Tuesday, 4 March 2008

Stretching the Envelope - Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 3

Stretching the Envelope Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 3 Free loving clans of hippies live alongside musicians, artists, covens of witches, circles of feminists and separatists, growers and dealers, spiritual seekers, petty gangsters and a holy and unholy host of other freaks, exiles and outcasts in the first glimmering, predawn light of the approaching Age of Aquarius. Their circles mingle, mesh and cross-pollinate each other, while the seeds of their endeavours spread across the surface of the wider gene pool and slowly begin to sink into its denser waters.
The outsiders and exiles revel in their ostracised status, having cast as many toxic nostrums of a slave-driven society out of their systems as possible. They leave the dominant paradigm behind and create their own, avoiding all the straighteners, punishers, and the dollar-sucking demons of Mammon and The Man that they can - to open up new frontiers in a shrinking world of conformity.
As the lotus flower rises through mud, silt and water to reach the sun, the flower children burst from the straining seams of normality to escape the defeatist capitulation of their parents’ deathstyles in the sterile plasticised houses of the ‘Free World’.
Many of the children of the bloodless revolution live the Dream wearing rainbow-coloured glasses. Many swiftly learn that no matter how far you travel, you can’t leave yourself behind. The complete transformation of the self is a prerequisite for changing the world, and some of the young ones discover meditation, yoga and other useful ancient philosophies and techniques.
Their stay-at-home brothers and sisters are locked into an endless cycle of television, TV, school and fast food. They’re hypnotically eased onto the same sticky webs of self-deceit and the same whirring treadmills of pointless time-filling activity, which their parents keep spinning for their smiling, appealing, well-dressed overseers and taskmasters.
These ‘normal’ kids studiously learn how to fashion straightjackets and coffins for themselves and can’t wait to step out into the world and apply themselves to the task. They’ve been taught that trudging on a treadmill is the way to progress in life; ‘you can’t stop progress’ is their catch-cry. It’s also their excuse for living unexamined lives and swallowing unexamined lies, while mindlessly decimating the ecosystem. They wreck their health for ever-shrinking wealth that they won’t live long enough - or freely enough - to enjoy.
The kids are warned to avoid dirty hippies and told to keep away from similar ‘undesirables’ and ‘no-hopers’ or they may be exposed to ‘moral danger’ or ‘bad habits’. They’re repeatedly force-fed the lie that marijuana is a deadly and completely addictive drug (and not told the truth - that it’s one of the greatest, most versatile plants Humanity has discovered), but only the most stupid and gullible of the children believe it. Because of these ignorant lies, few believe the wiser elders who warn of the real lethal dangers of opiates and pharmaceuticals, such as the ubiquitous smack and speed.
The innocent children are told that masturbation will make them blind and that pre-marital sex is a heinous sin. If they choose to explore their sexuality they and their partners can be jailed and the ‘age of consent’ varies widely from jurisdiction to provincial jurisdiction. Patriarchy still rules; a man’s house is still his castle and private torture chamber, but the bum on the throne is feeling more insecure with each passing day. Most marriages are uncomfortable, uncomforting mirages maintained out of economic necessity; even violent relationships stay together ‘for the sake of the kids’. Children are hit with sticks at school and beaten with leather straps at home - following the brutal dictum of warlike bronze-age desert-dwellers - and the punch-drunk parents of the ‘modern’ world are told to ensure they don’t ‘spare the rod and spoil the child.’
Many kids have more than one type of rod to fear in their houses and churches - victims of another ancient perversion propagating itself under the sheltering umbrellas of the isolated family home and organised religion.
The children are told they live in a dog-eat-dog world where the survival of the fittest is the only natural law - and the ones who swallow this disingenuous medieval claptrap find themselves the victims of these self-fulfilling prophecies.
Brighter, wiser or older kids and precocious early developers discover that things are very different in the communes and enclaves of the diverse Rainbow Tribes (despite the mega-publicised atrocious example of Charlie Manson and a handful of others). One simple rule underpins the lives of the free and easy hippies; love thy neighbour. Many take the concept a step further, hearkening to the Wiccan credo of ‘And it harm none, do what you will.’
