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Friday, 31 January 2014
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 29
A flock of chittering sparrows wheels into a landing pattern above the shaman’s head. They swiftly assemble into serried ranks on the taut black wires strung through tunnels cut into the glossy foliage of native fig trees. The chattering sentinels groom tiny feathers as they alight in waning orange sunshine.
His bare soles sink into a cool living mat of lush green grass on the ‘nature strip’ set betwixt blacktop road and concrete footpath. In less than two minutes he’s climbed the hill to a place where sunlight falls directly upon him. He stares into the hearth of the blazing Sun as it sinks into a glorious, chemically induced miasma of vivid reds and magentas, viscid greens and turquoises, of pale vapid blues and fading lavender; a rancid pallet tinting nature’s sky with the innumerable industrial poisons vented aloft by the denizens of the Emerald City.
And there, in a small cul-de-sac beyond the noisy bustle, beat and bleat of traffic, wheeled and afoot, he feels and watches a golden net spread from his solar plexus to join the Sun, and flow outward and onward into the living network of his fellow Centraxians. Fine amber tendrils spread to meet the intermeshed net of the tribe and he instantly knows who’s making contact at this perpetually preordained time. Most of us are here this eve, the young shaman notes with a crooked smile while visions of friends and allies slip though his mind as rapidly as a riffling deck of colourful Tarot cards.
He sends warmth and love through the web of connexions and feels waves of responsive wills and responding emotions return through the flowering vine of interlinked lives. Awa Ken… All is well… His Lady Racheal’s unmistakeable eyes emerge though the web, a triangular trio of spinning blue orbs that transfix his attention while her words echo through his thoughts; ‘Thine wish is my command.’ He senses she’s not far away, facing the sunset from a nearby stone cliff top – a rarely private site they’re both intimately familiar with in the tightly clustered suburban sprawl – and he begins to turn and face that direction.
Then the rest of her recent utterances return to plague his contentment and shake the golden webbing from his mind. The grumbling rumble of a propeller driven airliner shakes the world as a sleek silvery craft slides surprisingly close overhead, glittering with gold and orange highlights from a westering Sun which has already slipped behind chimney-topped rooves, silhouette treetops and the all-pervasive ugly net of far flung electric cables.
His bare feet carry him away without thought or decision and after a couple of blocks he realises he’s already made an appointment at a house in this very direction. Squidly…
The scent of honeysuckle fills his nostrils when he passes a hedge festooned with slim ripe flowers, yellow and white, dripping with nectar and irresistibly sweet. He gives silent thanks to the tangled vine and tastebuds ignite when he sucks the juices from a quickly swiped handful.
Twilight transforms the mundane suburban world into a magical and mysterious realm. His destination is so close he still has a few flowers left when he climbs the dozen steps that lead above a ground floor garage. He rings the bell set into a glass panelled door whose panes are so warped and convoluted they effectively conceal the shadowy interior.
A figure emerges within the gloom. Distorted shapes and swimming colours shift and grow with their approach.
When the hall light flashes on and the door swings open, Squid’s open-fronted Hawaiian shirt is dazzling, even brighter than his ivory smile. “Ram’yana! You’re early, dude – and really just in time!” His handsome face and sunbrowned surfer’s limbs radiate health, grace and good cheer. “We’re, uh, just hangin’ downstairs.” He turns and leads the way through the passageway to a flight of steps that plunges into a dimly lit sanctum.
They descend through a low lying layer of sandalwood and hashish-flavoured cirrus cloud. The smoke obscures Squid’s other guests, who lounge in a subterranean den that booms and screams with the psychedelic confections of King Crimson. “We’re just getting into the tequila,” Squid announces, and asks; “Do you want the worm?” A female voice titters and Ram’yana manages to make out a shapely form snuggled into another’s arms on an oversized bean bag. He idly notes that only a quarter of the quart bottle remains.
“Vegetarian,” he explains with a shake of his head.
“But at least you can smoke again now that you’re a pre-initiate, can’t you! I saved you some treated hash. It’s the bee’s knees!” He nods toward the pillar of smoke rising from a huge glitzy hubble-bubble. “That stuff’s untreated – you’ve been warned.
“You know the Doc,” he says as they reach the floor, “and this is, uh…”
“Princess,” the Doctor supplies in a slurring drawl. “My princess. That’s all y’need to know.” Doc winks through a gleaming grin. The dusky-skinned girl perched in his lap shines huge brown eyes upon the long haired shaman. Her wrists, throat and fingers drip with what appears to be fine gold chains and jewellery set with precious stones.
“Princess,” Squid says, “It’s my pleasure to introduce Ramayana, the Prince of Centraxis.” A deep brown, slightly bloodshot gaze scans his body, assessing him from green eyes to bare feet, pausing to scrutinise the meaningless squiggles embroidered on his ornate vest before returning to grace his face with a slight frown. “Really?” she asks with giggling eyes. “And where is that?” Her accent is obvious, yet indefinable.
“Everywhere and nowhere, from what I hear,” says Doc.
“The central axis of all probable possibilities…” Ram’yana explains while Squid pours him a tumbler and refills three others on a tiled coffee table. “…and I am also known as the Lord’s Deathwatch, the Balancer of Scales…”
“And the High Priest of Centraxis,” Squidly adds. The girl is an extraordinary beauty, if slightly curvaceous for Ram’s usual taste. Doc’s hand caresses a naked brown thigh exposed by a slit in her long split skirt, embroidered with detailed peacock patterns. Her presence fills the room with something more than simple sexual tension. Her gaze is perfectly riveting. “Excuse me,” she says, “my English is not so good.”
“Just as well we’re not in England then,” Doc observes with a laugh, and hooks her silk-clad torso with a proprietorial arm. Ram’yana kneels on the padded wooden seat of an ergonomic chair-like contraption and smiles down at the cuddling couple. Their host hands him an oily looking drink and makes a toast; “To freedom,” he proposes, smiling down at the girl. “Remember the salt first!” She raises the back of her hand from the table and licks a pinch of sea salt from her skin – her lips are painted a dusky purple - then lifts her glass and clinks it against three identical tumblers.
“Freedom,” she agrees with a slightly crooked smile. They all down their shots simultaneously and reach for remnant slices of lemon on a platter in the centre of the table.
Her hair is so long it brushes the floor when she leans forward. Before the rind has left the girl’s lips Doc pushes her upward, slips from beneath her and helps her climb from the depths of the bean bag. When she reaches her feet she totters into his waiting arms. “I think it’s time we saw my etchings,” he says to the obviously puzzled girl. “Excuse us, guys – we need to go upstairs for a while.”
“Mmm,” the princess agrees with a widening smile. “We do.”
“My house is yours,” Squid tells her. She leans into Doc’s embrace, teetering on a narrow pair of high heeled gold-strapped sandals. “My thanks,” she says with a slight bow that almost overbalances her. Ram’yana puzzles at her accent; Not Indian… mayhap Arabic? He rises to his feet and silently returns her bow while their eyes lock together for the briefest electrifying moment.
“We’ll see you later, buddy.” Squid presses a small brown chunk into Doc’s palm and the long haired technician pockets it as he helps the obviously sozzled girl towards the stairs. When they’re out of earshot Squid fills him in.
