Friday, 31 October 2014

Into the Lair: Wild Life 15

Into the Lair
Wild Life 15

“You’d better get cracking packing,” the dark haired, dark eyed young Irish woman suggests. “It’s starting to get late,” Penny says. She emerges from the stairwell draped in a long mourning robe - a sardonic vision of gothic splendour that appears in a corner of the shaman’s distracted vision. Her plump black pussycat style is a perfect counterpoint to the blinding brightness of the ravishing younger beauty, who sways to the music before his rapt gaze.

The redhead teen’s translucent skin seems to shine right through the sheer white gown that reveals as much of her extraordinary figure as it conceals. The grapefruit orbs of her breasts are so firm that they barely roll beneath the loose nightdress. The garment is so brief her ultrawhite legs rise up all the way up to a lacy hem that rides her curvaceous buttocks like the tattered edge of a schooner’s sail in the face of an approaching tempest. Her hips swing around, forward and back as she moves to the music, barely an arm’s length from his eyes. A mauve-lidded gaze glitters behind a screen of russet lashes, and a half-moon smile creases a single crescent dimple below her rosy cheek when she notes his attentiveness.

When he’d appeared at the door of the inner-city terrace the shaman had weathered knowing looks and conspiratorial winks from Penny, Seheal’s perpetually bemused girlfriend. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it in time.”

“In time for what?” She’d ignored the question and ushered him downstairs with an unlikely sense of ceremony, as if his arrival and imminent departure with the teenage redhead was a matter of grave import – or critical timing. “She was sure you’d be here, so of course I should have known…”

Now Penny clears her throat, eyes riveted to the younger girl as the vinyl track pulses from spiralling groove to revolving halt. “Will you need a hand carrying everything out?” She gently lifts the sapphire needle from the slightly warped record, a half-crisped black pancake which continues spinning after she drops the arm into its bracket.

His eyes remain on the other girl who wheels around on the spot. As the skimpy dress swirls with her twisting motion a fragrant breeze laden with native feminine scent billows across her seated admirer. “You’re already doing so much… but it is getting late,” she says. Ram’yana springs to his feet beside her. “Let’s be about it then! We’d best get the heaviest things in first…”

“That’ll be her throne.” Penny winks at Seheal and selects a cassette tape. “It’s just about the only thing still up in your room – and he’s the only one strong enough to get it down the stairs.”

“I suppose…” Seheal agrees with guarded reluctance. He still can’t take his eyes from her; the dainty teen’s pout is eminently kissable. But her obvious note of doubt immediately impels him to cross the subterranean chamber and make for the stairs. “No worries,” he reassures the girls, “just show me the way.”

Seheal reaches for his hand and her touch is instantly electrifying. When his fingers gently twine with hers a cupid smile beams in dazzling response, igniting his heart and firming his loins. He’s so entranced and blazingly enflamed that his supremely satisfying dalliance earlier in the evening with the other awesomely beautiful redhead is thoroughly forgotten.

“I’ll take him,” she tells Penny without removing her glittering eyes from his. Her gaze is so warm he dares to believe that her feelings mirror his own. When she steps to the door he drifts alongside so naturally it’s as though he’s become one of her limbs.

He drops behind when she leads him up the narrow staircase, unable to take his eyes from her mesmerisingly perfect shapeliness. With each step her barely concealed buttocks clench and relax, roll and sway. How old is she? It isn’t a question he feels comfortable asking directly; he’s accustomed to an era when men never discussed a woman’s age. In Seheal’s case he feels sure that bringing the subject up would be demeaning to them both, and he’s loth to do anything that may drive a wedge of difference between them.

She pauses and turns, nodding at a reproduction of Van Gough’s ‘Starry Starry Night’ which hangs slightly askew in an ornate wooden frame. “I may leave that for Penny.” Her eyes twinkle into his.

She’s finished art school, so she’s must be at least eighteen or nineteen… “A great gift,” he says as he fixates on those emerald orbs that gleam with glee and, he hopes, a glint of anticipation. Though she stands two steps above, their gazes meet on the same level. But she’s so fresh… seems so young… Old enough, that’s for certain… She nods right on cue, as if hearing his thoughts.

