“Thou hast forgotten.” The priestess’ sentence is delivered with an unbroachable finality that leaves him momentarily speechless; the prince watches houseflies spiraling around the lampshade and puzzles at her meaning. The midmorning spring heat fails to penetrate their chamber as they lay side by side on the big bed, passing the smoke back and forth.
Her words become a self-fulfilling prophecy, bouncing around inside his head, defeating his attempts to ferret out whatever occluded event his Lady-love is referring to.
It’s a day with no agenda. No pressing tasks await them and the young couple expects no visitors to their new abode; most of the other tribe-members of Centraxis are hundreds of miles away, in the rainforest fastnesses of the Rainbow Region.
In another week the lovers are due to make daily treks to the far side of the city and back, to work on a cartoon animation they’re creating for a sixteen millimeter short, produced by a student at the new Film and
Ram’yana finds the studious atmosphere more productive than working in a setting where they’re continually and predictably interrupted by tribal brothers and sisters and their myriad friends and acquaintances. He’s been a cartoon animator for years, producing his first home-made creations at the age of twelve and honing his skills in the several years since. Racheal’s imaginative and scrupulously detailed artwork has lifted their creative endeavours to another plane; she fills the hand-painted frames with startling dream imagery and turbulent washes of elemental forms and colours.
The young couple is engaged in a long sequence portraying the passage of a shapeshifting magician through a streetscape of blind barbarians, and the work remains inspiring for them; they’re well ahead of schedule. The carefully hand-drawn and subtly painted project should only take another couple of months to complete; at twelve frames per second, they’ve created an entire minute over the last fortnight –managing to produce seven hundred carefully aligned paintings while they were moving house. Now that they’re settling into their new love nest there’s no hurry to complete the project; the urgency of their loving holds precedence for the teenage priestess and priest. In most every lifetime, you’re only young once.
Racheal fingers his Seal, a round, intricately inscribed silver plaque strung around her mate’s neck with a piece of leather thonging. Her fingers steal across the pentacle engraved on its surface, a star contained within three concentric rings and arcane Names of Power writ in the Script of the Magi. “I hear The Group is becoming a three-ring circus;” she says, “full of acrobats and animals but missing its Ringmaster.”
Her thumb strokes the hexagrammatic Seal of Solomon on the back of the argent talisman, her long pink nail stretching back to scratch softly against the hollow of his throat. An identical seal to Hermes Thrice-Greatest hangs between her youthfully firm, ripe breasts, and Ram’yana idly caresses their soft fullness with a wandering hand while he stares at the ornate ceiling rose, deciding which vivid hues would best emphasise the chamber’s baroquely patterned plasterwork.
Silence extends until his words emerge in a weary tone; “If thou camst to the rituals t’would know for thyself.”
“I’m not as sure as I was…” Racheal’s words hang there, waiting to catch another train of thought as he cups and massages the firm tender heaviness of her milky flesh. “…uh, about joining the Group…” She flicks trails of sweat-damp hair out of her eyes. “The Centrax doesn’t require another member of the Dawn of Ra. There are already enou, with thee and Fifi, Stardew and Truth. And Alion’s joining the tribe soon, to swell the numbers of magi.”
His emerald eyes flash to meet her sapphire orbs. “Thou hast already begun the Work,” he says. “already made thy Seal and learned the basic rituals.” He presses his palm around her hardening nipple, always astounded by the puckering pink softness of her aureole.
“’Tis useful for protection, I suppose.” She places her hand over his and shifts it across to her other breast, closing his fingers around its heavy fullness. “I’m certain my boobs are getting larger… but my period was timely, so it can’t be that...”
“Thy body’s still growing,” he reassures her. “’Thou art only nineteen, after all.” His other hand rises to complete the symmetry of his massaging exploration of her breasts. Racheal’s hand slips from his and reaches down to test the weight of his tumescence. “Thou shouldst talk!”