“She really is a princess,” he confides. “From the Middle East. One of those Gulf States Apparently she escaped from her minders and bumped into Doc – the lucky dog – up at the Bondi Lifesaver.” Mention of the rock ’n’ roll venue sends Ram’s mind spinning back to his infancy. The (in)famous little nightclub inhabits a converted house near the heart of the Junction. Outside the building, jutting through holes built around its limbs in a screening brick wall, stands a huge old tree that he knows quite intimately. His grandmother wheeled his pram beneath its shade almost every day until he was a year old, and the fragrance of its huge yellow Magnolia magnificens blossoms still haunts his dreams.
Random Access Memory is often a blessing, but now serves to occlude the import of Squidly’s words for a moment. Princess?
“So where’s Racheal – thought she was coming, too. Saved you both some treated hash, bud.” He turns to open a draw and removes a small wooden box. Here – try some of this Temple Ball. It’s treated for Tiphareth, but you can smoke it tonight, no worries.”
“Thanks!” He puts the golf ball-sized sphere to his nose and inhales. “Mmm! Smells just like the Himalaya! Racheal?” A slightly pained expression flits across his face. “She couldn’t make it…” Uninitiated members of the Dawn of Ra’s circle of magicians are only permitted to smoke alchemically treated hashish, produced by an Initiate like Squidly. Until their initiation they aren’t allowed wild marijuana or untreated hash. Neophytes are prohibited from smoking or taking other mind altering substances for the first year of their tutelage. Partaking of spirits is only allowed during the last few months before initiation as well – and Ram’s formal initiation into The Group is rapidly approaching.
Squid hands him a small wooden pipe. “I know you don’t smoke tobacco, so I won’t offer you the hubble-bubble.”
“Toil and trouble.”
“No trouble for the princess, that’s for sure - she just couldn’t stop! Lucky the Doc has plenty to share, too.” When Ram’yana consecrates the pipe with the essences of his upper chakras using a Tibetan method taught by The Group, Squidly carefully ignites it with a red headed match. Sulphur and phosphorous mingle with Tibetan hashish smuggled via Nepal and India. “Never use gas lighters with a pipe,” the initiate tells him. “Bad enough when you’re smoking a joint, but with pipes and bongs you really suck it down. That stuff’s totally poisonous. Baron von Bic should’ve stuck to biros.”
The smoke is remarkably smooth and fragrant. Before the resinous vapour has even reached Ram’s lungs, images of snow-capped mountains flit through his mind; visions of landscapes populated with tiny thatched villages and tile-rooved stone structures hunkering beneath overhanging cliffs fill his perceptions. Would this be happening if he hadn’t told me it was Temple Ball?
Wafts of smoke twist into tendrils, identical to those surrounding the Buddha in a woodcut yantra on the wall of the apartment. They curl around Squid’s beatifically smiling face and warp into purple serpents that writhe around the room, weaving in and out of reality. “Great hash,” Squidly says. He leaves the locus of Ram’s concentration and removes the pipe from the teenage mage’s immobilised fingers. The serpents transform into blue-scaled dragons that turn to face the Centraxian shaman as a veiled form rises from depths beyond and between their toothy smiles. The veil falls away, revealing the faintly smiling bluish features of an oriental goddess who raises her hands into a prayerful position before her shapeshifting face.
“It’s the genuine article all right. And Alion treated it to Kuan Yin before she passed it back to me,” the initiate tells him from somewhere in the distance. “So it’s a righteously peaceful stone.” Ram’yana falls into the bindu that glows on the brow of the female form of the Buddha. He’s enveloped in warmth and light as his body sloughs from his mind like a discarded snakeskin and sinks into the beanbag.
The princess’s scent is unmistakeable, a breath of lavender tinted with myrrh that wafts from the leather upholstery. Huge brown eyes fill his mind like the bodhisattva Kuan Yin’s and sounds of revelry begin to penetrate his reverie – gentle cries at first, arising from far away, rapidly growing louder and more impassioned. Squid passes him another pipefull. “The Doc sure doesn’t waste any time. Pity Racheal couldn’t make it. That gal of yours really knows how to party hearty…”
Pounding sounds and unmistakeable high pitched cries of passion rain down through the floor. Squid leaps to his feet and strides to the high fidelity music system that holds pride of place against one of the gaily painted brick walls. Swirling vines and large limpid leaves surround his head like shifting laurel wreathes. Removing the King Crimson l.p. from the turntable, he carefully slips it into a translucent sleeve before returning the album to its cardboard cover. “Any requests?”
“Do you have Inna Gadda Davida?”
“Sure do – it’s kind of like Bolero, in some ways” Squid says with a glance toward the sounds emanating from the ceiling. His hand unerringly flies to the place where the Iron Butterfly album resides on a bookshelf crammed with dozens of others. Soon the unmistakeable, album-long track begins, to the accompaniment of regular moans from upstairs. “Not Led Zeppelin?”
“Mayhap next,” Ram’yana demurs, “Mars before Saturn.”
“Speaking of which, isn’t there a Geburah ritual this Tuesday?”
“Aye – Fifi was going to moderate, but now Jai’s going to.” They discuss details of Ram’s upcoming initiation and the Group’s impending Tiphareth festival, speaking through layers of vaporous clouds and screens of transient visions while sounds of lovemaking puncture and punctuate the music. “Looks like it’ll be in the mountains again this autumn,” Squid confides after a time, while scenes of previous skyclad rites waft through Ram’s mind. “We’re having trouble with the place at the beach – it’s being given to National Parks and they reckon they’ll be tearing the buildings down. So it looks like an equinox at Bathurst. That’s cool, but the beach is better for the babes – a lot warmer, and when it’s warmer they’re always hotter…”
He strikes another match and tokes deeply while the younger shaman relives eventful experiences at previous magical equinox weekends held at both remote rural locations. “Aye,” he murmurs, “but they like to be warmed up in the snow at Bathurst.”
“Yeah, but the snow’s bad for my gamelan,” the percussionist points out. “You feel like a jam?” His eyes follow Ram’s to the ceiling when the amatory sounds emanating from above cease as suddenly as they’d begun. “That was quick.”
Ram’s mind transports him to an experience graven deeply in his soul; an equinox gathering of the Dawn of Ra two equinoxes earlier…
After months of persuasion he’d managed to convince his Lady Racheal to begin working with The Group again. The recently initiated High Priestess to the tribe of Centraxians had come to see membership in The Group as an unnecessary accessory to her role, but her fascination with magic had swayed her decision. The spring equinox arrived on schedule and the magicians of the Dawn of Ra arranged rendezvous in a forest on the beach, at a beautiful, isolate property owned by the family of one of the younger female Initiates.
Encumbered by heavy backpacks, a tent and sleeping gear the young hippy lovers hitchhiked down the East Coast to the regular biannual festival. They left a day early and were picked up by a family of curious American sightseers soon after hoofing their way to the highway from the last suburban train stop. The young children in the back of the station wagon were curious enough to keep the lovers occupied with questions for the entire trip, and the made it all the way to the turnoff in a single uneventful lift.
There’d seemed so much he wanted to say and ask his paramour, but now that they were alone on the road the sight of his Lady Racheal – standing proud and free, her windblown mane pouring around her face like living flame as she gazed toward the mountainous horizon - stilled any remaining questions. Her smile was dazzling and their kiss was long and luxuriant, a glorious spectacle of young love witnessed by a speeding string of passers-by.