He tries to rein in his enthusiasm, reminding himself that the girl probably just wants a lift up the coast, but her inviting expression and the undeniable synchrony of the moment belies his wavering conviction. “But I’m afraid I have to bring that one with me.” She points to the landing above, where a huge framed photograph of Pope John II smiles down beatifically in living black and white. “My mother gave it to me,” she explains with an apologetic little pout and a shrug that makes his eyes dip momentarily. Her smile returns as she turns away and hurries upstairs.

He follows her bare, lightly padding feet past the pope, up two more flights and into an open doorway. “The last of my stuff’s still in here. That’s the throne.” She nods toward a low, ornate, claw-footed wooden chair and leans over to retrieve a carpet bag overflowing with feminine garments. The nightdress rides up her slim, pale thighs and settles partway up her buttocks, exposing a glimpse of ginger-fringed labial pinkness. His heart pounds in his chest, pumping his incipient hardness with a fresh rush of blood. He can’t help but think; Another real redhead...

When she rises to place the bag on her unmade bed he notices the queen-sized mattress holds two pairs of ruffled pillows that have seen recent use. A swift glance around the large, gaily decorated room – obviously inhabited by a romantically inclined female – reveals signs of being shared by more than one person. Penny? He wonders. Or someone else? It doesn’t seem polite to ask directly, so he strides to the chair and removes a thick lace-covered burgundy velvet cushion that fills the broad seat while the girl finishes packing.

“What a throne – fit for a princess!” The arm rests are ornately lathed and carefully carved from lacquered hardwood and mirror the design of the padded backrest and three-toed clawed feet. The piece resembles some kind of tautly muscled squatting animal, vaguely feline and ready to pounce. When he reaches down its weight is astonishing, but he manfully hoists it up and turns toward Seheal, who has stopped packing to observe his effort. “You are strong,” she says approvingly as he tries to keep the strain from showing. From another female he might suspect mere ego (and penis) inflating flattery, but the petite girl’s admiration seems genuine. “It was my mothers, too.”

She turns to face her reflection in a full length mirror propped by the bed while he stands fixed to the spot, unwilling to take his eyes off her despite the hefty weight. She puts her hands on her hips and he watches as the material outlines her form even more faithfully. Her eyes flash toward his in the looking glass. “Do you think I need to change for the trip?”

I hope not… “That’s up to you”, he says aloud as he gains a better handhold, wishing she’ll decide in favour of the nightdress. “It’s a warm night, but it’s a long trip.”

“It is warm, isn’t it?” she says to his reflection, swaying on the spot. “This’ll do then.”

“It looks great on you.” He regrets the facile words as they emerge from his mouth, but Seheal’s smile becomes a wider grin. He grins back, turns for the door and almost trips over a pair of shoes. “Careful,” she admonishes. “Don’t hurt yourself.” The shoes seem incongruously unfeminine but he has no time for a closer look.

He navigates the wide piece of furniture through the narrow doorframe and turns into the walkway, unobtrusively resting it on the rickety banister rail and pausing for a better hold. The stairs seem much steeper with such a heavy weight balanced in front of him but there’s no other way to get the bulky cubic object downstairs, so he leans back and descends carefully, tread by squeaky tread while he ponders; I wonder who’s been sharing her bed?...

The first flight and landing are fairly easy going. The second is a little harder. When he turns at the foot of the second landing a wooden claw snags on the huge portrait of the pope, which teeters away from the wall. He crooks an elbow around an armrest and reaches to steady the frame, and the chair twists around and pulls him off balance.

The stairwell spins around the pope, whose grey eyes follow his as he spins and falls. The portrait presses against his face with the weight of the throne behind it and he teeters for an endless moment before he manages to carry the mass down atop him onto the landing instead of tumbling down the metal-edged stairs. The throne jams at an angle between the banister and the wall, pinning him to the carpet beneath the dead pope’s grey visage. Try as he might he can’t move an inch.