“Uh… mmm…” He won’t be put off. “The seal doesn’t merely protect thee – it’s a talisman of Hermes and…”
“Mmm… that’s it… like that…”
“…it seals thee within the Group; ‘tis a link to all its members, as is the Centrax, and the sunset ritual within the tribe…”
“It links us to its leader, thou mean’st – to the one with sufficient power to make use of all our energies. He uses the Group for his own purposes… don’t stop…”
Ram’yana continues his rotating massage and Racheal endeavours to distract him with the enticing dance of her beringed fingers, as he rises to her challenge in more ways than one. “If those accusations of psychic vampirism were true we’d certainly know of it by now. No energy is sucked from me by the group – quite the opposite. I’ve met with him many times and observed him carefully. He strikes me as a man of honour.” He sits up beside her, revolving around her grip with his hands twisting upon her swelling mammaries.
She winks at him and tightens her grasp. “He’s certainly striking.”
“Thou hast only seen him distantly, surely – at the south coast Equinox rituals.”
“Not so distantly as thou might imagine – there’s no denying the obvious; he’s an… imposing male. And I have spoken with many others who have known him intimately.” Ram’yana’s massage pauses; the soft underside of her mounds lie cupped in his palms as various replies struggle for control of his tongue. A gentle admonition rises from his lips; “Thou know’st ‘tis deplorable to bandy private bedchamber secrets about – wouldst thou like thine intimacies exposed to all and sundry, my Lady? Wouldst thou broadcast the details of thy lovemaking?”
Lady Racheal laughs and places her hands on his, palpating his soft palms around her hardening nipples again. “Surely that’s a jest, coming from my free and easy lover? I’ve heard no such qualms before and the Court certainly gave us no privacy, if memory serves…” She crooks a slim leg into the air and wraps it around his waist; her intoxicating sweet scent wafts over him.
Integral members of the tribal Court of Centraxis, the High Priestess and her princely High Priest have been rudely or inadvertently interrupted in the throes of passion by freewheeling peers of the Court on innumerable occasions - and spied upon by many visitors to the tribal strongholds. A handful of times Lady Racheal has reeled awake from semi-stupour to the startling or shocking sensations of strange flesh pressing upon her naked skin – and more than once she’s been forced awake by strangers moving within her sleeping loins or lolling mouth.
Resilient and pragmatic, she has recovered from most traumas inflicted upon her. The priestess doesn’t hold her innocent fellow tribe members responsible for the actions of the opportunists and outright rapists - in these turbulent times, unspeakably repulsive acts are still commonly experienced by many, if not most women and girls in the ‘civilized’ world. Boys are hardly immune, either.
If anything, the houses, communes, lands and realms of the communal hippie Rainbow Tribes are far safer than the control-freak pedophile havens of the suburbs, where most every set of walls and windows conceals a miasma of guilty secrets or forbidden longings. Many of the women Racheal knows have suffered life-wrecking experiences with their uncles, older cousins, brothers or fathers.
Most hippies and other seekers of new ways care for and look after each other more compassionately than many conventional families could conceive. And they’re lives are far more fun. Amidst the kaleidoscopic cornucopia of psychedelic, aphrodisiac, speedy, sleepy, analgesic and narcotic drugs, anarchic free love, al fresco orgies, intoxicating Tantra, renascent ancient magics and festive artistry of the free tribes, Racheal has slowly shed all the inhibitions that arrived with her from the cramped provincial lowlands of her childhood home. The High Priestess of Centraxis has achieved a graceful state of unconcern bordering on exhibitionism – and she loves to make love with her chosen mate many times a day.
The magical duo are also Neophyte members of The Group – the exoteric name used for an antipodean branch of the magical College Invisible, a circle of Magi known as the Dawn of Ra (The Group is also laughingly dubbed ‘the magic circle club’ by its hundreds of members, in memory of a defunct local children’s television show). As High Priestess and Shaman of Centraxis, the lovers decided to expand their knowledge of the Great Work - and their utility to the tribe - by joining the Group, to become more proficient in the Three Pillars of Hermeticism – Kabala, Alchemy and Ritual Magic.