With only a couple of hours of daylight remaining they hefted their bags and began strolling barefoot alongside the sun-heated bitumen road. Their seaward trek led them through a wooded forest of recovering gum trees and primeval burrawongs – squat, incredibly slow growing palm-like plants that had long outlived the dinosaurs. Alert to the dangers inherent in hitchhiking in this part of the country (he’d almost been kidnapped by drunken rednecks and driven off into a remote forest on an earlier trip through the region– see Shaman of Centraxis Part 6 ) Ram’s shoulders tensed beneath the leather backpack straps as a vehicle pulled up behind them.
“Going our way?” They stopped and turned when the familiar voice of the Lady Ringell, Fifi L’Amoure sang out over the sound of a rumbling engine. She waved from the passenger seat of an old bulgy British sedan whose steering wheel was loosely gripped by the beaming Princess Stardew.
To be picked up by fellow Centraxians was an unexpected benison, but as Racheal and Ram’yana glanced into each other’s eyes the event assumed a certain inevitability. Racheal smiled and said, “What kept thee?” and they cleared enough camping gear out of the way to climb into the broad back seat with their oversized packs. “Excellent timing,” Stardew remarked as she slipped the car into gear. “I trust thou art both ready to party!” Fifi reached across to steady the wheel when Stardew released it to ignite a huge spliff. “Treated to Chesed,” she said through the smoke. “Just for today.”
The hash smelled wonderful but Ram’yana demurred. “Still fasting,” he said with a shake of his head, catching the driver’s eye in the mirror.
“How steadfast of thee,” said Fifi. “Our fast begins at sunset.”
“So we’d better tank up as fast as we can!”
Racheal’s eyes narrowed and her hand squeezed Ram’s fingers on her lap. “Different rules for initiates, then?”
“Hardly,” Stardew’s prim and proper voice shot back as she passed the joint to Fifi. “We’re simply observing the minimum fast this equinox– twenty-four hours. What, dost thou mean to say our Hierophant and High Priestess are going the full three days? How commendable.”
“A week, actually.” Racheal beamed. “We’ve taken nothing but water today.”
“We worked our way down to it; honey and water these last two days, juices before that.” Fifi exhaled a stream out the window. “Then thine eyes must surely be set upon the wedding feast! Mayhap thou shouldst be wed as Pan and Diana come Saturnday– just think, thou couldst be wedded as the Gods!”
Racheal squeezes Ram’s hand afresh. “We’ve already wed, as thou well knowest, at Bathurst this equinox last.”
“Aye,” averred Stardew, “and there’s also your Centraxian wedding – but now thou may be wedded again. Why ever not? Surely thou wouldst renew thy troth?”
“We’ll have to think on it,” Ram’yana replied. When he felt her body tense he interrupted Racheal’s impending response with a fulsome kiss on her ripe pink lips. After they broke their extended clinch Racheal demonstrated another way of changing the subject; she leant forward between her Centraxian sisters and asked, “Will the Magus be there?”
The Lady Ringell turned to smile directly into her eyes. “So I hear.”
““Why? Wouldst wed him instead?” Stardew tittered at Racheal’s frown in the mirror. “I’m sure he’d measure up… from what I’ve heard…”
“I’ve heard that thou hast more than just heard,” muttered Racheal. The driver ignored the jibe and took the spliff back from Fifi. “It’s going to be the best Tiphareth Festival,” she announced as the twisting road revealed a glimpse of wide blue ocean in a gap between the forested hills. “This is my favourite spot for it, really. Bathurst is just too dry and cold!”
“ ’Tis so much nicer to be skyclad at the beach,” Fifi agreed. “Particularly this beach.” She fingered the large silver talisman dangling from Racheal’s throat. “So thou hast decided to join the Group after all, milady?”
Racheal’s response was characteristically noncommittal; “So it would seem.”
“ ’Tisnot too late to remain in Ram’s neophyte group,” Stardew assured her. “Ye haven’t missed out on too much yet.” Racheal leaned back into Ram’s arms. “We’ve been doing The Work together,” she said.
“That’s fine for some things, but now ye will be able to do the group circle work, too – it’s absolutely essential,” Fifi told her. “Oh, look! Kangaroos!” Three tall grey marsupials stood beside the road just ahead, tall ears twitching at their approach. “Mayhap they want a lift, too!”
“The spirits are watching,” Stardew opined. “I suppose thy preparations include a complete fast then?” Her eyes twinkled in the mirror as the ’roos hopped away. “Including a sex fast?”
“So far, at least,” Racheal assured her, leaning more closely into the embrace of her young shaman. “For the past two days…”
“And nights,” Ram supplied. Racheal kissed his cheek. “An eternity.”
When they turned off the road and passed through a mile of widely spaced trees another group of a dozen kangaroos of various sizes and ages kept pace with their vehicle for hundreds of yards. The bulky vehicle trundled across a rough and ready cattlegrid and pulled up on a sandy sward amidst a diverse group of parked vehicles. Two score magi had arrived ahead of them and the festivities were already beginning.
“Time to make hay while the Sun shines. Let’s meet in one of the circles for sunset,” suggested the Lady Ringell. “We can link up with Lord Kha-Aan and the others from there. It should amplify the melding nicely!”
The Centraxians emerged to survey the lay of the land and visit their hosts. The hirsute pair – he a bearded muscular engineer, she a lanky sociologist – occupied part of a two room brick bungalow that stood in a small clearing only a stone’s throw from the sea. The rest of the building swarmed with visitors. Every available nook was already occupied by air mattresses and sleeping gear, so Racheal and Ram’yana busied themselves erecting their small tent in a relatively secluded spot with a view of the ocean, sheltered among screening wattle bushes and scrubby trees.
“A pity we can’t make use of it now,” Racheal remarked with a sly grin as she completed her finishing touches to their boudoir. “Soon,” he said, pulling her close for another kiss. “Only two more sleeps…”
“Then thou hast not yet met the Magus?” Cardinal Fang’s query dripped with sardonic ridicule. Kerri’s pale blue eyes went wide with delight at mention of the renowned adept and both neophytes climbed up onto their elbows to address his question. The quartet of teenaged Centraxians were lounging on beach towels where the soft white sand of the isolated beach met a coarser kind, a deep grey volcanic powder verging on deepest black.
“Met?” Racheal’ s slightly bloodshot orbs stared at the place where sea meets sky from the place where white met black. “Not personally, but I could see and hear him plain enough. Like thee, we were up partying all night…”
“Hardly partying.” Fang’s tone was withering. “What use a party during a fast?” Racheal’s reply continued as she steadfastly ignored him; “…playing music and singing…”
“And discussing Kabbalah with Kimba and Jai…”
“And playing Squid’s gamelan…”
“And hearing about the plans for the weekend rituals…”
Racheal and Ram completed each other’s sentences in a continuous stream while their pink naked bodies drank deeply of midmorning sunlight. “But no, I haven’t had words with him as yet,” Racheal finally admitted. She shaded her eyes to watch Alion and The Mox glide past on a small hand-built catamaran just beyond the small waves of the sheltered bay. “He’s present today, then?”
“Most definitely,” Kerri replied. “In the flesh,” Fang agreed with a sidewise grin while his girlfriend massaged his back, seated astride his tight white buttocks. “And I’ll be the first to admit he conforms to available reports – in one obvious aspect, at least.” Kerri tittered and swung her long russet hair in a figure eight. “And how,” she giggled. “As for actual ability – from what I’ve witnessed it seems that’s undeniable as well. He knows how to work a circle…”
“And a crowd,” Racheal said through a narrow smile. Fang groaned and flexed on his beach towel when Kerri assailed a particularly knotty slab of shoulder muscle. “That was a long night,” he moaned, “and with nary a drop to drink!”