Struggling against mounting odds, he tries even harder not to interpret the event as an untoward omen. “You know what they say about Catholic girls;” Penny says as she reaches down to help. “You can get a girl out of the church…” She levers the throne from the wall and dislodges the portrait, “…but you can’t get the pope out of a girl…”


Three moons later Penny’s snickering advice is almost forgotten. “This is where I pictured us living together.” Seheal’s words are ferried on a stream of smoke. A spiral of fireflies frames her form and haloes her eerily glowing face. Dark water chuckles all around them, flinging aerosol sprays upon pale naked limbs glistening in the last of the light.

“Here? In the middle of the river?” She nods and her teeth flash and gleam in the twilight. “This is what I saw. Thee and me, right here, making love on this rock while fireflies dance around us.” She leans forward and upward, balancing daintily on hands and knees atop the mossy stone. Succulent lips touch his with supreme gentleness and the tip of her tongue slides forth, serpentine, to outline the margins of his mouth.

A soft frizz of thick curly hair caresses his cheeks and covers his eyes while tongues entwine and their lips seal closely. She exhales into his mouth and he draws her living essence into himself, holding her there, deep inside, before returning the gift in kind. A lone frog starts calling from one bank of the river and is instantly answered by another, and another, until the valley is filled with guttural waves of ancient song while the lovers imbibe and share their souls.

Despite the rigors of the day they’re both overflowing with vitality and intoxicated by their surroundings, the magical night and, most of all, each other. They savour this idyll together in Paradise, drawing each moment out in an eternity of sensuous bliss. Then laughter sprinkles the twilit forest with uncommonly human sounds, drawing them back toward mortal realms. The kissing couple recalls they’re just beyond sight of the rest of the group, around a tight narrows in the remote rainforest gorge.

When she begins to draw away he reaches out and his fingers unerringly enter the rent in her dress. The touch of her skin, as always, electrifies. He shifts to make room for his hardness in the tightening pants and watches her face as he strokes her trim belly. She rears upward onto her knees and moves his hand with her own, drawing it round and onto a softly firm breast. She leans back and sighs to the first stars that shine through a cleft in the gorge, scattered amid moirés of palm leaves and vines. Her breast feels uncommonly hot; the nipple is already rigid when his fingertips reach it and gently squeeze.

“Don’t stop.” She carefully shifts the furry coat from the edge of the rock where they perch like Atlanteans marooned in the Flood. “Mm…” Her breast heaves against his palm and her knee brushes back and forth along his thigh through the thin layer of cotton. “We can lay this beneath us…”

His fingers stroll across her breastbone and onto the upland of her other breast. “You’re not too cold?” A small hand settles directly onto the crown of the erection that’s starkly outlined through his pants, and he moans. “You’ll keep me warm,” she assures him. “And I’ll keep you hot. I’ll be thy blanket, my lord, and you can be my mattress! Anyway, the night is warm – and guess what? There are no mosquitos! Do you suppose the frogs eat them all?” Her hand pulls away and his body unfreezes while his mind returns partway onto its tracks.

“Aye,” he agrees, “and the bats. But it’s still early in the season and it may be too cold for them yet…” His fingers caress the edge of her breast and long nails tickle her ribs. She sighs and begins to pull the thick coat beneath his buttocks. He carefully moves to make room without ripping the hole in her dress any wider. “There”, she says. “Now lie back and let’s see what we can manage without falling into the lava pool.” He starts to acquiesce, but pauses, asking, “Did you play that game as a kid, too? If you fell off the bed…”

“You’d fall into the molten lava. Of course! Or off the chair, or the rug, or the log… you know. Every kid does it. Most adults don’t remember, just like everything else they forget. Now just lie back while I get our bed ready…” So he does; his bare feet and ankles hang over the edge, above the splashing lava. She spreads the coat over as much of the outcrop as possible, pulling it taut betwixt him and the stone while crouching astride him. “We can use our clothes under us, too.”

