Fire in the Belly
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 19
*
Before the rite commenced, Ratty had assured the group of advanced neophytes they would be experiencing an unusual form of ritual. The artistic initiate announced his evocation of Pan would be very different to the bog-standard version – nothing like the pomp and theatre of the prescribed ritual they’d already taken part in, derived from the works of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.
“When the ritual is complete,” he tells the group with a stern glare, “I want you all to do absolutely nothing. I want you to internalise the energy and concentrate it into the core of your navel chakra.”
A circle of intently focused eyeballs glances toward the man askance. The aspiring magi had all been informed that chakra work was best suited to initiates and adepts – and was definitely not the province of uninitiated neophytes, who were still growing the living crystal spheres of the Tree of Life within their auras. Until all the sephirothic spheres of the Tree were fully formed and could rechannel any misdirected energies from the far more potent inward power centres, unguided chakra work could easily be a dangerous folly.
Rain sheets down from the wide gable of the manse as the neophytes stand barefoot beneath the shadowy eave. They wait before the pillars of the temple, sheltered within their cloaks from the gusty winds that accompany the summer downpour. Ratty’s lips part into a cunning grin. “Be not afraid,” he announces in the confected accent of Vincent Price while he rubs his palms together. “The core of your being is the place where Pan truly dwells – not in the base chakra, or in your genitalia,” he announces through a narrowing smirk. “Pan puts a fire in your belly.”
“I thought Pan was earthier than that – like the base chakra, or the sphere of Malkuth,” the Wood man inquires as his fingers stroke his long blonde beard. Jomana’s head nods effusively within the purple cowl of her hooded robe. “More like the sex centre,” she disagrees. “Like Yesod, between the base and the navel …”
“Ahem,” the initiate harrumphs. “This is an illustration of what I don’t want you to do at the end of the ritual. You have to empty your minds of all contention and contagion and simply feel the impulse of the life force within you – internalising it into your hara – nowhere else!” He snares them within the net of his awareness with a fierce glare; “And this time we’ll commence with an anticlockwise flow.”
Ratty watches their objections and questions die aborning before his withering glare, swallowed back down before they can emerge from the neophyte’s throats. He sweeps his multicoloured robe up into the crook of an arm and nods toward the temple’s entrance, then stands aside to allow them to enter. “Remember,” he says. “Not a word, not a sound… not a single expository gesture!”
The neophytes enter the temple through the north-eastern gate and quietly greet the quarters – whose elemental energies are maintained by the corporeal batteries of four initiates, seated behind each of the carefully constructed and consecrated macrocosmic weapons – and form an interlinked inner circle. As they link hands in fellowship the flow begins to circulate more slowly than usual, eddying backward and forward in sluggish currents of mismatching intent. Then the wave of rotating energy pours through their auras, pushing against a subtle tide of resistance for a few uncertain moments before the wheel of their combining will begins to turn of its own accord. They begin to stand in an unuttering silence which they maintain through the entire ritual.
Rratz Bander eschews his usual idiom of artistically styled ritual performance, standing completely still and silent in the centre of the cyclone. He charges the egg-shaped mass of concentrating ether with the ringing group’s circulating energies, intensifying and compressing the magical field from the moderator’s centralised locus.
Unanswered questions accompany a series of images, phantasms of Ram’s ladylove that parade through the Centraxian mage’s mind. He struggles to focus beyond the surface ripples of egocentric concerns; his eyes slit open and he attempts to quiet his thoughts, concentrating on a point below and behind his navel.
Ratty’s eyeballs roll back inside their sockets and his mouth begins to emit a hum so low it’s virtually inaudible; the cloaked figure of Arne Stook faces the young Centraxian shaman from the other side of the circle, a purple pillar standing between the identically coloured robes of Jomana and Gladryn.