“And naught to smoke… The drumming seemed to go on until dawn,” said Kerri. “I don’t know how late it was when we crashed.” A pair of seagulls alighted beside her and stood watching the quartet of magi with blood red stares. “What’s the schedule today?”
“Oh, the Magus will doubtless hold court again to rapt acclamation…”
“Sheathe thy fangs,” Kerri ordered her beau with a stolid thrust between his shoulder blades. His arms flew outward, scaring the gulls into flight. “There’s a sunset rite, and a midnight ritual,” Ram’yana informed them while his fingers idly caressed Racheal’s flank, “But they’re optional; the main events begin on the morrow.”
“And I hear the Initiates are having a circle tonight as well – an invocation of Venus,” said Racheal with an eye on the clear blue sky, “While She rides high above tonight.”
Fang chortled into his lank brown hair. “The only time to invoke Venus, after all,” he muttered. “Or any planetary deity for that matter – while they’re prominent in the heavens above the practitioner...”
“…And fortuitously placed and housed.” Kerri agreed. “Initiates only?”
“So I understand.” Racheal fingered the silver talisman she’d made months before and only affixed at her throat that morn. “We’ll be left to our own devices.”
Fang groaned again. “Water, water everywhere…”
“Only one more day ’til we break our fast,” Ram’yana assured him. His stomach rumbled in reply, immediately followed by an answering gurgle from Racheal’s abdomen. “The Mox said we could borrow his cat this afternoon – anyone care for a sail around the bay?”
“I didn’t know you could handle a catamaran,” Kerri said with a quizzical frown as Ram’s eyes followed the hypnotic sway of her perfect breasts. “He can’t,” Racheal intervened.
“I’ve sailed a skiff,” the young shaman told them “The Mox assures me his cat’s even easier.” He smiled into Racheal’s dubious regard. “And thou canst always use me as a life raft, milady.”
“No thanks,” said Fang. “I have no hankering to swim back from a shipwreck this arvo. Besides, we already have plans and I hardly think ye could rescue all three of us.”
“A boy buoy?” Kerri laughed and Racheal joined her; “I’d more likely be the one to carry thee home – remember the last time we were out in a boat?”
They’d been navigating a tidal estuary. Now their small white motor boat bobbed in a choppy swell, lending extra impetus to every measured thrust and withdrawal through Racheal’s hidden gripping musculature.
They’d lived together less than a fortnight and this was their first trip away together – and their first lovemaking session in the great outdoors, under a springtime Sun. Racheal’s moans soared up into a cloud of waterbirds while racing shadows streaked across limber white bodies.
She hadn’t bothered –hadn’t had time – to remove her bikini. Her lover studiously ignored the strings and scraping scraps of material that entirely failed to conceal her pinkest parts. His own togs were a salty mass scrunched into a corner of the boat. He’d only donned the swimming gear to avoid offending Racheal’s aunt Linda, who’d sent them off with a broad knowing smile and a generous picnic lunch. Racheal had stripped him bare at the earliest opportunity.
The boat was barely large enough to conceal their bodies. She’d waited until they were out of sight of all habitation before lying back in a couple of inches of seawater and pulling him down atop and inside her. Mouths sealed together, their slim bodies strove for the closest possible union.
Lusting in a sweaty lather, Racheal had no need of foreplay. Her fingers guided her boyfriend past her bikini briefs and inserted him directly inside her with an impatient shove of hand and hips. His palms slid beneath her bikini and wrapped round her copious breasts, providing the best possible handholds as she started fucking like a bucking bronco, driving him deeply into her belly with the second thrust.
It was only the eighteenth time they’d made love. Until the previous week she’d waited all her life to admit a boy to her deepest mysteries. Now, as soon as their privacy was assured she couldn’t wait another moment to feel him inside her again. She was a fast learner; in less than a minute they both felt the thrill of an orgasm race upward along her supine spine, felt her virginal nipples harden into pebbles, felt the rush of wet heat cascade through her taut convulsing vagina.
Pelicans wheeled overhead, glancing down as her heels drummed around the base of his spine, driving him ever deeper. The lovers were so far out in the waterway that she felt no constraint giving vent to her loudest, most startling screams of pleasure when she came in a jerking, bouncing, sucking, arching fugue of achingly ecstatic enjoyment.
Neither noticed nor cared – at first - when one of their feet jerked awry and kicked an oar overboard. The sound of a splash was far in the background of Ram’s attention.
The extraordinary sensation of fucking his salt-sprayed paramour while her body gripped him inside and out as she screamed up into the wide open sky was too much for him. He surrendered to bliss with uncommon rapidity and exploded with her, within her, a moment after Racheal’s orgasmic contractions began to seriously milk his blood-engorged shaft. Watching and feeling him lose it made her scream even louder and fuck even harder.
She screamed until his seed stopped pumping into her womb and he fell atop her heaving breasts, his face buried in the golden net of her hair. Time stood still. After a timeless time the teenage lovers rolled with the wave-rocked boat to lie side by side in a panting heap amid a sloshing pool of lukewarm seawater, kissing and cuddling beneath a blazing motionless Sun. His cock was still hard and jammed fast in her belly, all the way up to his furry balls. Racheal twisted about to climb athwart him and froze in place for a moment when she realised she’d bumped the second oar overboard.
A succulent sucking sound greeted her rapid rise from his lap. She turned and leapt over the side in a single fluid motion, leaving her tumescent boyfriend high but not dry in the bottom of the rocking boat. As he sat upright Racheal cried, “Look out!” and hurled the oar back into to him. It bounced off the outboard motor, struck him in the shoulder and sent him sprawling against a hard wooden rib.
By the time he sat up again Racheal was already receding into the distance, caught in a current at odds with the heady breeze that was blowing the boat in a different direction. He scrambled to the outboard and pulled on the starter rope. Nothing happened. Racheal was swimming as hard as she could, but the distance between them continued to increase while he futilely pulled on the rope. The befuddled teen desperately began to fiddle with one of the carburettor screws until he realised he had no idea what he was doing. He knew there was no time to work out why the engine wouldn’t start, so reached for the oars – and could only find one.
“Ram!” she sputtered while he stood frozen, rocking in the swell with a single oar gripped in both hands. Her voice was barely audible. He looked around for another boat but they were totally alone on the water. He thought about diving in himself and rapidly dismissed the notion.
“Hey!” They were drifting further apart with every breath and he could hear Racheal’s voice begin to rasp as she rapidly tired. “Oh, Ram!” Her strokes became more frantic, less streamlined, and her expression grew desperate as she struggled just to stay in place.
Then, even as he opened his mouth to call her name, a triangular fin broke the water not twenty yards behind her…
A true story
Images – author’s
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
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
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see -
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
The New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com
New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/the.new.illuminati
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com
Tuesday, 24 December 2013
click pic to enlarge
click title for true story
Sunday, 24 November 2013
Wild Life 14
The Sun was high in the sky when they awoke in twinned tangles late the next morn. Both couples staggered naked into the new day from their shadowy, half-flooded boudoir and slowly made their way toward the banks of the overflowing stream. They variously paused to piss and blink, murmur and drink in the dazzling daylight, exposing soft city skins to the blazing sunlight while currawongs regaled them with pentatonic love songs.