He can feel her heat from inches away, radiating from the cleft beneath her dress. She rises upward and his hand is pulled free, as in a single motion the dress slips up over her belly, her breasts, her chin and the cascading mop of her tresses. She shakes loose her curls and rolls the torn material into a swag while his eyes try to catch sight of every inch of her in the gathering gloom. Then she places the bundle beneath his head; “And this thy pillow.” The tips of her nipples brush against his chest and her derriere dips for a tantalising instant, alighting astride his entrapped erection.

Then, stark naked in the gloaming, she flings her littler body upon his lankier one and grips his sides with all the uncanny strength in her slim elfin thighs. She squeezes against him, a livid heat wriggling and writhing round his hardness and pressing him into moss and stone. He thrusts upward between the splitting furnace of her labia and lightly caresses the length of her spine while she grinds down around his cotton-clad manhood.

His hands descend to cup the cheeks that so perfectly fill his grip. He pulls her closer, tighter, and the furry fringes of her outer lips rub against his index fingers while his shaft slides back and forth between taut fleshy labia.

Her smooth brow nestles into the pharaoh’s beard beneath his chin. He inhales sweet spicy scents of wild curly hair and flowing feminine juices. When she writhes against his hardness and moans into the mattress of his body, twinned pillows of milky flesh cushion the gorgeous teen’s inconsequential weight against his abdomen. She tilts her face upward and their lips reseal as she drags his shirt up between their bodies. Breaths mingle faster, deeper, wildly frenetic when he firmly grasps handfuls of firm round cheek and grinds her closer, wetter, hotter.

Seheal moans, flails his face with shaking tresses and rises onto knees and elbows. “This be our altar,” she says, “…and you’ll make a fine sacrifice this night…” The rising cloth pulls his hands from her flesh, pins his arms above his head inside the fabric as it covers his eyes. “…hoodwinked and bound…”

He smiles. “For glory?”

“To me!” Another distant peal of laughter rings through the woods as she leans over him to hold his wrists down. Her other hand snags the front of his trousers and when she pulls them down across his hips a cool smooth palm slides along his cloth-sheathed shaft. He raises his weight so the material slides more easily and she stops when his pants are twisted round his knees, binding his legs.

He feels that lithe little body shift atop him as lips start sucking his left nipple. She holds both wrists down above his covered head and clambers astride his immobilised frame. The sensation of sheer, soft, nubile feminine thighs sliding against his furry legs, the liquid caress of feminine tongue, the brush of hard nipples and a waft of hot breath against his bare skin in the cooling evening while she holds him at bay; all so excruciatingly arousing.

Chiming, chirruping choruses of frogs and crickets erupt all around them, drowning the sounds of nearby humankind. Those kissable lips lave a wet trail down his abdomen as those satiny thighs slip along his limbs. He lies unmoving yet thoroughly moved while she savours the chance to mercilessly tease him. Toes claw to push his pants further half-mast and her ticklish mane pours over his chest, his ribs, his belly. She tongues her way down toward the straining prize of his captive cock and pulls his bound wrists to the side of his throat, wrapping his face and neck more tightly. He dares not move lest he divert her intent and spoil the girl’s talented artistry.

A hot, humid wind bastes his crown. Her delectable mouth must be wide open, surrounding without quite touching his glans. Hot breath wafts around him, raising his staff to harder hardness, and then her tongue is a blazing brand that sears the tip of its pythonic head. When her lips finally touch his most sensitive skin he groans and jerks upward into soft silken lips that stretch tautly firm round the rigid girth. Her pubic bone grinds against his knee, just as hot and precisely as wet as the mouth that absorbs his challenging manhood. His legs start to tremble and she grips his knee tightly betwixt her thighs while slowly, tenderly, inch by inch, she swallows the length of him whole.

“Oh, beloved!” His moan is smothered by the shirt; hers by thick man-flesh she crams past her cheeks, her palate, and into her throat. The teenage pixie has been practicing, often, during the three moons they’ve shared in the forest. As he enters her throat she slows her advance, no longer sucking, and swallows him down her tight grasping gullet a tiny bit at a time while her other wetness blazes a trail down his shin.