Now, as Ram’yana approaches his Initiation into the deeper Chakric, Alchemic and Taoist mysteries of the Dawn of Ra, he’s dismayed that Lady Racheal is backing away from the ongoing course of rituals and teachings. She has stopped accompanying him to the Group’s Temple and its accompanying stone manse of alchemists, magicians, healers and kabbalists, perched on the opposite fringe of the great harbour. Her next observation further disturbs the young man’s equanimity; “Mmm… and thou knowest that Kha-Aan is still suspicious of the Group and its ways.”
“He’s said nowt of it to me. The lord baron has had nothing but praise for the idea – he craves more tribal spellcasters and diviners who art proficient in their Art.” Ram’yana ignores the gentle teasing of her hands and her other attempts to distract him from their conversation. “There’s another reason, less simple for thee to divulge, is there not?”
The priestess laughs into his ear and, encouraged by his body’s reactions, continues her arousing ministrations, pulling him toward her heat as her other leg warps around him; Ram’yana continues unperturbed. “I realise working skyclad is no impediment to thee,” he says, twisting around on the bed to kneel between her thighs. “The visualisation and ritual work engages thy interest, surely?”
Racheal slides one of his hands from her breasts and guides it down her smoothly ridged belly to the inverted triangle of her pubis. “’Tis interesting, no doubt – but the Dawn of Ra’s way is not my path, love. I need to work with women.” In stark counterpoint to her statement, the priestess grasps and strokes him firmly.
Her burgeoning pink button slips around between his thumb and forefinger and the girl gasps as he replies; “There are many women in…”
“’Tis not the same.” She gives him a goodly squeeze to emphasise her point and her tongue beckons him. Despite his arousal, Ram’yana feels a dourly oppressive premonition pressing against the sphere of their private idyll. On their first morning in their new bed in their new apartment, the day maintains the chill atmosphere of night. Racheal pulls him toward her, grasping him by his roots. “I need to learn things the Group doesn’t teach.”
“Which things?” The nearby harbour lends a salty dankness to the air, a torpid heaviness Ram’yana believes he can dispel with liturgical incense. Witch things. He overhears the thought in his hindbrain, a suppressed vocalisation that doesn’t escape from her throat as she nuzzles him into her nest. “Dost thou require a break from it all?” he probes her as he casts around for matches. “A sojourn in the mountains or perchance the beach… or a forest? Chaos castle, mayhap?” Her hands squeeze more tightly and pull him into her welcoming threshold and, as she turns her eyes to the censer, he senses the call of the wild beginning to tempt her. Their thoughts are conjoined from long familiarity, and the young shaman can all but see the green paradisiacal rural images and longing emotions shift behind the liquid convex surfaces of her eyes.
One hand slides up from her tautening breast to massage the knots of tension bunching in her shoulders and neck. “I need no adjustment,” Racheal says, forestalling any attempt to realign her spine by holding his other hand to her moist vulva. The Centraxian prince bends to feel the full alluring length of her recumbent body against his skin and glides across her, caressing her swollen nipples and tight belly with his smooth torso. He reaches across her, balancing on one elbow to spill a charcoal tablet from its foil tube into the graven brass censer on the bedside table, and lights a red headed match. She keeps her eyes upon him while the charcoal splutters and crackles with saltpeter sparks, flowing eerily around the black surfaces in a discharge of pallid miniature lightning.
Ram’yana holds himself above her body so that her nipples barely touch his chest when she inhales and Racheal fills her lungs deeply, pressing herself closer. Their kiss is even longer than their intertwining tongues. He hovers in the halo of her elastic entryway, not daring to break the enchanting immanence of her carmine, carnal spell.
