Moments of highly-charged emotion engrave themselves in time, in the architecture of space and matter, in the fluid protoplasm of living cells and in the aetheric matrix that underlies all forms and manifestations. The cosmos resonates with echoes of any charged instant embedded within its flowing template. Images are stored at all levels of resolution - tenuous or vivid scenes accompanying a passionate outburst of psychic energy at the moment of its impassioned expression.
Frozen moments hover on the fringes of time, thought-forms vibrating and flowing through the mindfield of consciousness, all accessible when viewed from the right positions and angles. The multiverse is a fractal fluid hologram, an infinitely faceted crystal through which all possibilities rotate and spiral into being.
In the electric instant of her surprise, The Lady Racheal has an infinitesimal time to digest the moment - but time expands to infinity when the moment is momentous. Slipping through the layered veils of reality in an unprecedented psychosexual fugue, the High Priestess hears the intruder’s words echoing in her mind. They float through her frozen body as an extension of her conscience, flying home to roost in the young witch’s long haired skull.
A wave of guilty embarrassment is accompanied by a warm flush that she knows is rising to blush her pale nude skin with a pink glow, betraying her fluster with its carmine lustre. The first image that flashes through the tribal witch-girl’s mind is a guilty confession to her beloved, in which she breaks down and cries when faced with her patently dishonourable behaviour.
In a flash she sees Ram’yana turning away from her, his arm rising to open a tent-flap that reveals a long curving corridor dwindling into the distance; a lonely trek leading past doors half-blocked by talentless dilettantes, smiling do-nothing teachers, bowtie-wearing petty entrepreneurs and corpulent lustful businessmen. As she trudges along with her portfolio under her arm, each of the members of society’s gauntlet tears away a piece of her art or her clothing, until she has nothing to cover her nakedness but the shrinking portfolio containing her fading artwork.
The whole scene passes in a single burst that encompasses the course of a potential lifetime, and another image bores through her blown-open mind from a completely different angle - a scene of terror, in which her beloved duels with the voyeuristic interloper in a bloody morass of wrestling and carnage; the two tribal friends are literally tearing strips off each other. Both of the Centraxians strike, batter and gouge at their blood brother’s flesh, and the knowledge that the men are fighting over the Lady Racheal fills her with a loathsome guilty pride.
The next instant she’s floating in a swimming pool whose waters flow over an invisible brink to merge with a sunlit ocean, mirroring the hue of her eyes. She’s dressed in a one-piece cerise swimming costume made of a strange, stretchy material that clings to her slim body like a second skin, and a bronzed athletic man with short black curly hair is turning toward her.
Oh, Goddess… At the intrusion of thought the scene shifts again.
The young seer sees herself naked and wantonly brazen, reveling in the throes of passion while being passed around and felt and filled by many hands and bodies at a drunken orgy in an opulent mansion. Dark waters lap beneath parquetry and floorboards and she can hear faint voices calling to her from beneath the unquiet waves.
Suddenly, she’s caressing a pair of small blonde-topped heads with both of her well-manicured hands, squatting down awkwardly in expensive high-heeled shoes to adjust a young boy’s coat and lightly kiss his pink-cheeked face. The child is a miniature version of the sleeping teenage boy she’s sitting astride in the Centraxian stronghold. The image of maternity shocks her, hurling the priestess from her visions as time returns her to the moment and she gasps with shocked surprise.
Racheal’s psyche spins as her nubile body flexes around her sleeping mate and the intruder’s words batter at the unsteady walls of her mind. Tell him? About this? She tries to imagine the words tumbling from her lips, but can’t seem to phrase them in her mind. How? It was an accident? Just one of those things? Time begins to unfreeze and the tongue-locked, guilt-ridden words encrusting her mind - that fail to fit with eternity’s unbroken flow of truth - are cast from her secret mental stream, leaving her in dazed immobile confusion. What does he mean – ‘mind’? If I don’t mind? Her thoughts spin as she recalls the identity of the bearded man who’s burst into her very private fantasy, and a fury rises within her that supplants her guilt and shame.