The river had risen appreciably overnight. Washing and preening amidst the strong currents without being bowled over was a challenge to the hungover hippies. Ona and Reema both retained the presence of mind to bring toothbrushes and towels along (unlike their boyfriends). They said barely a word as they scrubbed the sticky caked detritus of the night’s sweaty strivings from lover’s bodies in the turbid water.
When they’d been cleansed by their mates the men sat on the bank, content to watch the day unfold around the focal points of their girlfriends laving water over supple female bodies in the rising heat. “You don’t know what’s about to happen to you here in Oz,” Mark confided to his guide while they watched the girls washing and brushing. Ram’yana looked askance at the smiling German tourist while he explained further; “Everything’s about to change between the sexes – nothing will be the same as it was for our fathers ever again. Believe me. It’s already happened in Europe and coming here is like stepping back ten years and watching it all happen again.”
“Watching what happen? Equality between the sexes? It’s about time!”
“Ah, but when women become equal they are the ones who end up running the show. They decide everything anyway...” He winked at Ona, who waggled her bum in reply. Plashing water concealed his words from the young women. “It’s not so bad actually when you get used to it – and the women are much better in bed now, much more fun; so some older men tell me. But it’s a very lonely world for guys who don’t get it. It’s going to be a real shock to a lot of old-style people.” He regarded Ram’yana with a serious expression. “But I think you get it. You’ll probably be okay when you see that women have all the real power now.”
“You know, people used to say the world would be a better place if it was run by women,” said Ram. “You’d hear it all the time, right up until Maggot Hatcher was elected in Britain – Margaret Thatcher,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, she was brutal, but any woman who makes it to the top in a patriarchal system has to be at least as bad as the men she competes with,” Mark said as he tossed a stone into the centre of the stream.
“That’s what feminists say about her, too. But you don’t hear much about how good it would be with women running everything any more. I think equality is better, and that’s what everyone really wants.”
“Ya, but when women are equal they’re automatically superior.” They both turned to watch the girls, who were standing shin-deep in the flow and beginning to paint patterns onto each other’s faces and trim naked bodies, using russet ochre from the bed of the creek. “You see? They can’t help it. Look at them. They’re just superior…”
Caked, cracked ochre was peeling from Ona’s and Reema’s suntanned skins in a blast of approaching noonday heat by the time they returned to Grey’s half-built house. Partying the last hour of morning away with their amicable host was inevitable. “The creek’s going down - you should be able to make it back across by noon,” he assured them. “But stay as long as you want, guys. There’s plenty more local produce on this side of the river!”
Midday arrived with the sweltering blast of a summery scorcher and they all happily elected to wait another hour before giving the crossing a try. They sallied forth when the flow had subsided enough to make an attempt that wasn’t an outright act of suicidal bravado. By the time they were settled into the Nexusmobile all the travellers were baked in more ways than one.
The riverbed was invisible beneath swirling currents of soil-rich water and the crossing seemed more than a little wider as they rolled toward the place where the twin muddy trails of the driveway disappeared into turgid murk. Grey stood on the bank in a Balinese sarong and directed them onto a better course than the driver would have chosen. Nonetheless, the van floundered and wallowed midstream once again, threatening to capsize or be swept away. “Oh, shit!” Ona cried from the back she waved to Grey. A crazed leer accentuated her high boned Scandinavian features while Mark’s eyes grew as large as duck’s eggs..
“It’s okay,” Ree assured the tourists while small waves battered her passenger door. “We have enough clearance.” The van wallowed midstream, almost lifting from the bed as it rocked and swayed in shifting currents. She turned to Ram’yana, who manhandled the steering wheel and gearshift with both eyes riveted to the far bank. “Doesn’t it?”
“Maybe too much…” The van swam like a dolphin, diving and bucking through the deepest hole yet, wheels bouncing from the uneven bed while the passengers clung to the nearest handhold. But the worst aspect of the crossing was unfelt and invisible. Beneath the seat of the clench-teethed driver the van’s radiator was slashed open by the plastic cooling fan, which deformed with water pressure when the vehicle half floated through a scarily deep pool. The radiator emptied almost instantly without any noticeable sign while the vehicle’s tyres struggled for traction. They barely made it back across.
When they reached the far bank and drove across muddy cow pasture to the unpaved road the temperature gauge indicated no problem whatsoever, and they all breathed smoky sighs of celebration and relief. They trundled along the winding dirt road that led back toward ‘civilisation’ unaware of any problem, singing along with the cassette player and emptying more of Ram’s travelling stash.
Perhaps the odour of burning oil ought to have alerted the driver as they approached the nearest tiny town, thirty klicks distant, but he’d spilled a little fluid on the engine when he topped up that morning and thought nothing of it. The tape deck filled his ears with Ree’s choice of Annie Lennox compilations and the couples were in high happy spirits as they wended their way through picturesque vales past forested riverbanks.
After thinning stands of battered trees gave way to grassy fenced fields and overgrazed paddocks they reached the little logging village and pulled up to the kerb outside the service station on the main street. Just as they pulled over a terrific caterwauling erupted from nowhere and everywhere, stunning the party into silence.
The Nexusmobile stopped with the same hideous metal-rending squeal and noxious eruptions the Sydney Harbour Bridge would make if it unexpectedly fell onto an oil tanker. Noxious gouts of greasy black smoke enveloped the vehicle’s shuddering body and all four clambered from the doors coughing and choking. They fled the foul cloud that billowed across the wide street to besmirch the police station.
The village was a strip of old wooden clapboard shops fronted by wide verandas. That they’d broken down directly outside the only garage for miles seemed particularly fortunate - at first. When it became obvious that the van’s problem was probably severe the hitchhikers somewhat sadly bid their host and hostess a warm adieu and thumbed their way off toward the coast while a scrum of backwoods mechanics poked around the smoking body of the Nexusmobile and perused the damage with dollar signs for eyes.
The prognosis wasn’t pleasant; it would be days before they were mobile again. Reema suggested they go back to Grey’s place for the duration. They crossed the road to the only public phone in town, hoping the heavy rain hadn’t cut off Grey’s line. When he finally answered after Ree’s first fruitless attempt the isolated hippy said he’d be glad of the company for a few more days and – after picking them up from town and ferrying them across the river with sundry supplies – made them heartily welcome again.
“I hope Zsuzsi gets in contact soon,” Grey said between pulls on the helmeted head of his Ned Kelly bong when they’d settled into the converted sunroom kitchen. “I have to tell her about her cat.”
“You mean Bast?” Ram’yana well remembered Zsuzsi’s Siamese; two of her kittens awaited him back home in the Emerald City. “What about her?”
“Yep. She left her here with me when she and Ricco had to split,” Grey sputtered through a cloudy stream of cremated bush buds. “But she came on heat and ran away into the bush. Haven’t seen her since.”
“She loves that cat. I’m surprised she didn’t take her.”
“She couldn’t – not overseas on a holiday – and when she went on heat…”
“You can’t control a Siamese on heat,” Ram’yana commiserated.
“Or a Japanese,” Reema assured them. Her jest was rewarded with a disconcerted frown from Grey and an annoyed expression from her lover. “Come on,” she said, “you know what she was like when she lived with you...”
Ram’s brow furrowed further, approaching a glower. “I don’t like to discuss my lovers with others.”