As the smouldering heat spreads a pink glow across the inner surfaces of their skins, a synchronous glow rises from the burning charcoal. Their lips disengage and Ram’yana leans across to sprinkle a pinch of frankincense resin onto the glowing surface, his weight driving him more deeply into Racheal’s welcoming satin-sheathed furnace. The censer releases a billow of pale vapour that slowly fills their bedchamber with a chaotic scrollwork of alchemised pine smoke as she begins to move, wrapping her limbs around her captivated male to lever herself up onto his captive flesh. She rises and falls, and rises again while he lifts himself above the bed, her arms wrapped serpentine around his biceps and hands clawing at his shoulders while her ankles lock together above his back. The smooth warmth of her thighs flexing around him is almost as memorable as the stretching caress of her lusty, talented loins.
Without warning, in the midst of enveloping him within a singularly deep swallowing thrust, his lithe girl’s muscles knot within her engorging form as the cloying incense wafts around her naked, suspended body.
“I just can’t!” The words explode from her and she grips him even more tightly, almost painfully, as her head rolls back and thrashes from side to side. Her protest ceases as swiftly as it begins and she stares up at him blankly, flexing around him and digging her heels more deeply into his buttocks, pulling his hips down with her.
Racheal’s eyes swim with limpid liquid as she holds back sudden tears, her mouth twisting into a half smile while she watches him intently. Her brightly resonant mind becomes opaque to him, closed off within her suddenly rigid body in a way he hasn’t experienced for a long time. And she wills it… waiting for something… almost as if she’s testing me. He attempts to dispel the thoughts but their echoes bounce around in his head, distracting him as he seeks another explanation for her brusque, emotion-charged exclamation.
“It’s all right,” she breathes, rocking her hips around him in a rocking cradle of soothing intimacy. Her head drops back onto the mattress and she strokes his belly and chest with her fingers, watching his reactions while her brazen body continues to automatically pleasure itself on his manhood. “Everything is and nothing matters.” The young priestess’ customary catch-cry rings hollow as she wipes away tears with the back of her hand. He strokes aside the pale hair pasted to her forehead and her arms stretch around him, drawing him close enough for a kiss that almost dispels his concern.
While their lips and tongues play together and their bodies continue their time-hewn strivings toward orgasm, he wracks his memories of their mountaintop honeymoon for a clue or solution to her sudden changes of mood. His witch-wife’s words have disjointed him from the reality around him and even the melding of their saturated membranes and the dance of her feathery fingers along his ribcage can’t bring him all the way back from his incessant thoughts. Racheal senses his distraction and redoubles her efforts to draw him back to the sensual reality of their fucking, once more wrapping all her limbs around him in insistent embrace.
An hour later the charcoal has burned to ash and the lovers entwine in an upright position on the well-tested mattress, feeling the interdependent rhythms of their heartbeats and breaths slow in the bright afterglow of their conjunction. The record has restarted itself on the turntable and the lyrics wash over them;
“What’ll you do when you get lonely
And nobody’s waiting at your side?
You’ve been running and hiding much too long
You know it’s just your foolish pride…”
Racheal begins to sing along with Clapton’s electrified song and Ram’yana feels the lyrics vibrating through his beloved’s close-pressed flesh and bones, as her breath dries the perspiration steaming on his throat. She seems a little thin – aside from her breasts, he decides. Racheal sits astride him on the bed with all her limbs wrapped around her mate; he’s seated in full lotus beneath her, slowly subsiding from her wet warmth as she sings verses and choruses into his body…
“Layla, you’ve got me on my knees
Layla, I’m begging darling please
Layla, darling won’t you ease my worried mind?”
Racheal is far more familiar with the words of most songs than is he, despite years of lighting a plethora of bands and playing piano since he was a child. As she sings, the import of the lyrics begins to sink home.
“Let’s make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane
Please don’t say we’ll never find a way
And tell me all my love’s in vain…”
When the track finishes she begins to nibble his neck and he asks, “Are you hungry?”