His familiar accented drawl reveals the unseen interloper’s identity; the Cold Wanderer stands somewhere inside the threshold of their bedchamber. “Oh, you’ve been a naughty priestess.” The man’s voice quavers slightly as he speaks. I didn’t latch the door - he must have snuck in while I was… blissed out. The Lady Racheal’s mind scrabbles furiously to deal with this unheralded intrusion into their hitherto inviolate bedchamber – it’s the first time someone’s deliberately burst in on them univited, at any rate. Has he been there all along – watching me taking liberties with Ram?
Her exposed sex is stretched around her sleeping mate’s hard young shaft, swollen pink and leaking frothy white fluids; the most private details of their anatomy and their flagrant coital union are fully revealed to the man standing behind her. Just as the girl turns her head to reprimand him she senses the Centraxian nomad’s barefoot approach and he looms over her; Racheal sits frozen in shock when she feels warm slimy liquid spray across her cheek and throat, streaming in gouting spurts and dripping torpidly down the sweat-slaked curves of her shoulder and breast.
The young priestess looks up in open-mouthed astonishment at the fully clothed bearded man, standing over her with his manhood hidden in his hairy hands. Wanderer jerks off wildly as he grunts and sprays again, a fresh pulse spurting from the dark purple head grasped within his sweaty palms; he aims at her face and hits his mark, and the lukewarm white goo spurts into Racheal’s blinking eyes as her body automatically flexes and contracts around her mate.
The stream splashes past her eyelashes and into her astonished mouth while he moans and sprays again. Her reprimand dies unspoken as the jism jets past her stunned pink lips and she surprises herself by automatically curling some of the curiously bitter cream into her tongue and swallowing it. It sticks in her throat like phlegm before finally going down and she savours the totally unfamiliar flavour of another man for the first time. Then she remembers what he’s doing and realises what she’s done and glares at him. “Don’t worry,” she snarls, “I’ll tell him myself. And I’ll tell him about this, too!”
The older man leers at her through thick convex lenses. “Come on - I watched yer rape him…” his dilated eyes glint as his lip curls, “…er, fuck him in his sleep. Yer a very horny girl, you know that?” The Wanderer smirks at her, his voice little more than a slurred mumble. “That’s my seed on yer skin. And in yer mouth, too,” he says, still stroking himself.
“It’s a flavour I don’t want to get used to.” Acutely aware of his lustful eyes on her sex-slaked body she decides not to cover herself; the towel’s too far away and the blankets are tangled up under us. Anyway, I’m proud that he’s seen us, she tells herself. She tastes Wanderer’s strange semen and feels it drip and slide into her sweaty crevices, mingling with the lovers’ mixed fluids. He seems to be really out of it, she notices. “Not at all.”
“It grows on you.” He leers and steps forward, pulling her head up slowly by her long blonde hair. “Ram!” she cries, but not too loudly; she doesn’t want to alarm the household – yet. Her mate doesn’t stir when she shakes him and grips his shoulders desperately. “Ramses!” Oh no - he won’t wake up! Wanderer’s half-limp organ slimes against her cheek.
“Don’t! What are you…” I don’t want this – the contemptuous jerk! He’s laughing at me! But the heat rising in her loins overpowers her best intentions and she finds her treasonous tongue slipping out of her mouth, to gingerly lick at the sticky retracting circumcised cock protruding from his open fly. He doesn’t deserve it and he sure doesn’t deserve me. Yet the momentum is somehow undeniable and she takes him completely inside her mouth, barely resisting the temptation to bite down hard. It’s just like my fantasy… except I never imagined it with him.