He’s always surprised at how long she can go without taking a breath, nostrils flaring as her pale skin darkens. She’s learned to keep her teeth from his skin and can fit even more of his generous member through her lips than inside her tight little pussy (the petite redhead beauty is so perfectly feline no other word for her cunt ever enters his mind) – and her pussy is even more deliciously tight than the rings of muscle that squeeze him now.

Tonight, out her in the rainforest gorge, she suckles his cock in tantric stillness - not milking his hardness with hands and mouth as she usually does while he licks her sex into horny frenzy. Tonight she wants to have it all. When her nose touches his pubic hair her moan is a hum that goes right through his balls. He can tell she’s beginning to choke and gag, but she struggles to swallow even more.

Her lips stretch so tautly they grip like a vice. The sensation of her throat wrapped round most of his cock, working its meatiness with muscular spasms, is indescribable; almost unimaginable. He must be filling the entire slim length of the equine neck that stretches and strains to take everything he has to give. It’s all he can do not to thrust the last couple of inches through those tightly squeezing lips, glide right past her larynx and plunge all the way down behind his girl’s birdlike breastbone.

He knows that her every straining quiver is far more than a showoff teenage display of sexual athleticism; this incredible pleasure she so intently bestows upon him is a vivid, unforgettable declaration of the utter depths of her love.

Seheal quivers, barely moving, trying to hold back her reflex to swallow, to restrain the pressing need to gag. She pushes his knuckles beneath his chin while soft, firm breasts rub against his thighs. The air grows close inside his shirt and he starts to pant for air. Stars flash behind eyelids, infuse his bloodstream and sparkle through flesh while his long, thick cock pulsates inside his girlfriend’s gracefully narrow neck.

He can scarcely believe how long she lasts. His testicles tingle and swell round her chin while his crown throbs and strains deep inside her. The promise of an orgasm begins to stir in his roots and, despite the rising urge to explode inside her, he knows it would be even better to fill her belly from the other end, watching her eyes while he glides past her clitoris. He’s about to pull his hands free to draw the determined girl away when, finally, her throat convulses all around him and those wondrous lips stretch back along his length when she rapidly comes up for air.

Her gasping and panting is surprisingly loud in the sudden hush that fills the glade. Only the plashing of water is heard as he feels her thighs rise and she lifts his arms back above his head. His erection stands upright in a cool waft of air; the contrast is astonishing. A moment later another wet mouth caresses the lubricious crown of his freestanding cock, and another set of perfect pink lips begins to stretch around him – even hotter, wetter, tauter this time as her furry sex envelopes his hardness in softer, tighter, squirming young flesh. He feels a sigh start in the base of her belly and erupt from her mouth as a lowing groan.

She shifts her ankles over his legs and holds his knees down while taking him slowly, teasingly, merciless inch by gradual inch, ’til he knows she can take no more. She groans again when her cervix grinds down and her pussy convulses from lips to womb, grasping him with a wringing grip more intimate than any he’s hitherto known. She falls forward to lie on his belly and chest, pressing her nakedness down into his while her pussy gives him a mighty squeeze and it’s his turn to groan aloud.

She seems content to stay there, fully stretched and stretched out upon him, unmoving as she pins him down with hands and feet and breasts and sex. Her breath subsides and the frogs begin to call again, refilling the sudden silence. He’s more than happy to lay here forever beneath his perfect loving maid – spreadeagled upon her chosen stone altar while this unparalleled teenaged Goddess mounts the baton of her chosen mate.

And he knows – despite months of fervent practice – that she still can’t come unless she’s on top.

“Love,” he says inside the shirt.

“Mm,” she replies as she sucks on his nipple and practices squeezing his cock inside her. She begins to fuck him, suck him, without moving an inch – on the outside – and he practices lying unmoving inside her while she pleasures them both with her talented vulva, the circles of muscle deep inside her, the gripping ring of her straining pink lips. Time drifts away into patterns of colours in visceral shapes. All he knows, all he feels, all he wants is her, here, now. Forever.