Ram’yana closes his eyes and Rratz Bander’s intonation slowly fills his awareness, thrumming though his spine with a surprisingly resonant note that thrills through his plasm. The initiate begins chanting in barely discernible ancient Hebrew, a scarcely audible evocation rising and falling through the hubbub of his continual drone; a secondary voice issuing from the selfsame voice box as his usual vocalisations.
The shaman prince refocuses his awareness on his navel chakra, and is somewhat surprised to find himself viewing the world from the level of his belly. His perspective hovers just above the surface of a stilled liquid space, suspended at the centre of a slightly bulging fluid meniscus. He floats upon a pool, hovering in a broad round bowl which can only be the material vessel of his bony hips.
Ram’s mind stops spinning and plops to a sudden halt.
Everything is different. The cosmos is transparent, yet simultaneously solid and eternal. The circle expands to the limits of the horizon, and Ram’yana floats above a vast pool of liquid dreams. He basks in the light of an amber sun that hovers directly over his crown, luxuriating in an expansive spaciousness of blissful peace.
After a timeless time he becomes aware of Ratty’s deep chanting voice, now joined in rhythmic counterpoint by the other four initiates who hold fast the four quarters of the universe. At some point his chant has morphed into ancient Greek, and the shaman feels the intensity of the magical field throb with each syllable as a glowing light begins to form beneath the pure transparent depths of his internal sea.
A fire throbs in his belly and rears up his spine like a cobra; his vertebrae straighten and his body lengthens as a scintillating presentiment of kundalini’s rise fills him with flaming energy – and then the real thing sears upward and expands through his being, flaring through him like an etheric orgasm. In another instant he’s blinded by a blast of white-hot brilliance and the combining voices of the initiates disappear in a sea of white noise; “Io Pan!”

The Centraxian High Priestess lies on her belly amidst a cloudy sea of puffy cushions while five pairs of hands massage cluttered memories and knotted tensions from her sleek young muscles. “Are you sure you don’t want us to use the needles?” The Lady Ringell asks. Racheal grunts a negative for the third time as she turns her head to face the initiate, and the slim packet of acupuncture needles disappears into a drawer of the apothecary’s pine cabinet.
The massage has worked its magic on the Lady Racheal, who can hardly move as the practiced fingers of various neophytes and initiates stroke and caress each of her naked limbs. A pair of confident hands presses down along either side of her spine and compresses the tightly clenched globes of her snow-white bottom before gliding up along her back and returning to knead her shoulders and neck.
Racheal had earlier availed herself of the manse’s copious hot water supply, allowing the near-boiling steam that jetted from silver fittings in the large bathroom to salve her tension and wash away all surface discomforts. She’d stood under the blasting flow for apparent ages while her beau was otherwise occupied in the temple, and when she’d emerged from the shower two of the newer neophytes had been awaiting with a huge fluffy towel. “Fifi says you need a massage,” one of the slightly older young women informed the teenage priestess while they wrapped the towelling around her dripping body. “After a healing flow,” the other longhaired brunette added. “I’m Lucy.”
“A loose woman,” her companion declared with a lopsided smile. “I’m Jane.” Her symmetrical features were slightly marred by a fine cratering of old acne scars that followed the curve of a strong jawline. “Weren’t you in the pre-initiate group?” Racheal nodded as she retrieved her clothing. “Then we’ll do a flow first, if you like. We can use the room across the hall.”
When they’d finally convinced her to lie down in a vacant attic bedroom of the sandstone manse, the priestess had been uncertain about removing her clothing and had kept the towel draped around her body as she relaxed on the unyielding futon mattress. She was unsure whether the various members of the Dawn of Ra – some of whom she’d never met before - held salacious designs on her lithe young body, and lay back on the white silk sheet with eyes wide open. The neophytes left her to relax alone while they explored the manse for massage oil.