“Oh yes, Rache - oh, honey,” Wanderer says, echoing two of Ram’s pet names for her. “Mmmm, oh girl, honey Lady, yer so beautiful, oh, and yer feel sso good…” The tribal priestess finds she can easily take all of the nomad’s softening flesh in her mouth; it begins to harden slowly as she tongues the head inside her cheeks, tasting tobacco and coffee in the reek of the bitter flesh. This is easy, compared to sucking Ram… but tastes so different…
“Oh Rache, oh honey… mm, oh fuck, don’t worry…” he rambles on as she works him around in the moist cavern of her mouth. “Mmm… I won’t tell him a thing now… oh, girl… and, uh, oh yeah, oh honey, don’t worry, oh yeah Rache, mm, take yer time… mmm… he’ll be out for hours.” The swollen meat rises inside her tender distending cheek and she feels the resonance inside her belly and tight young membranes, locked around Ram’s semi-eternal hardon.
Wanderer’s words filter through the confusion of her teenage lust and girlhood three-way fantasy. How could he know that? The Centraxian divinatrix notes his obvious intimation of lurking deceit, barely concealed within his opaque boast. Then Racheal is overwhelmed by the far more urgent knowledge that she wants him, wants anyone, needs to explore her blossoming sexuality more and more with different horny bodies… yet the question nags at her as she squeezes her thighs around her sleeping lover. How does he know Ramses won’t wake up? The stark nerve-tingling reality of being filled with two cocks for the first time in her young life fills and fells the girl’s thoughts, subsuming her in the vivid manflesh stretching her most tender membranes.
She stops resisting the way her body warms to the sensation as Wanderer hardens in her mouth “Mmmm.” I always wanted to have two men at once, even if it has to be him… there’s plenty of time for others… The witch girl loses herself in the funky odours and salty meats filling her slippery orifices, tying herself into the carnal daisy chain of betrayal. “Mmm…” The Canadian staggers against her, steadying himself with calloused hands on her smooth shoulders. He seems really out of it… but no smell of alcohol… Betrayal…
The word echoes in her mind. Betrayal. Like rape. Her eyes roll down to Ram’yana’s sleeping face, limned in morning light. This could be rape. The world jars her mind and she despises the way the single bare syllable thrills her as Wanderer’s several inches probes the back of her throat. Am I raping thee, my lovely man? She begins to glide up and down the sleeping youth’s well-oiled shaft. Mm… I could be… oh, Goddess, yes… but not if I tell thee later, surely, she rationalises.
Even as her nose sinks through the gap in Wanderer’s trousers and flattens against his hairy belly, her mind remains on Ram’yana. Thou canst wake me like this any time… please…. Oh yess… “Mm…” She rises upward, savouring every inch of her young man as she hums and tongues his swaying American friend.
Racheal rides with a mounting lack of inhibition until Wanderer begins to move inside her mouth, pushing his crown into her throat; she freezes half-way up the sleeping youth’s erection and her teeth clamp down gently on Wanderer’s flesh. Oh what am I doing? I have to stop…
But her treacherous body retains its inexorable hold over her fey altering will, thrusting and sucking, bucking and bouncing as the Cold Wanderer enters and blocks her throat. Am I being raped? the girl wonders as she suckles deeply, growing desperately hungry for the unprecedented taste of a new male’s milk. She starts squirming on her unresisting mate, his ever-ready spire a constant spur to her yearning. Am I actually raping my beautiful sleeping male animal while this hairy manbeast masturbates in my mouth? “Mmnng.” O goddess, o fuck, oh fuckk… “Mmmm… Nghhh!” Can’t breathe…
“Oh Racheal, sweet darlin’, I’ve wanted yer since the first time…” Wanderer’s strong hands hold her face firmly in place, his voice wavering as he thrusts between her lips. “Mm, yeah… Don’ worry about Ram, he had too much wine – oh fuck, princess, mm, oh yeah - with too many additives.” Wanderer works her head around his rigid flesh and groans loudly with pleasure while Racheal fights for breath. “Mmph!” Ram’s never fucked my face this way… ‘additives’?