Two years later he sits atop that self-same gorge, peering down into the very canopy that hid their nakedness from the stars. The sky now blazes down upon him in full azure daylight, yet their tryst that night amidst firefly magic is vivid still, seared deep inside his roving mind, imprinted into his body with flames that still burn so brightly they outshine the day.

His eyes prise fully open and his sight falls to tightly fitted tongue-in-groove floorboards arrayed beneath him, an incongruous sight in this remote wilderness. He sits cross-legged in the tiny shack that Nick Flash built for Gabe’s spirit - after Gabriel suddenly up and died in unheralded seizure. The memory of Gabe caroms through his mind, leaving a trail of glittering guilt. You warned him not to do it, his unseen companion reminds him. Aye, he silently replies, but I didn’t tell him he could die if he did…

He was well warned… he had no respect…

Did I?

Enough. You still live…

Do I – without Her?

All that’s passed is ever with us… she and thee are of this world still… lift thy sights and behold the world, this Life you do both share…

He does as he’s bid and breathtaking views of a rainforest gorge and rolling vistas of green-capped mountains fade into distance untouched and unsullied by ‘modern’ humans, man or woman. The sky goes on forever blue. In a few brief moments his spirits lift immeasurably – but he can still taste the scent of that wondrous female, feel the sheer thrilling texture of her alabaster skin, of red hair roiling between their bodies, those membranes and muscles wrapped tightly about him like no other woman’s, the perfect cushions of firm round breasts pressed flat by his chest while four slim limbs wrap tightly right round him, pulling him closer inside, all around, never wanting to let him go; the emerald eyes that burn through the world, that he feels are watching him, even now, as he sits on the edge of a long, sheer drop and returns to the gift of the present.

 More cabinet than cabin, the tiny structure is barely large enough to accommodate him. Perched on a boulder atop a cliff, it presents a perfect coign of vantage over the disputed terrain below. The watercourse is invisible in the far depths of the gully, entirely screened by deep green swathes of giant trees festooned with ferns and tinselled with vines as thick as his arms and thighs.

Older than the oldest mind incarnate here today…

Older than thine? He asks the unseen spirit.

Older than thy star, the Sun… Older than imagining… prime primordial Home…

His eyes lift higher until he’s blinded by the glaring ball that burns amid the blue. Gaia older than the Sun?

She outlives all Her mates this one… thus far… The unheard voice is sibilant, almost hissing through a distant haze of bright white noise.

Like you? he silently asks. There comes a pause that stretches longer while a single Wedge-tailed eagle soars above the gorge, below his perch, floating on an invisible current that soon lofts the raptor beyond his sight. Like that?

She is not the last of Her kind… And as he realises the entity is discussing two things at once – at least! – he also recognises depths of loneliness far deeper than his own; losses scarcely imagined.

He becomes aware of a distant racket that slowly grows louder, closer. By the time he unfolds his legs on the floorboards he smells the acrid odour of diesel fumes and clambers from the hidden sleeping platform just as the engine cuts out. He can almost hear the words of a conversation coming through the scrubby screen that separates him from the clearing above, yet the intent behind the heavily accented speech seems obviously malign. He silently steps into the bushes and cautiously approaches the raucous voices of two or three men.

“Let’s just pull the fuckin’ thing down.”

“Nah – not yet anyways. You sure no-one’s around?”

“No fuckin’ vehicles, no fuckin’ worries.”

“Yeah,” the third man pipes up, “But what about the fire?”

“What about it? It’s almost out by the looks of it.”

“Yeah, but somebody’s not long gone.”

“Leave it for now. We gotta get back.” He gains sight of three stolid men standing with arms crossed over their chests. All three are clad in chequered shirts and well-worn blue jeans, staring at the impressively large tepee that stands in a corner of the clearing. He’d only finished skinning the structure with tarpaulins a few hours earlier and it’s easy to tell the hollow cone is quite uninhabited. They turn away and walk toward an oversized ute parked across the track that leads into the clearing.

