body back onto the mound with ungentle haste, slipping from her innards with a sticky susurrus of succulent wetness. He climbs athwart her bobbing breasts and rams his spuming shaft between the girl’s delectable lips, jetting thick white gobbets down her throat while he moans her name to the cloudy Moon, over and again, amidst grunting groans and breathless panting until he’s fully spent inside her throat.

“Leaving not a sign to sully the offering,” Lord Baron explains to sleeping teen as Ram’yana reels through an aftermath of dizzied confusion and heady shock. He wipes the last sticky evidence from Racheal’s faintly swelling lips, her flaring nostrils and fine strong chin and prepares to carry his new High Priestess to her next, far more challenging rendezvous. “A pity thou couldst not awaken, milady. But assuredly, Chaos will be pleased with thee,” he tells her when he lifts her face to his lips for one long last kiss.

Chaos? Ram’yana wonders as he drifts, dreaming, from the scene of his beloved’s violation, real or imagined. Is this just another dream? His thoughts circle the horrendous tale his beloved so recently imparted to him alone – of her kidnapping and abuse at the hands of a powerful Circle sometimes alluded to (but never openly discussed, in his experience) among the feuding magical groups of the Emerald City.

He rises from the sullied vine-draped bower amidst mingling waves of outrage, guilt, anger, befuddling lust and puzzlement. She said nowt about Kha-Aan… could it be she truly dost not know? Is this just a strange sick imagining - or a truer vision plucked from the mind of him or her?…


The shaman desperately tries to keep hold of the vivid vision, but its immediacy rapidly fades along with most of its import while waves of guilt and livid pleasure assail his far-flung, half-dreaming awareness. It’s too dark to make out much at all. The world spins around him, overflowing with half unseen scenes of glory and lust, wonder and mayhem while discordant music vibrates the entire chamber.

“Why don’t we sing this song all together
Open our minds let the pictures come…” *

Feminine screams bring him all the way back to his body. He’s lying on his side, jammed right up inside some slender young female or other, and he frankly doesn’t care who, or which witch. The only thing that matters is the sensation of her innermost membranes enfolding the hard smooth length of his enduringly engorged young manhood. His partner rhythmically bucks and squeezes him with signals of her own undeniable intent while, though he’s barely conscious, his agile hands fondle her delightfully nubile body and he fucks the girl while she screams, and shrieks, and screams again.

“…And if we close our eyes all together
Then we will see where we all come from…”

“Oh, yeah, fuck her fuckin’ brains out,” a vaguely familiar female whisperer entreats, blowing hot air into his ear - and so he does, on and on, riding that fine, firm, buxom little body through a landscape of mutual longing arousal amidst lengthening wee hours of morning darkness.

He only determines his partner’s identity when Crystal finally, jubilantly, calls out his name. Then, just before he comes inside her, he remembers. And remembers. And remembers. What a dream… Was it a dream?... Is this?

“…Pictures of us through the steamy haze
Pictures of us naked in our caves…”

He lifts his face from Chrissie’s hair and peers around the unlit longhall, seeing unidentifiable lumps and mounds spread around the floor, faintly illumined by reflections of distant streetlights. Mayhap, he tells himself. Feels dreamy… but who was goading me on?  The little redhead’s fingers draw lines of perspiration along his cheekbones and her feet drum a beat on his hips; he belatedly notices she’s somehow slipped back beneath him.

He reaches around to stroke her gently bouncing flank and his hand encounters another smoothly feminine expanse of soft, warm skin. He tries to focus on the other girl who’s appeared beside him and spies glints of glimmering light shining on long pale hair. Through the shamanic haze he slowly recognises, curled beside him in foetal position, the faintly glowing form of beloved Racheal. He sighs with relief at the sight – his paramour sleeping soundly alongside him, and apparently whole and hearty after her extraordinary experiences in the endlessly long night - and he grins with replete satisfaction, filled with the knowledge that his strong willed Lady has returned to his side after sampling the talents of so many other available males. And it was all just a dream… well… not all…

His hand slides down along her shoulder to cup a softly firm breast while Crystal bucks one last time, coming to a finish beneath him. She stops squeezing and moving in time to the music and flops back onto the mattress, panting. Racheal’s chest rises and falls with a deep, slow cadence he recognises as genuine sleep and his fingers slip into a gluey fluid that covers half her breast.

“Rache,” he whispers into her ear, rocking her hip with his hand. “Honey..,” he says, stroking her equally sticky flank. He gently squeezes a firm round cheek while Crystal sighs, pulls away from his tumescence and rolls over on the mattress. “Don’ wake her up,” Chrissie drawls. Her spine crackles as she stretches luxuriantly. “Let ’er sleep…” she advises through a yawn. “She ’ad a big night –a big knight or three – dincha see ’em goin’ at it?”