As Racheal stared at an ornately beaded lampshade and appreciated the artisanship of its geometric design, she slowly came to recognise the familiar style that had gone into the work. One of her fellow Centraxians, the Lady Alion – who was also an initiate of the Dawn of Ra - had created the construction. She sat up on the bed to readjust the towel as a handful of the latest intake of barefoot neophytes entered the room.
Rachel lay down on her back while they assembled around her. Despite her trepidation, the hot shower had left the priestess in a pleasantly enervated daze and the moment her head hit the thin pillow she relaxed into a supine posture with a satisfied sigh. Rain thrummed against the slate roof above their heads. The white noise penetrated stone, timber and plaster with a ubiquitous hum that further calmed her fractious nerves.
After her recent challenging experiences Racheal had remained perpetually on guard, unwilling and unable to drop her defences for so much as a moment - except when lying in the arms of her beloved prince. After an ongoing series of unfortunate encounters with less trustworthy individuals and malevolent magical circles and covens, the Centraxian High Priestess had developed an ingrained distrust of the works and motives of magicians and witches who worked together en masse – often conducting rites for purposes of which they were completely unaware.
Half a dozen magi circled her recumbent body and Lucy lifted Racheal’s head in her hands to place her damp mop of blonde hair in her lap; a tingle of adrenaline rushed through Racheal’s bloodstream while she tried to determine the neophytes’ motives. Yet when they began to chant the syllable ‘
Now Racheal’s consciousness returns to her body as the neophytes’ hands slip from the ring which they form about her and begin gently caressing her limbs on the bed. An amber glow suffuses her being and she feels cozened and coddled as a baby swaddled up in a warm cosy bassinet. She bristles for a moment and her mind comes fully awake to the bodies around her as she divines the intent of the strangers who caress her semi-naked form.
A dozen palms and a squadron of soft fingers begin stroking the ley lines of her body’s meridians as she sinks into a golden torpor, blissfully enjoying their careful ministrations. The Lady Racheal decides to give herself up to the utter abandonment of tactile pleasure, surrendering to the cosmos as she sinks into a state of helplessly hopeful relaxation. She places her self in the strangers’ hands as they drag clots of tension from her unwinding muscles.
She finally comes to accept that all of her masseurs are trustworthy and dedicated students. Despite the brief period of training they’d so far undertaken as new members of the Magic Group, they’re obviously all well along the road to becoming sensitive and talented healers. They all scrupulously avoid taking liberties with the teenage witch, skirting her most sensitive and private parts while they anoint her flesh with appropriate scented oils and the healing balm of gentle strokes and touches.
After a while Racheal happily allows them to slowly peel the towel from her body and strip her bare. She lies on her belly while they commence coating her skin with fragrant rose oil admixed with tincture of myrrh. After an indeterminable time of surpassing bliss, six pairs of hands slip beneath her sides and ease the supine girl over onto her back. Racheal is entirely comfortable in their collectively sensitive grasp, unconcerned by her exposure to the innocent healing touches of the unknown neophytes as they begin to massage the front of her pale limbs and white belly, her bruise-mottled throat, symmetrical feline face and fulsome white breasts.
When her beloved returns from the temple - silently contemplating the extraordinarily compressed charge of energy that’s been implanted in their auras during the ritual - he searches the ground floor for his unpredictable paramour. He encounters the Lady Ringell in the hall, and Fifi L’Amoure directs him upstairs. When he mounts the treads to the top floor he stands in the doorway to watch the remaining five neophytes massage essential oils into the nude body of his beautiful young bride.
The egg-shaped ring of neophytes forms the points of a pentagonal star around the Lady Racheal. Racheal reclines with her head in Lucy’s lap while the slim brunette’s fingers follow the ridges of bone that surround her sealed eyes. The healers glance toward her young hippy lover, who returns their cherubically innocent smiles with a happy grin. The healers continue to immerse their combining awareness and energies into a rapturous channelling of healing chi, a living force that directs their hands to knead the neediest parts of the priestess’s body.