Racheal fucks herself into a wild frenzy, abandoning herself to the livid sensations of riding her beautiful hard young male, while being cruelly used by an older man for his own gratification. If not for her inability to get enough air, she might be enjoying sucking the strange cock as much as Wanderer obviously was, moaning loudly as he squeezes her breasts in his grasping hands. The girl feels the beginnings of a mind-numbing orgasm in her thighs and belly as she bounces up and down, impaling herself more forcefully than Ram’yana ever has.
The bold intruder increases his tempo and the girl begins to feel the jittery edge of real panic stealing up inside her. He’s fucking my face, he’s going to come down my throat and choke me! “Mmng!” Her hands reach up to press against Wanderer’s belly but the man is almost lost in the throes of his pleasure, only slowing a little at her obvious discomfort. Ramses… “Mnggph!”
Ram’yana lies in a stupor while the wiry American prods cruelly into Racheal’s lips and the horny girl feels the exciting rush of another mind-blowing explosion rising in her loins. Orgasmic suffocation drives her into panic; she finds herself observing the scene from a distance as her body screws her lad mercilessly while Wanderer pumps into her in time with her bouncing self-impalement - as she futilely attempts to push him back to give her air. The size and strength of the mature male standing over her soft vulnerable body makes her suddenly recall she’s still a young eighteen year old girl, only weeks from her virginity – despite everything she’s experienced in her exciting few weeks as an uninitiated member of the Court of the Central Axis. Wanderer’s pubic hair tickles her nose and lips and his hairy sack bounces against her chin as she grunts for air, deciding whether to bite down on him or not.
The Canadian grasps the girl’s head in his large rough hands, wraps her blond locks around his sinewy fingers and moves her head and throat around his member, fucking himself with her mouth, jerking off inside her lips and throat. Yet all thought of rape is banished from her mind as time stretches toward eternity and the young priestess comes moaning over and again until she’s a dual-chambered sex machine, a female feline on mindless heat – the wild, horny feral creature that the well-behaved girl has always known she was capable of becoming.
She can’t stop bucking and fucking the sleeping prince any more than she can stop Wanderer pulling her back and forth by her hair. As the man approaches his climax she stops sucking at him, suddenly afraid his spicy cream will spurt into her throat so copiously that she’ll inhale and drown as it spurts from her nostrils and chokes her. Her tremulous panic fuels the image in a feedback of fear and lust, and she gags around his meaty tube as she sucks at whatever air she can.
Then her terror-driven vision becomes a reality. The unendurably hot spice of their explosively perverse secret sexual conspiracy pushes her over the top, and Racheal passes out when the hairy beast’s sticky come jets down her throat until it sprays from her nose – at the same moment that her recumbent partner’s hot jetting sperm unexpectedly bursts into her belly, breaking the dam of her consciousness.
Rough fingers suspend her, entwined in her hair. She feels a gentle yank upward and she comes to, half athwart and fully enclosing her young man; Wanderer’s already softening penis is shifting around inside her mouth, lubricated by globs of his bitter semen that impede her gasps for breath. Trails of the stuff cover his army pants and run down past her mouth to drip from her chin, hanging from her nostrils like sticky snot. She slips her lips from his salty cock, reaches for the sheet and blows her nose, contracting around the solid shaft inside her belly.
Racheal knows she’s only been unconscious for a few moments when Ram’yana’s rod throbs and sprays inside her again and she swoons, pulling away from the man looming over her gasping body and palpating her soft firm breast. Long white streamers trailing from her face, she falls across her lover’s smooth chest and passes out completely.
Racheal wakes at sunset, utterly relaxed – and alone - in the sticky bed. She stretches catlike, luxuriating in the hot, not unpleasant semi-pain of her stretched, sated membranes. Someone has covered her with her colourful patchwork queen-sized eiderdown and she snuggles down into it, listening through the distant blare of peak-hour traffic for any sounds of movement in the buildings. Then it all comes back to her.