“For food?” He feigns ignorance of her implication and she sits more upright upon him, meeting his eyes as she bears down to hold him in place. “I am, my love. Let’s have a bath together while dinner warms on the stove. Ohh!” Racheal rises slowly, reluctant to release him. “Ahh…” Her voice is deeply pitched and laden with husky femininity as she leans up to nibble and tongue his earlobe. “That took will power.”
One slim thigh glides up his side with a deliciously fluid lack of friction and she twists around his body until her damply hot pelt is pressed tightly into the arcing flange of his unusually wide hipbone. She spreads herself against him for a moment and then climbs back to kneel astride his thighs. “Let’s have an early dinner. I’ve been ravished and now I’m famished…” She reaches down to grasp him. “…but this hasn’t vanished.”
“Neither vanquished nor finished,” he agrees as she kneads his solid, sticky flesh.
“Follow me.” Racheal lifts herself off the queen-sized brass bed and gently tugs him upward, her breasts swaying as she leans down over her prince for another kiss. She waits patiently while he pauses to change the record; leery of the inappropriate sentiments expressed in Layla, he chooses something he hopes will be more uplifting; It’s a Beautiful Day, with the Maxfield Parish album cover, portraying an ecstatic windblown maiden surveying a vista of blossoming sunlit clouds. Then, still gripping him firmly, Racheal leads him out of the bedchamber through the arched hall to the white-tiled bathroom.
The heat of the day is finally warming the ground floor apartment and clothes are an unnecessary burden. With her spare hand she turns on the taps, inserts the plug and tests the temperature while he admires the fine arcing lines of her pale body. She’s perfect; no fat mars her streamlined form, nor is she overly skinny; day after day, night after night, every blessed inch of her always turns him on.
When his beautiful bride stands she turns to him with a lascivious grin and has him again, enveloping and squeezing him against the cold wall tiles, with the length of her torso and limbs caressing him amid rising clouds of steam. Their nocturnal skin is almost as pale as the white ceramic at first, but a blush of arousal swiftly pinks their throats, breasts, thighs and bellies. Racheal holds on with gripping teeth, raking nails and irresistibly powerful thighs and loins. His eyes survey the pink-scalped crown of her head through rolling platinum waves as he holds her flexing buttocks in the palms of his hands, while she pleasures them both with the well-practiced internal motions of her silk-sheathed musculature.
Ram’yana is a pulsating staff in her velvet chalice; she chews and swallows him up in the rushing heat of their private sauna, abandoning her mind to loose herself in the mad thrusts of her hips and hungry loins, stretched and flexing around the rigid ramrod reaming her belly. His manhood is a pulsating fulcrum rotating through her spinning core as she rides the tiger’s tail to a massive shrieking explosion; then the witch girl hangs suspended in his grasp while the lovers suckle on each other’s tongues. When her self-impaling movements subside the nubile beauty keeps her prince’s engorged virility close-pressed and deeply embedded in her centre as she hangs breathless and helpless in his arms.
His sated young mate dangles lightly in his grasp while Ram’yana breathes deeply and stabilises his posture; he’s slowly learning the yogic techniques that allow him to recycle his seed, and to withhold it for as long as he wishes. Making love with an erect spine is a prerequisite for success in accessing his seminal vesicle and directing the rise of the Kundalini serpent, and he takes advantage of the moment to centre his breath amid the aromatic vortex of their mixing hormones.
He finds that when he breathes from the depths of his belly he can hold back the tide and draw the bursting seam of energy back into the seed at his body’s true centre, behind and below his navel; he comes with his beloved, as her - experiencing her orgasms in a delirious ecstasy of resonance that fills him with levity and energy, instead of draining him of vitality and nutrients. The longer it lasts, the further the unparalleled passionate sensations of their carnality extend toward eternity.