Racheal moans with utterly satiated pleasure while practiced palms and fingers stroke and tease knotted tensions outward to her extremities. They draw cloying strands of ectoplasmic adhesions from her aura and flick them away to subside into the slumbering soil of the
After the ritual’s formal closure, Ratty had become annoyed at the members of the pre-initiate circle. As they’d thrice farewelled the elemental quarters prior to leaving the temple through the south-westerly exit, Dai’s hips had begun to swivel and his long white hair shook free of his hood as he began a martial dance before the scarlet triangle which marked the fire quarter.
He’d caught Ram’s eye with a wink and the Centraxian shaman felt a quivering shiver pass through the bodies of all the neophytes assembled in the circle. Dai’s spine began to swirl and his hands rose from his sides as his body formed a series of magical stances. The frenetic lust for movement and expression burst from the vessels of almost all the advanced neophyte group and began spilling back into the energic battery of the temple. “Keep it inside!” Ratty had boomed, and they’d all concentrated on refocusing the unfinished Work of the Pan ritual into the cores of their navels with renewed concentration, their wilful silence reinstated amidst guilt-riddled glances.
The Lady Racheal bears the appearance of utter relaxation. Her eyes remain closed while multiple hands rove the living leys of her perfectly feminine form and the quiet low moans that issue from her slightly parted lips evince the placid depth of her enjoyment. Ram’yana spies T’Ruth approaching up the stair and at her silent signal he follows the initiated poet into the wood-lined upstairs hall. “Has she told ye anything?” the diminutive woman asks in something akin to a command. “Nay,” the prince replies. “I’ve had no time alone with her.”
“After all, she certainly is attractive,” T’Ruth declares in her wild Scots brogue. “I mean to say, the neophytes are drawn to her like iron to a magnet.” All through her small speech, the poetess examines the shaman prince’s reactions to her challenging observations. “But ’tis still very curious - the way she doesn’t seem to realise how beautiful she is, even after all this time...” Ram’yana is still thoroughly affected by the ritual and stares down at T’Ruth for a few recondite moments before his lips can form a reply, glaring through the aftermath of the rite’s potency. “Aye,” he finally agrees with monosyllabic ineloquence.
“Let’s have some hash down in the alchemy lab,” T’Ruth suggests. “Stardew managed to get some treated
“Suit yourself.” T’Ruth shrugs and nods toward the bedroom where Racheal endures her glorious massage. “It’s A-grade hash. And bring the High Priestess along; she hasn’t seen the lab yet.”
“Hash?” Jomana’s voice knifes through the hall. “Count me in!” She follows the initiate downstairs toward the cellar as Ram’yana dashes to the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of the healthy pink glow suffusing Racheal’s skin, glancing past the bodies that surround her as he beats Arne to the shower, and the door seals the prince into his personal cleansing rite.
Removing his cloak and twisting the taps in the steamy room, he belatedly recalls his clothing is still on the downstairs veranda. As hot water streams into his tightly sealed eyes, psychedelic rainbows and colourful rectangular Toltec reliefs parade across his inner eyelids and he surrenders to the pounding needles of the miniature waterfall. At least Rache seems to be recovering from whatever that bastard did to her, the shaman surmises. She’ll tell me when she’s ready…

When he emerges from the bathroom - fully refreshed by jets of hot and cold water and invigorated in the afterglow of the Pan ritual - the lights in hallway, stairs and chambers have all been switched off. The carved woodwork and sandstone features of the stolid manse glow with the amber flickering warmth of beeswax candles, as thick as Ram’s wrist and as tall as his thigh, standing on the polished floorboards and varnished parquetry in handmade clay fixtures and glazed ceramic bowls.