What will I tell him? I have to tell him. If I don’t that bastard will anyway. O goddess that was so good… and it’s going to be so hard living here with both of them… She sits up, starkly aware that she’s reached a fork in her road. I’d better find him and tell him now.
The Lady Racheal springs into action, only pausing to throw a short blue cotton robe over her semen-stained nakedness. A cold slug pours out of her and trails down her aching leg as she strides to the door, so she gets a tissue from the dresser and dabs at herself until she’s sure she won’t be embarrassed. Then she runs her fingers through her hair and throws the unlatched door open to stalk the graffiti-lettered hallways of the Centraxian squat, checking one empty living room after another.
While quickly freshening up in one of the detritus-filled communal bathrooms she attempts to rehearse a range of potential confrontations and conversations with Ram and/or Wanderer, but her thought won’t gel as she washes the Canadians crust from her face and breasts. I really need a shower. The butterflies in her ribcage drive her onward, and she leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom to search the maze-like warren.
Finding no-one around, she pulls the drawstring that turns on the kitchen light, ready to slake her remaining physical needs with a tuna sandwich. Li Po appears unexpectedly with his acoustic Maton guitar in hand and stops abruptly at the sight of her. His sensitive nose crinkles. “Have you seen Ram?” she asks, pulling her robe closed around her throat. The young man stares at her weirdly before replying; “He’s on the balcony.”
“Thanks.” Feeling a blush rising up her neck and face she turns away from the feline young musician and faces the cutting board, fixedly concentrating on making the sandwich. “Want some?” She asks the handsome Chinese Australian, who watches her with unusual intensity; unusual for him, at any rate...
“You bet I do,” Li Po replies as Racheal dazedly realises the split-level intent implicit in their words. “Wanderer’s gone out,” he reveals, apropos of nothing.
“Uh huh,” she says noncommittally around a mouthful of tuna and wholemeal bread. Shoppers and workers stroll past the uncurtained kitchen window, many furtively glancing in at the scene of culinary carnage in the communal hippie house. Racheal is unusually sensitised to the stare of an overall-wearing bear of a man, who pauses to look her full in the face, his dark eyes shifting to linger on her enticing Bohemian form.
The young priestess is suddenly acutely aware of her undeniable power over male human animals; a shiver rushes through her scantily covered body as she stares into the middle-aged stranger’s eyes. Why be shy or embarrassed? Firmed by her decision, she turns to face Li Po.
“It’s all just fun,” the priestess says cryptically, gauging his response. Then she kisses the boy sweetly on his full lips, utterly aware of the intently watching pedestrian, and lifts her leg to rub her naked thigh against his trousers. His leg tightens and hardens against her soft thigh and she wraps her calf around his slim muscular limb, kissing him again. His body’s so warm, so smooth...
“Coming to the balcony?” she asks, eyeing him carefully. “I have a joint of Tibetan temple ball.” Li Po replies with a winning dimpled smile and Racheal winks at the man in the workaday world outside the barred window as she leads the young man to the stairwell.
Prince Ram’yana lounges on the front balcony of the Centraxian squat clad in a kilt and Russian bearskin hat, a gaily painted wrought iron balustrade shielding him from the eyes of curious passers by. Racheal leads Li Po to the long weather-beaten lounge and hurls herself into Ram’s lap, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him fervently. He responds enthusiastically and Li Po waits until they’ve broken their clinch before he speaks. “Did you say something about a joint of hash?”
Racheal passes him a pre-rolled joint she secreted in her slim pocket during the party and Li Po lights up, looking out across the massive excavation that’s hollowing out the sandstone substrate of the
“It’s time,” Ram’yana intones. What does he mean? Racheal wonders. Then understanding dawns that he’s not asking her to reveal all, but referring to the sunset and the ritual it portends. The Centraxian priestess extricates herself from his lap and he stands up, catching the rays of the setting orb. They all rise together and make a link to the rest of their tribe, feeling the glowing solar tendrils spread from their centres to join in bright filigree that mantles the Sun with a halo of connectedness.