Sometimes - when she knows her ardent mate is about to succumb to the overwhelming, willful urge to plant his seed in her fertile womb – his Lady helps to hold her shaman prince’s spuming flow back. She uses her dexterous, sensitive fingers, exerting pressure on precisely placed points at the base of his shaft. Racheal has learnt to come over and again in their many moons of loving and has practiced the Tantric arts with her beau to a point beyond lust, beyond ecstasy, unto sheer bliss; now the girl is a formidable and sensitive lover, who knows how to best fly with her man to a timeless zenith of mutual unfolding Satori – or into an extended frenzy of mindlessly explosive, loin-drenchingly satisfying animal fucking.
As she hangs upon him in a semiconscious swoon, Ram’yana turns off the tarnished silver bath taps and carries the High Priestess through the hall to the kitchen, carefully laying her down upon the smooth bare boards of the table. They make long, slow love again and he watches, hears and feels her writhe, moan and scream until he’s certain she’s utterly satisfied, barely able to move as she lies back with her perspiration-studded breasts heaving and rolling to the rapidly rhythmic panting of her breath.
“Give me your eyes,” he murmurs, and Racheal’s eyelids slowly rise as her aqua irises roll downward to meet his gaze. It takes a moment for her to focus as her tongue laves her swollen wine-dark lips. When their pupils lock together he allows the magnetic union of their lust and love to draw his seed from his screaming roots, and her stunned and stunning face disappears into a flow of psychedelic shapes and colours, swirling around the Cheshire cat centres of her eyes.
White hot jets of electric plasm burst inside her opened womb and gush forth intermixed with her own precious fluids, to pearl in their pubic hair and spill across their thighs. The wild feline witch screams and squeezes and comes again, writhing with eyes fluttering in wide-open fixity on her lover’s ecstatic face as the teenagers blow themselves away. They drift together for a timeless time.
The prince comes back to his body, alerted by shadowy movements visible through the window of the adjacent apartment. Like all their rooms, the kitchen has neither curtains nor blinds and the reflected afternoon sunlight fully illuminates the white-walled room and their pale skinned naked bodies.
The tablecloth hangs folded over a high-backed wooden chair and Ram’yana stretches to reach it, pulling half-way out of his witch-wife. Racheal automatically holds onto him with her thighs and heels, moaning in protest. He casts the linen sheet up into the air and watches it float and settle to drape across her breasts and belly. “Don’t go,” she pleads, her warm bare feet pulling him closer. Unfazed by any potential voyeurs he lies down upon the tablecloth, feeling her firm breasts spread outward beneath the material. His long-fingered musician’s hands explore the familiar slopes and valleys of her body while he kisses her throat and inserts his tongue in her ear - relishing the way her body contracts around him as she squeals and giggles - before his whisper follows the wet tracks of his desire; “Love, thou art hungry – let me turn on the stove.”
He reaches down for a box of matches that’s fallen from the table and she struggles and squirms to keep him close. “No,” she moans, “I’m not hungry.”
“Thou hast to eat, love.”
“I’ve already had my fill,” she smiles, expertly kneading him inside her muscle-ringed core. “Plenty of vitamins and minerals.”
“In that case, it’s me that needs replenishing.” He strikes a light and a flaming globule of phosphorous leaps from the match head and lands on Racheal’s shoulder. Twisting in pained confusion, she slaps at the burning cinder and accidentally unsheathes him; she groans in genuine despair and slumps back onto the table, exhausted. Ram’yana kisses the tiny red mark he’s temporarily branded into her flawless skin and slowly withdraws from her suckling sex.
He lifts the girl up and carries her to the bathroom in his arms, carefully testing the temperature with his toes before depositing her limp flesh in the warm sudsy water.
“Mmm… feels so good…” she moans as she sinks to her ears, dragging him toward the bath and spreading her knees widely. Her breasts bob around buoyantly in the waves of foaming bubbles as he joins her and her eyes rove around the walls of the high-ceilinged bathroom. “We must paint the rest of this bathroom a deep glossy blue…” she finds her mouth filled with something altogether more palpable than words, and tenaciously draws her willing mate into the deep warm water with her teeth.
“Thou hast to eat something,” Ram’yana murmurs, and this time his Lady raises no objections.
A True Story