He steps through the cool draught of the hallway with purple cloak slung over one arm and a rainbow towel wrapped round his hips, blinking away droplets of water that continue to drip onto his lashes and cascade down his long dark hair. Sounds of merriment and live music resound around the expansive house, emanating from the ground floor. Across the hall, the door to the chamber where Racheal is being massaged hangs three-quarters closed. The entryway stands between a large pair of framed oil paintings, unsigned portraits of members of the Group created by its founder and leading light.
The famous local magician has illustrated images of goddesses in milieus appropriate to their pantheons and attributes, using various female initiates of the magic group as models for the nude divinities – models proud to be renowned as intimates, muses and bedmates of the tantrically adept founder of the Dawn of Ra.
To the left of the door the goddess Aphrodite stands amidst foaming waves on a rock-lined strand of sand, carrying a huge scalloped conch in an open palm. Blue-skinned and composed with a bearing graceful as a blithe Hindu deity, the goddess laughs beneath a glowing starfield as she beckons to the full silvery moon in a bright purple sky, the lunar ball floating just above her other hand.
To the right of the doorway another of the absent magus’ lovers smiles in effigy; a green eyed and green skinned nude Venus erupting into glee, framed by curving masculine boughs, huge glossy leaves shaped like viridian hearts and lotus-like flowers which blossom all round and within the nubile goddess’s erotically charged form.
Ram’yana settles within the luxuriant glow of his refreshed awareness. He hadn’t truly looked at the paintings earlier in the evening, and was certain they hadn’t flanked the door to the spare bedroom during previous weeks. As he pushes the door all the way open he’s surrounded by scents of rose and myrrh, mingling with a cloud of amber incense that issues from a stacked clutch of smouldering joss sticks. When his eyes manage to focus through the candlelit mist the towel slithers from his waist and falls to the floor.
He hovers between the twinned goddesses, pausing within the ornately carved doorframe like a third life-sized painting in a triptych of nudes while his eyes focus on his equally unclothed lover; a blonde white goddess reclining on titian silk in the dim upstairs chamber. All but one of the newer neophyte masseurs has departed, leaving Racheal alone with an aspiring magician that Ram’yana vaguely recognises from combined Group rituals.
The bearded hippy lies on the bed, snuggling against the Lady Racheal’s left side, entwined around the naked pinkish form of Ram’s supine lover. Her face nuzzles into the dark frizz of the near-stranger’s afro haircut and her arm drapes across the older man’s chest and shoulder while his mouth suckles at her throat; his hand slowly palpates her right breast. Daniel’s eyelids roll open and he smiles through his woolly black beard in Ram’s general direction while his fingers twirl around Racheal’s rigid nipple. Attractive… the Lady T’Ruth’s summation echoes in Ram’s mind.
The man is clothed in a translucent cotton shirt and wraparound pants that betray his arousal, a flagrantly hard mound pressed against Racheal’s naked flank. Daniel’s lips glide along her shoulder as Ram’yana bends to retrieve the rainbow towel and covers his own water-warmed and anticipatory teenaged tumescence. Racheal hardly responds to kiss or caress, pressing her face more deeply into the older man’s hair, turning her hips toward him as the cool draught from the door reaches her naked legs.
Daniel’s eyes are a crinkling study in appealing appeasement as he stares at the young prince and gently manhandles and kisses his bride’s nude body. He continues his determined succour, barely restraining the heated rush of his obvious lust while her boyfriend looks on.
Ram’yana finds viewing the tableau surprisingly easy; the merest pang of jealousy is easily squelched. He kneels at the foot of the low bed, keeping his eyes fixed on Daniel’s while Racheal sighs into his scraggly beard. The young mage neither consents nor demurs to the older man’s fondling and furry mouthings; She’s pretty well awake and doesn’t seem to mind, he tells himself while he observes his lover’s barely discernible reactions to the other man’s cuddles and canoodling.