“With other lovers, or others in particular?” she asked with a grin and a sidelong stare at Grey – who looked out the window and made himself busy shelling pecan nuts. “Come on - we all know what she’s like. I just want to know what she likes…”
“She likes her little Bast more than anything in the world,” Ram told Reema as her fingers combed through her tangled tresses. She smiled. “Not anything, surely? What about boys… and girls? Didn’t she share a bed with you and Fae for years? What was that like?”
“I might start cooking dinner,” Grey announced and hastily fled for the kitchen before Ram could reply. “Come on –you can tell me,” Ree persevered. “I heard what she sounded like when you were fucking her. Everyone did. She screamed like a banshee. She must get it on with girls, too - she must have, when you were all fucking each other. What was it like having those two gorgeous wild creatures at once, every night?”
Ram’s glared was offset by the hint of a wistful smile. “If you must know, they usually took it in turns.”
“Ho ho!” laughed Ree. “A different one every night, eh?”
“No – they’d swap each time, every night. All night, or until one of them passed out, usually.” Reema’s hand began stroking his leg. “How gallant of you to stop when they fell asleep. Usually. But surely you all did it together, too?”
“Only when Fae felt like it.” He chose not to mention that he and Racheal had made love with Fae almost every night when they all shared a home and bed.
“So you did all do it together – and Fae was your number one wife, not Zsuzsi?” Her fingers reached his inner thigh as her lips approached his mouth. “I’d like to meet her one day.”
“I don’t number my mates.”
“Just as well or you’d lose count.” Her lips hovered an inch away and her eyes locked with Ram’s indulgent frown. Spry fingertips began stroking his hardening manhood through slim cotton trousers. “What number would I be, I wonder?”
“Whomsoever I’m with is always the only one,” he said. Just before their lips met Reema replied; “Charmed, I’m sure. Now tell me more… in a minute…”
A few days later the mechanics in the little village’s ancient, crumbling converted wooden smithy finished rebuilding the Nexusmobile’s engine and the lovers began their drive back to the Emerald City during a promisingly bright moonlit night. At first nothing seemed amiss, but after less than an hour a strange background noise suddenly rose in volume.
“Sounds bad,” observed Reema.
“Sure does. I’ll pull over…” They raised the seat, but an inspection of the engine showed nothing obviously amiss.
“Maybe it’s just the tappets…” Ree suggested.
“The wrong sound for tappets, I think. Let’s press on and keep an ear out for trouble.” All the way home to the comfortable bungalow dubbed Delta House, Ram’yana wondered why the motor was making such a godawful racket. He stopped to inspect the engine at three different petrol stations but found nothing obviously amiss except the ongoing clattering noise somewhere beneath the alloy head.
The Rooster - his usual mechanic back in the Big Smoke - delivered the bad news, preceded by a question; “How far did you say you drove it after they changed the head gasket?”
“Oh, about five hundred klicks.” The mechanic wiped his hands on greasy overalls and rolled his eyes at an equally greasy offsider. “No way,” he replied. When he saw Ram’s querulous expression he continued. “Not possible.”
“What? Why not?”
“Whoever butchered your engine did such a bad job they put some of the parts in upside-down…”
“An’ ’ey left other buts out completely,” his Kiwi assistant concluded. “No way et made et five hunnerd kays.”
The battered van, which had already been deformed by years spent in service to the previous owner (a safe building company’s solid metal constructions had torn away all the interior padding and irreparably dented the bodywork) lasted another year. The rebuilt engine finally gave up the ghost as the beast was put out to pasture, when there was nothing left to weld together except spreading patches of rust.
It served as a guest bedroom for itinerant hippies and ferals for a time, slowly subsiding into the block of land whose title deed Ram’yana ultimately purchased from Ricco (Decades later the Nexusmobile still resides there, a rusting hulk slowly disappearing into the black rainforest topsoil, slowly cannibalised by mechanically minded locals and eventually cut in half to make room for a concrete composting toilet).
A few nights after their return to the Big Smoke, Ram’yana was staying with Reema at her place near the beach – a comfortable bungalow surrounded by similar brick boxes ranked in wavy streets strewn along eroded, denuded hills and the salty, grass-studded sandy banks of an ancient dried-up estuary; prime real estate. “Have you ever had Andrella?” she asked, apropos of nothing while he languidly moved within her; “Yet?” she amended with a smile and a squeeze.
“Uh… Andrella?” he puzzled as he slowed to a halt between her slick thighs. He’d been brought up to think of discretion as a hallmark of gentlemanly nobility and, despite varied and tumultuous experiences, he was still disturbed by the way many women seemed to revel in gossiping about the most intimate, private matters.
“You know, the redhead,” Ree said and began rolling her hips for them both. “That English rose – or Welsh lily, maybe… mm… I’ve seen you looking at…” He found his rhythm again and interrupted her with slow deep thrusts. “No…,” he said, “not yet.” Their smiles were simultaneous and identically wicked.
“Oh yeah…” she breathed, “Mm… I’ve been trying to get into that fair maid’s panties for months now, mm… a bit like that, yes, oh, oh… but she seems uh… impervious to uh my charms… oh, oh, fuck, oh yes…”
Even as Ree’s mention of Andrella fixed the redhead’s image in his mind, Ram concentrated on making love with the aggressively responsive, moaning young woman beneath him - yet it was soon all but impossible not to imagine he was making willowy, lithe Andrella scream and writhe with undoubtedly genuine passion on the queen sized bed in the house of Ree’s father, instead of the tumultuously orgiastic young Reema.
“If you get her,” his vexatiously erudite and sensual predator fuck buddy said half an hour later when they were sharing a post-coital smoke, “just let me know and I’ll come over.” She assumed he knew she was talking about Andrella, as though their earlier conversation had simply continued, uninterrupted by athletic sex and multiplex orgasms. Naturally, he did.
“Please don’t put ideas into my head,” he entreated while stroking her softening nipple. She placed the joint between his lips and said, “Someone sure needs to. And I just know you’d like to put more than ideas into that hot little redhead. I certainly would; I surely do. And I’ve seen the way she looks at you, too, when you’re not watching.” She sucked on the spliff while he exhaled. “Why not give her a call?” she sputtered. “You never know til you try.”
“Not much chance of that; Andrella’s hardly ever spoken to me.”
“I know. It’s a real pity. I’ll probably have to wait months for you to bring her to my bed, unless I can find someone else who’s up to the task. It’s too hard to get her alone at the Oasis. Or anywhere. They flock around her like flies.”
In the event it took more than a year. Reema stayed in the city when her shaman lover moved to the bush a few months later, to plant and tend trees and build a new home while keeping the magazine going in a small two room shack. He bought the deed to the land where Zsuzsi had been living with Ricco, in the next valley over from Grey’s place.
He came to the city every couple of months to see his infant daughter and to arrange printing and distribution for the magazine, and embarked on three or four more relatively serious serial relationships. And when his next vehicle eventually succumbed to the rigours of rural life he had to return to the Big Smoke yet again, to buy yet another new second-hand Nexusmobile.
Ram’s desperado neighbour C.C. offered him a lift to the city along with another associate (who was doubtless in search of higher grade heroin than was available in the remote villages that serviced these wild men of the bush; the tyranny of distance presented a common problem for alcoholics, junkies and addicts of most kinds in those ancient days).