Images of their absent companions flicker through their conjoined minds, bringing impressions of the current states and various positions of their Centraxian comrades around the globe. The web scintillates behind their eyes as they taste the flavours of the tribe and share their collected Mind.
Then the Sun slides into a red chasm and disappears behind the base of an office block, and Racheal takes the smoke from Li Po’s hand and relights it. They pass the Tibetan hashish between them as the streetlights flicker on.
Ram’yana strokes the tangled hair of his betrothed and speaks into her ear; “I know, love,” He says it quietly, facing her directly. She’s pinned by the moment she knew must arrive; guilt, fear and anxiety vie for supremacy in her confused state. My face must be an open book to him. Before she can say anything he continues. “Li Po told me. He saw and heard it all.”
“Well…” the musician’s almond eyes roll toward her, somehow unable to focus on her face. “Most of it, anyhow. A lot.” She looks from one youth to the other and Ram’yana reaches out and draws her shivering body into his embrace, reassuring her with a soft melding kiss on her luscious bruised lips. I feel like a baby in his strong arms. Can he taste Wanderer?
“It’s all right,” he croons and strokes her long hair as she leans against his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was so tired; I’ve never felt this slow. It feels like I’m coming down from a Mandy.” The moment elongates. “I didn’t think you were ready for that kind of thing. Silly of me. I don’t own you, after all,” he rambles.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the priestess demurs. “I’m all yours, body and soul.” Her declaration silences him for a moment. “And I’m yours,” he swears with brimming eyes. “But I want you to know you’re free to make love with other men – or women.”
Li Po averts his gaze and begins to pick out a melody on the Maton. “I know what we need,” he suggests and the tension shifts. “We all need to blow ourselves away with a really good Trip. That G.I.’s coming over tonight, fresh off the big boat, and he has a shitload of acid. And other stuff.” The melody plays on.
“A G.I.?” Ram echoes. “You mean he has the real thing? Not those Blue Moons?”
“Yep.” Li Po stops playing. “He’s supposed to be coming back here tonight. Freedom found him staggering around the Cross and he tried to pick her up, so she brought him back for a pipe. He’s over at Fnord Fortress – and Kha-Aan highly recommends the stuff as ‘of the rarest vintage’. Owlsley, man, Owlsley!”
“Sandoz quality, eh? Then you’re on, and so are we,” Ram’yana laughs, watching Racheal’s glittering eyes as she nods cautiously. “If he turns up. How much?”
“Two-fifty each. But they’re California Sunshine, man!”
“Groovy!” enthuses Racheal.
For five bucks an ounce of leafy greens could be theirs, for fifteen a big bag full of seedy heads. For twenty they could score some hash. But for two dollars and fifty cents you could go to another planet, an entirely different reality, and return – sometimes unscathed but never the same. All the real nature-loving hippies avoided white powders and pills as pharmaceutical, money-making poisons. But L.S.D. – real L.S.D. - that was different, an exceptional exception.
“I’ve never done acid,” Racheal mumbles querulously.
“Don’t worry, love,” Ram’yana assures her. “It’ll be my first trip for months. I’ll stay with you and we’ll have a beautiful set and setting.”
“We’ll all stay with you,” insists Li Po. “Arne says he’s in, and T. Ruth, and Marco, Kha-Aan and Freedom… and Wanderer and… me, too, of course.”
“Then we’d better get ready.” Racheal’s heart pounds behind her breastbone, an adrenalised rush pumping through her. “Acid. Wow.”
“High time for your initiation, my lady,” Ram’yana reminds her, “to fully enter into the Realm of the Central Axis and become our true High Priestess.” His fingers dance up her familiar thigh and reach under the hem of her skirt while a big piston plane roars over low and slow, vibrating the aging building. He kisses her cheek and whispers into her ear; “I was awake, love. It felt fantastic.”
A True Story
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