The fragrant odours are almost overpowering as wafting spirals of smoke and invisibly coiling aromas of scented oils writhe around the chamber. Ram’yana observes the jagged claw of incipient jealousy that tears at his innards while Daniel stares into his soul and awaits a gesture of assent or disapproval from the younger pre-initiate. It’s up to her, the prince decides. When she crooks her right leg over the other man’s thigh, Ram leans forward and ensures his naked kneecap makes contact with the rough sole of Racheal’s bare foot.
Racheal’s eyes flash open and twin candlelit reflections shine through the hairy thatch of Daniel’s head. Her nose emerges from his afro like a slim periscope, preceding the rest of her face as she slowly surfaces through his fuzzy underbrush and through the funk of her own lazy languor. “Ramses…” the witch-girl breathes as she hovers in Daniel’s grasp and assays her lover’s reaction. Ram’yana witnesses the scene with a total lack of expression, betraying no obvious sign or signal. Nonetheless, as Racheal’s foot rubs up along his thigh the Centraxian shaman wills his inconstant bride to reject his latest rival.
“Ram’yana…” Her hand rises from Daniel’s chest and she reaches for her lover with a languid arm, twisting away from the older man as her palm meets Ram’s chest. Her young man’s arms reach out to her and she pulls herself upward into his embrace. He watches Daniel shake himself awake through golden strands, and calms his ruffled would-be rival or lovemaking partner with soothing smile and an understanding tone.
“She feels much better now,” he says as his hands caress Racheal’s shoulder blades and spine. “Thanks,” Ram replies. The priestess silences any further condescending comments with a mouthful of slippery wet tongue. He sinks onto the bed and Racheal draws him into the succour of her hips as she wraps her legs around him.
The prince is only dimly aware when the other man takes his leave; the lovers are busily twining amidst the wreathing clouds of smoke. A gust of wind almost extinguishes the sole candle when the door swings widely open in the wake of Daniel’s departure. Racheal subsides against Ram’s chest and he asks her; “How was the flow?”
“Really fucking fantastic… truly surprising from mere untrained magi.” She smiles into his eyes. “But the massage was even better…”
“So eye saw.”
“And Daniel’s nice…”
“So ’t’would seem.”
“Don’t be like that. They all warmed me up for thee, after all…” She nips his nipple between shiny white teeth while soft fingers tickle his ribcage and flank. “You can finish me off. Come ’ere,” she orders, slowly falling back onto the bed without releasing his nipple and pulling him down atop her. Four hands simultaneously reach for flanks and buttocks, pulling their loins closer together as utterly attuned and familiar young bodies automatically strive for the renewed ecstasy of sexual union.
Ram’yana winds up halfway beneath Racheal while they kiss on the silken sheet, his right leg squeezing up between the soft surfaces and firm sluices of her scissoring thighs. Chest and breasts roll together as tongues plunge and thrust in time with the press of their undulating bodies. Another gust of wind pours in through the door and out through the window and the candle struggles to survive for a few glowing moments before it gives up the ghost to the wet wind’s inconstant billowing.
As hips rock and roll and Racheal’s right leg rises to provide better access for her man, the towel bunches up to become an insuperable chastity belt between the slowly thrusting loins of the inseparable lovers. Ram rips the towel from his waist and draws it from their declivities while Racheal smothers his throat and chest with kisses. When he registers the obvious fact that his gasping lover requires no further foreplay, the rugged force of his manly lust thrusts aside his decorous sensibilities and he pins her leg right up between his chest and her shoulder, fondling her tightly swollen globes and rigid nipples as he moves into position for a rapid entry.
Despite his intermittent success with meditation, the young shaman’s thoughts are never still for long. Rapid, he muses, as in rapine or rape… He slows his advance and Racheal moans as he pauses with the first few inches of his ramrod already squeezed up between her hairless trimmed outer lips. The girl squirms around the locus of her sudden impalement and moans from the depths of her core, vibrating Ram’s cock inside her tight belly. He begins to pull all the way out of her tightly sucking vulva and stops, pushing halfway back inside over and again, while tickling the witch-girl’s fancy with experienced fingertips.