“So this’s Log Dump Two, eh?” a younger man says to the obvious eldest, whose hair is silvered grey. “This’s the one we’re usin’, right?”

“And number three,” the older man replies as he opens the driver’s door. “But this one first…” The rest of their conversation is drowned by the engine.

He kneels on the mulch, lurking amid bushes while he waits for the loggers to leave. Something crawls across his fingers and he glances down to see a huge red bull ant rocking from side to side on the back of his hand, waving its antennae in the general direction of his face. The mandibles are almost a quarter of an inch across and its body is almost two inches long. The black beads of its eyes are focused on his. He doesn’t move a muscle while the ute reverses out of the clearing and onto the small dirt road.

He doesn’t move for another half minute – not until the monstrous and utterly territorial ant has decided he’s part of the scenery, climbed off his hand and wandered a few feet away. Then he hastily stands and steps away, alert for the rest of the hive. By then the engine is almost inaudible, moving away on a nearby ridge.

A short while later another engine revs down the road, but this time it’s one he recognises. He emerges from his lair beneath the butt of a huge fallen tree and meets the vehicle as it arrives. “Yo, dude!” A bandana-bound head emerges from a window of the well maintained old station wagon. “Back with supplies – and another few bods!” Ginger Meggs climbs from the rear with a boxful of groceries while a dazed group of dreadlocked ferals emerges from every exit and mill around beneath the tall trees.

“Hey,” says a petite teenage girl with dusty platinum dreads and multiple rings through nose, lips, ears and brow, “I know you – you’re the guy who gave us the map – on that pamphlet.” The lightly freckled barefoot teen is vaguely dressed in a scantily attached beige leather vest – so loose it fails to conceal the rings that adorn the pale pink nipples on her roundly rolling breasts - and an equally brief and artistically ripped leather skirtlet.

“Aye,” he says with the start of a bow; one he forestalls at the last moment, and takes the box from Meggsie.

“So this is the blockade?” The girl’s voice is an upper crust singsong, with posh British enunciation that seems incongruous out here in the wild forests of the Great Southern Land.

“Forest action,” the Budd explains as he steps from the wagon behind her. “We’re not using the B-word – yet.”

“That’s Ramses,” Ginger Meggs tells her. “And these guys reckon they all want to stay.”

“Great! The tepee’s just finished and ready…”

“Cool!” The girl is joined by a similarly beringed and dreaded young man who wraps an arm round her bare slender waist. At least three strands of beads of various types hang round his neck and across his bare chest. His wrists are girdled with tooled leather bracings and his dreads are threaded with coloured beads. “And we have some friends coming in another car, too,” he says in a matching accent.

“You see?” says the Budd while he rolls a rollie. “I told ya, Meggsie – this is what happens if you just keep the home fire burning.” He nods toward the smoky campfire that still burns with a fitful flame. “It’s magic, I tell ya. Works like a charm every time.” The trio of newcomers approaches the fire and the tallest one bends to retrieve a branch that he carefully places atop the flame. The Budd smiles and places the ciggie between his lips. “Looks like the energy’s building.”

“Certainly is,” Ram agrees in a quiet tone. “The loggers were just here, a few minutes ago.” At this news both the Budd and Meggsie literally pause with matches burning an inch from their smokes. “But the good news is, we picked the right spot. This is where they’ll be coming in.”

The Budd ignites his cigarette. “How d’you know?”

“They said so.”

“Did they just rock up and say hello?” Meggsie asks.

“Not exactly. They were only here for a minute.”

“And they didn’t even see you, eh?” He offers a filter tip from his thoroughly crushed packet, but Ram shakes his head. “No thanks,” he says. “I never smoke them straight.” At that very moment the taller dreadlocked newcomer approaches with a paper bag that overflows with huge green flowers.

“That’s what I call timing…”


A True Story

- R.A.

Images – author’s

For More True Tales of a Wild Life See


For further enlightenment see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit -

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From The Prince of Centraxis -

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

Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -


And see

 The Her(m)etic Hermit -

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From The Prince of Centraxis -