He chooses not to answer directly. “I want to take her abed - I can’t just leave her here…”

“Why not? Everone’s gone home,” she murmurs in drunken semi-stupor. “An’ Arnie wenta bed afore, with Fifi.” She pulls him across the mattress and drags him down atop her; he keeps hold of Racheal’s breast. “S’why not take me t’bed instead? Least I’m still awake an’ y’don’ haveta carry me. She’ll be fine – we can get ’er a blanket or somethin’.” She kisses him and strokes his hair. “She won’ mind. An’ y’know how she… was… better let ’er sleep... asides…” She runs out of words, but not out of steam. A small hot hand grasps the base of his cock and rams it up into her amazing hot, astoundingly tight little vulva. “Oohh, man!”

“Why don’t we sing this song all together
Open our minds let the pictures come…”

“Oh, girl…” The sensation of Crystal’s overheated little body squirming beneath him convinces the teenage mage far more readily than her words. “Mmm… oh, Chrissie, aye,” he agrees, forestalling further convincingly conniving talk with a long, slow thrust to the meat of the matter. He peers down into glittering points of blinking eyes in the near complete darkness. “Dost thou wish me to carry thee abed, milady?”

“Oh fuck, I sure would, you sweet prince… but can y’ do it without slippin’ outta me?”

“Let’s see…” And they do, as he discovers how light the sprightly redhead truly is. He lifts her up by both flanks while her hands lock behind his neck, and barely staggers at all in the darkness as he climbs to his feet and plasters her back against the wall. “Oh, God,” she moans when he nails her to the cracked plaster and sinks right up into her. Limber thighs and smoothly muscled calves flex around his sides as lovely young breasts mash and slide across his equally smooth chest. “Oh, man… gonna fuck me ’gain now…” she asks with a thrust, “or take me upstairs?”

“…Pictures of us beating on our drum
Never stopping til the rain has come…”

“Both…” He spies a faintly glowing length of rumpled material draped on the mattress and lifts it with one foot, scarcely maintaining his balance as he kicks it across Racheal’s barely visible paleness. The sight of her naked form recalls a fleeting image that flashes through his altered awareness from that other realm of half remembered visions. Momentarily dizzied, he sways in the darkness, swirling and swelling inside the eagerly tenacious girl, and then pulls the thin cloth all the way over his Lady’s curled-up body with his toes while he steadies himself against Crystal’s little frame, pressing her hard up against the wall.

Chrissie’s kisses smother his throat all the while. Her pointy little tongue slips inside his ear when he nods a silent farewell to his sleeping paramour. He doesn’t miss a step or slip out of the girl’s grips as he reaches the stairwell and carries her up, step by step - only pausing to pin her to the wall of the landing, moaning and panting through a few minutes of supremely satisfying passion. Her eyes shine, flicker and flare in the faint glow of reflected streetlight. Her fingernails trace tracks along his shoulders, his back, his ribs.

When she comes, swooning against the stronghold’s crackling paintwork, her feet slip from his hips and slide down his thighs. Her legs dangle from his hardness, toes hanging inches from the floor as she murmurs, “Gotta take a leak” inside his dark waterfall of hair.  They take turns emptying bladders in the adjacent bathroom before the tripping prince leads the equally dizzied girl onward into his moonlit bedchamber.

He kicks the door shut, strides to the broad, low, soft bed he shares with his Lady Racheal and kneels down to plant the redhead firmly astride him. Just as she enthusiastically latches to his unspent sex again he suddenly falls atop her like a poleaxed ox, cramming his cock all the way up inside her and revelling in the sound of her pleasurably shocked squeal. Her delight echoes from the poster-clad walls, pours through the drapes and out the open window to carom around the sleeping city.

The convoluted Centraxian household is surprisingly silent after the tempestuous partying that filled it throughout the night; the only other sound comes from the record player’s automatic arm clanking into position as the Rolling Stones spin to a halt. Yet the prince remains ill at ease. Despite the fact he’s embedded to the hilt in this sweet, sexy, eager and appreciative girl, he can’t get his ladylove out of his mind. “I don’t want to leave her alone…” he begins, but the insistent little teen closes her legs around his tightly squeezed hardness and kisses the rest of his sentence away.

“She’ll be okay,” Chrissie assures him as he sinks all the way down inside her and snuggles inside her most intimate possible embrace. “Now make love t’ me again, the way y’did b’fore – all alone, jus’ you an’ me thjis time…”

So he does.

A True Story
- R. A.



Images – Author’s

* Sing This All Together lyrics by The Rolling Stones (Copyright)

Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -

Sex & Drugs & Rock ’n’ Roll 29 – Hearing Voices


And for further enlightenment see

The New Illuminati – 

The Her(m)etic Hermit

New Illuminations –

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The Prince of Centraxis –