They arrived in the Emerald City after only two run-ins with the highway patrol. Ram’yana bid the others farewell and was pleasantly surprised to bump into gorgeous red haired Andrella only an hour later. He was cruising one of his more usual haunts when a streaming waterfall of bright orange hair caught his eye. She sashayed toward him through the crowded venue, willowy hips swaying, her breastbone revealed by an unfastened bolero jacket. Her gaze was locked to his as she pressed her glass of red wine into his hand. They broke into effortless conversation and were soon speaking with heads leaning closely together, their long manes mingling in amber candlelight.
The shaman’s usual experience was to bed a girl on the first night he saw her; on rarer occasions the second time they made acquaintance. This was the second time he’d met the mysterious, artistic Andrella and he swiftly found the lissom young women utterly captivating. When she found he had nowhere to stay she immediately invited him back to her flat.
He didn’t call Reema.
The next morning C.C. phoned Andrella’s place (he’d somehow sussed where Ram was staying) to offer him a lift to the nearby Great Dividing Range, where he said he knew of a van for sale. He announced he’d be around to pick him up in a hire car a couple of hours later and the newfound lovers took full advantage of the time.
C.C. hired the cheapest transport available for the journey – a three cylinder belt-driven Russian Lada – with the explanation that his smacked-out companion needed their other car to sleep in. The Lada was a tinker-toy whose buttons and handles all snapped off at the lightest touch; strangely, they seemed designed that way and could easily be snapped back into place.
When they finally arrived at their destination atop the nearby mountain range, C.C. announced that he had to go inside and arrange the deal for the van alone. It soon became obvious that Ram’s neighbour was – unsurprisingly - in pursuit of some heroin after all, and a van had never been part of his plans; he’d simply been worried about dealing out large sums of money alone. Ram fumed as he waited outside the nondescript fibro shack at the end of a sandy road, staring into sparse, burned bushland while C.C. did his deal. I could still be in bed with Andrella…
After a surprisingly short interval C.C. slowly emerged from the door, glassy-eyed and mumbling as he climbed back into the little toy car. He’d thrashed the Lada so mercilessly when he raced up the mountain that the little vehicle’s rubber band gear train had stretched; he’d managed to hire an improbable belt-driven car. They barely made it back to town.
They stuttered along in fits and starts through masses of weekend traffic. Ram’yana sat silently scrunched into the passenger seat, wondering if Andrella would be home when they returned. He fixed his gaze on passing scenery and was soon fuming almost as much as the tiny two-seat car. C.C. finally dropped him off at Andrella’s apartment block, leaving in a fuddle of pin-eyed apologies. He promised he wouldn’t call Andrella’s place again before driving off to his associate, who expectantly awaited a delivery of opiates in C.C.’s parked hatchback at a nearby vacant lot.
It was all very depressing. Heroin was rife in the decades following the Vietnam War (essentially an Intelligence war over control of drug supplies). Most suburbanites barred their windows and placed security screens across their doorways to stem regular and widespread burglaries by junkies in search of something to steal and exchange for smack. Ram’yana was all too accustomed to being confronted by shock troops in the ‘War on Drugs’ wherever he looked, and tried to put C.C.’s disappointing journey behind him.
The next day he found the new Nexusmobile – a diesel powered commercial van covered on all sides with the worlds ‘Effective Damproofing’ – in an auction yard, and drove back in triumph to the fey redhead’s door.
He hadn’t told Andrella much about any of this in the few days they’d been together. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Now, judging by the expression on her face as she watched him pack his bag, he never would.
“Remember the genie bottle,” she said, and handed him the present she’d given him the previous night – an exotic looking hand painted, gold leaf embossed piece of glassware stoppered with a cork and sealed with beeswax. He watched the smile that didn’t reach her eyes and tried to think of some way to breach the palisade she’d hastily erected between them.
“Don’t open it until it’s time to release the Djinn,” she said through that crooked little smile.
The last afternoon in town was reserved for his beautiful firstborn child. The three hours he was allowed with the little toddler dispelled any vexing thoughts of Andrella and Seheal. They went to the park and fed ducks, geese and swans with the vestiges of a picnic lunch while she enthusiastically divulged her plans. “I’m gonna be anastic star, and you have to write ‘nastic star’ on all the labels on all my clothes.”
“No, nastic star!” she said in a tone reserved for all slow, doltish adults.
“Okay – but what’s a nastic star? Are you changing your name?”
“You know,” she said as she hurled a scrap of bread to a small duck struggling at the edge of a quarrelsome gaggle of geese. “Someone who does nastics really well of course!”
“Of course…” By the time they’d circled the pond he realised she meant ‘gymnastic star’.
“And so,” he says to a bemused Seheal a few hours later, “now I have to write it on all her labels instead of her name.” He isn’t sure he should broach the subject of his daughter (and by implication her mother) with the gorgeous teen, but decides that discretion has nothing to do with valour and everything to do with ego.
And survival… and success… an unceasingly pondering part of him muses as he envies the alluring pink tongue that’s whetting the astounding redhead’s perfect lips.
“I always wanted to be a gymnastic star, too,” says her luscious smile as she stands before him, swaying to the beat of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Her body slides through a thin cotton dress while she undulates barefoot on polished wooden boards and the bright, warm blessing of her grin beams down into the open vessel of his frank adoration.
“Relax, don’t do it, when you want to go through it…”
Somehow her entire body glows, impossibly yet undeniably. Her skin shines with a lucent gleam that almost blinds him and the intricate flames of her curling hair seem surrounded by a brilliant nimbus. He’s certain it isn’t his imagination or a sign of failing eyesight; everything else around her resplendent form seems completely normal. Yet Seheal is so brilliantly white that she’s literally phosphorescent in the dingy yellowish light of her shared subterranean lounge room.
Firm round breasts roll under her gown and he watches the hypnotic points of faintly pink nipples snag against the translucent fabric. Breathless and stunned, he reorients his gaze on her glittering eyes and is pleasantly surprised to watch them rove his body with identically obvious interest. He inhales a field of fresh pink roses that seems to flow from the billowing dress and holds his breath lest he break the spell.
Pure magic… The thought whispers through his astounded mind. Beyond merely human… the numb stream flows on; A Goddess… He hasn’t felt so smitten since… he can’t remember when.
When Seheal’s eyes meet his he’s utterly stunned. Sapphires or emeralds? He can scarcely believe his overwhelmed senses. A gleaming cloud suffuses the teenager’s extraordinarily beautiful pixyish face. Slender arms and graceful hands emerge from the short wide sleeves of her virtually sheer and shapeless white nightgown. Limber white legs and pale dainty feet flow and glow from the flowering hem, and all of her perfectly gracile form is aglow with an eerie fey light. A bluish whiteness flows all around her like pure cool flame. Her teeth sparkle like stars, gleaming with a radiant dazzle as she says, “You must be so proud.”
“Proud?” he replies to the uncannily glowing, incredibly beautiful young goddess who’s deigned to make his acquaintance. “Oh, she’s amazing and wonderful and I’m so happy to be her father!” The stream of words pours forth of its own accord, unedited by his befuddled mind; “But her life is her own - she’s her own being, not mine – nothing she is or does is something I’ve done to be proud of, really.” He watches amusement dance in her eyes while he tries to take command of his rambling speech. “But I know what you mean. Of course I’m proud of her…”
“And you were with her all afternoon?” she asks with an even wider, whiter smile they reaches right into his heart and squeezes. The sound of her voice is a surprisingly deep mellifluous blend of silk and honey. Each word is perfectly, guilelessly articulated. “That’s lovely! I hardly ever spent a whole afternoon alone with my father.” Her lips press together, erasing twin crescent dimples as she glances away. For the briefest moment her glow seems to fade like a moon’s eclipse.