Racheal groans into the windswept night while rain beats at the roof of the old sandstone mansion. She hooks her elbow beneath one knee to open herself wider for Ram’s advance, raising her foot up through her wavy mane while twisting toward her lover. She squeezes his right thigh betwixt hers, jamming his stout smooth length almost completely up inside her needily grasping belly. “Pan,” she breathes. “Io Pan…” A grand force begins to swell in the pit of Ram’s loins, firing his blood with a pulsating strength as the priestess’s sibilant whisper drains into the night.
Racheal’s fingers slide down her belly and she falls halfway onto her back while she cocks her left leg outward and up. She squeezes her cleft around her man’s lengthy thickness, rocking her hips to press her clitoris toward his pubic bone, responding to his slick reaming thrusts with reciprocal lust and moaning with uninhibited cries of intensifying pleasure. She kisses her right ankle, nipping her white skin and bringing herself toward an amazingly swift climax while Ram’yana fondles his beloved’s breasts, reaming his wonderfully responsive bride with an accelerating flurry of ever deepening plunges.
“My Pan…” He kisses the girl’s raggedly gasping mouth and sucks her sweet tongue between his lips while the pounding beat of jamming drums thrums through the bed from the lower floor, vibrating Ram’s flesh inside the vesicle of Racheal’s tautly stretching vulva.
He pins her down and stretches her out, fucking his uncommonly submissive witch-wife ’til she screams and screams again, strident cries ripping from her wide opened throat to tear through the rainy night of the slumberous
Some little time later, they lie on the sweat-slaked silk sheet gasping for breath in the velvet darkness. The candles in bedchamber and hall have all been extinguished, blown out by the wandering winds while the lovers were lost in the throes of passion. They grapple in a sweaty, juicy tangle in near-total darkness while the sounds of partying filter up from the main hall of the house. Racheal’s right leg is still pinned beneath Ram’s chest while the smooth moonlet of her cheek presses against his furry groin. His shaft throbs inside her belly, jammed all the way up inside her.
When the fingers of Racheal’s left hand cup Ram’s fuzzy sack and she pulls him right up against her inner labia he raises one leg, sliding his thigh up against hers with delicious delicacy. He spreads his leg wider, opening her up and simultaneously providing her with better access as she absently fondles the unique smaller testicle that nestles between the outer eggs of her man’s scrotum; to her knowledge, the experienced teen has never yet met another man with three testicles. She oft finds herself surprised that the fact of Ram’s mutant sexuality and his extra testicle aren’t more widely known, given his endless proclivity for making love with a plethora of different lovers.
Racheal jumps with a start, squirming beneath him when a pair of soft lips begins to glide up her left ankle. Her own lips suck at Ram’s when the soft alien mouth slides along her shin and pauses for a moment while a soft tongue laps at her kneecap. The recumbent witch says nary a word, nor does she pull away when the tongue glides upward along her inner thigh and a soft cool breast dangles down and mashes along her leg, sliding upward along the sodden warm trail of saliva.
Yet Racheal cannot stifle a sigh when the tongue skirts around her lover’s scrotum and dives into the juncture of their interlocked loins. Her man’s cock jams even more deeply inside her when a pair of soft feminine lips slip around his right testicle and a talented tongue begins to twiddle against Racheal’s swollen clitoris. They groan into each other’s mouths when a strange woman’s soft little hands begin caressing their naked bodies.
She opens her eyes, trying to focus through mingling long hair and smoky darkness to see who it is; “Oh,” she gasps. “You!”
A true story
Continues…
- R.A.
Images – author’s
See
Further True Tales from the Prince of Centraxis -
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
Nesting Urge – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 2
See White Bird Must Fly – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 3
Which Craft – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 4
Black Dog – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 5
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14 Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16
Rogue Phantoms - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 17
Dreaming Entities - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 18
And see -
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