The shaman tries not to entertain the thoughts that arise unbidden from spooling programs that litter his mind. He tries to avoid the insistent insinuation that even such an amazingly attractive teenager may be insecure enough to crave an absent father – or a surrogate father figure. He dispels the idea with an internal shudder and concentrates on admiring Seheal’s patrician profile, the generous mop of her coppery curls and the graceful equine curve of her throat.
I want to be her lover, not her father… he tells himself while another part of him makes a swift calculation. Anyway, I’m not quite old enough to be her father….
Another facet of his mind chimes in; Don’t flatter yourself; she’s probably just getting a lift up the coast with her things, as she said… This young goddess could have anyone she wants, anywhere, anytime… and she probably wants a younger guy…
Yet as he stares into the shining eyes that swing back toward him he’s somehow certain that the sudden smile she bestows upon him declares an unmistakable intent. When their gazes meet her blinding luminescence returns in full strength and the rest of her form mists over, hazing into shimmering light. “Most of the afternoon…” says his grinning mouth.
Seheal’s native scent suffuses the room, drowning the freshly fragrant memories of another very different redhead that still linger on his freshly washed skin.
After he’d dropped his daughter back home he retrieved building materials (second hand throwaways gleaned from renovation sites in the more upmarket ‘aspirational’ suburbs of the Emerald City) and filled the back of the new Nexusmobile with doors and windows, lumber, pipes, fittings, flashing and wooden panels. Only when he was finally ready to head off and pick up Seheal and Yeti – a wild British immigrant - from their respective abodes in adjacent suburbs did he realise he’d left his address book in Andrella’s bedroom.
It wasn’t far to her apartment and the Sun was still a few degrees shy of setting. He judged he had enough time to pick up the notebook (and maybe smooth things over with the lovely young woman, if she was home) before heading to Seheal’s.
He didn’t ring ahead but turned up on Andrella’s doorstep unannounced, come what may. As her silhouette appeared in a crackled glass panel he steeled himself for a confrontation, yet when the door swung open Andrella was immediately effuse with unbridled apologies.
“I’m so glad you came back,” she said as she ushered him inside. She appeared surprisingly contrite and inviting, her lean, pale body half dressed in a short unfastened towelling robe. Long, wet, radiant orange hair streamed down across her shoulders and dangled to her partly covered breasts. “You remembered your camera after all…” She nodded toward a bureau and he saw his SLR perched on a silver platter. Her smile broadened and quirked when she handed it to him and said, “There are some vivid memories in there – and room for a few more. I didn’t think you really forget it. Or them…”
Does she mean it… The notion of taking more pictures of Andrella’s completely exposed beauty was irresistible. She’d been a perfect subject over the last couple of days, even if she’d balked at being photographed while actually fucking him. She led her surprised guest straight through the living room and into her sundrenched bedroom, where she suddenly turned to face him with head tilted quizzically to one side. He barely had time to raise his eyes from the firm rocking hemispheres of her half revealed derriere. …or does she really just want one last goodbye fuck?
She might have been listening to his thoughts. “I really wanted us to part on better terms,” she said without a trace of a smile. “You know I’m going to the Mother Country in a couple of days and…” Time stood still. Her eyes peered up into his as she bit her lower lip. Her fingers twiddled a bright orange strand of hair. He dropped the camera onto her bed. They reached for each other at the same instant.
Her mouth was a liquid torrent of kisses and her smooth white skin was taut and enflamed. Rigid nipples and the pliant cushions of firm nubile breasts pressed into his chest. His fingers slipped under the skimpy robe and slid all the way up along her flanks, her sides, her upraised arms. As her perfumed mane poured down round his face he flung the towelling onto the floor. A long lean leg twined about his thigh while he stroked and cupped her heat-flushed nakedness.
“I thought…” he began as they came up for air.
“…too much,” she said while a deft hand unzipped his fly and slipped into his pants. “Or perhaps not enough.” Andrella picked up the camera and handed it to him again as she dropped to her knees on the rug. He sighed and watched her eyes blink and bulge while her slick pink lips stretched wide and wider around the mushrooming crown of his already swollen stiffening cock. What a shot… Both her hands began to stroke his shaft, feeding it into her inch by inch until her nostrils flared amid his pubes. He groaned with animal pleasure and unclipped the leather cover from his camera.
Andrella’s cunning tongue swirled around his length even when her mouth and throat were chock full of thick, hard man-meat. Her fingers dug into his buttocks and pulled him in as deeper than he dared, as deep as he could go. Her eyes squinted shut as she pushed him up against the wall. She held him there with a palm pressed against his belly while her throat constricted around his shaft with rhythmic, serpentine contractions.
Even with mouth misshapen and stretched by his swollen girth she was an amazingly photogenic young woman. He stood in the pooling heap of his pants and hoped he was focusing the camera on the place where her lips swelled, stretched and puffed around his shaft. How can she hold her breath this long? was his last rational thought for a surprisingly long while.
Yet he was intent on fucking the willowy redhead until she screamed his name over and over - before they parted on the best of terms. He barely managed to restrain himself while she did her best to milk and suck his seed down through the surrogate vagina of her elastic lips and way, way down into the gripping tubular vice of her throat. I want to feel the real thing… and give something back…
And I may have to save something for Seheal…
When the exiled shaman realised he was thinking of the other girl – even one so attractive as that glorious, pixyish, other young redhead - while Andrella was trying her best to bring him to a blinding orgasm, he felt craven and despicable. But the thought of that magnificent younger girl magnified her presence in his mind until it was Seheal’s mouth wrapped round his cock, Seheal’s hands stroking his furry balls and Seheal’s breasts pressed against his flexing thighs as he rocked backward and forward, fucking her unforgettable face.
When he finally realised what he was doing he tore himself free. Pulling the last few inches from Andrella’s suckling throat took every iota of will power. He dropped the camera onto the bed and lifted the slim young woman up onto her feet by her shoulders, slid his hands down over her breasts and belly and into the gap between her slim thighs. “You’ve shaved,” he observed, and hoisted her up with both palms cupping handfuls of firm ripe cheek. He parted her thighs with his forearms and pulled her onto and right up along the full length of his manhood with a stupefyingly rapid thrust. She was blazing hot, gushingly wet and thoroughly ready.
She pressed her body’s full lean length against him, threw her arms round his neck and groaned as he filled her completely. A wintry sunset poured in through the window and drenched them with fire. He gripped her tighter, unmoving, and turned to pin her against the sun-painted plaster. Her hips worked to draw him in even closer as he spread her wider and throbbed up inside her. “Nail me to the wall,” she breathed. So he did. “Hang on tight,” he whispered as he lifted her legs with a flex of his arms and planted her ankles up onto his shoulders.
Pretty as a picture,” he said, and started fucking her into a mindless frenzy. Her teeth gripped his throat and her hands grabbed his buttocks to steer his machinegun thrusts. Her silken vagina gripped even more tightly than the wet rings of muscle inside her throat. He closed his eyes to savour each moment and tried not to think of Seheal.
A True Story
Images – author’s
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