Some adopt the more modernist Thelemic code of the Crowleyans; “Love is the law, Love under Will.” All are aware that the Emperor is born as naked as everyone else, and know that what goes around comes around. The law of karma is only denied by the purblind, the desperate and the guilty. The Golden Rule is simple to understand and live by - unless you choose to live in the workaday dream-world suburbs of the hive, where it’s misconstrued to mean ‘he who has the gold rules’.
Running away from home becomes a common rite of passage for an entire generation. The luckier kids find themselves living in comfortable shared homes with friendly, open youngsters in an era of enlightening pleasure and excitement, where all their longings can be fulfilled and all their cravings satisfied. The only price of admission is their willing participation in an endless carnival of art, music, creativity and sensual exploration; sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.
The young people grow their hair long and band together in the cities, towns and farmlands. They rebuild Paradise on the slashed and burned acreages of dirt-poor pioneering ignoramuses - who sent themselves broke by successfully destroying the forests, soils and rivers. The new settlers grow their own food, replant trees and bring babies into a vastly cleaner and healthier world than that of the urbane sophistry they were raised in. They turn their backs on The Man and turn back the tide of decimation, holding slavering redneck loggers, miners and ‘developers’ back from the last sacred sanctuaries of Gaia.
Many of the children of the twentieth century have been irreparably damaged in the sanctity of their childhood bedrooms and bring their terrors with them, often suppressed beneath open smiles and jaunty demeanours. Every garden has its share of maimed escapees, willing victims and venomous serpents; rock spiders are always arriving in the communes, brandishing lures and tempting treats to enmesh the unwary in their webs. They dispense the dubious distracting toys and trinkets of civilization from the weighty baggage of the outer world that’s strapped firmly to their backs.
The High Priestess wakes bleary-eyed and sticky thighed in a tangle of sweaty sheets, on the huge mattress filling a quarter of their bed chamber. Late morning light streams through the iron-barred window and Lady Racheal squints past her dangling, tangling strands of long blond hair.
It takes a few moments to remember where she is, even after her eyelids rise against the inertia of sex-slaked sleep; she’s wrapped around the naked body of her first lover in a new bed in a new home, rousing to arousal. Her prince’s eyes flicker beneath lambently translucent lids and a fleeting memory of a dream washes her vision with forested vistas, superimposing the fading scenery over the white bedroom wall and its adorning oil-paint skins of her evolving artistry.
She sees an armored knight sheathed in jet and green, lance lowered at the unseen target of his charge. The vision twists into a flower-crowned goat with twisting spiral horns and she recognises the Fifteenth Arcanum – the Devil – leering and winking at her. The Devil peers through a veil and becomes an overarching deity blessing the union of the Lovers –its complementary tarot Trump. White birds flit to and fro around the crumbling summit of a towering cliff and scenes of battle in flaming jungle swamps swarm briefly across the cracks and dings in the plaster.
The summer heat and humidity of the Emerald City lays heavy upon the young priestess and her ripe body glistens with perspiration. She desperately needs to take a leak but can’t convince herself to move, savouring the textured warmth of her sleeping young man’s leg pressing ‘twixt her enflamed thighs. She slowly rubs her blonde mat against his muscle-sheathed thighbone and, gently wrapping him in her slim arms, attempts to wake him to her loving embrace.
Traffic roars through the tower-lined canyons beyond the squat occupied by the Tribe of Centraxis - an anarchic oasis comprising two large terrace houses slated for demolition, standing amid a moat of wasteland and ruins. The squats face a vast yawning hole that stands between them and the surreal corporate towers of the human termite hive. The tribe has annexed the buildings and their equally abandoned surrounds as a Centraxian base, knocking out walls to create a huge free communal warren for wayfarers, students, workers, artists, magicians and musicians, all living amid overgrown gardens of bananas, beans, sunflowers, tomatoes and pumpkins.
They commandeered the block of half demolished ruins, creating an outdoor archery range on one side of their enclosure. High walls encompass this urban segment of the non-contiguous Realm of Centraxis, but their doors and minds are always open. Abandoning the need for keys when they became living keys - washed clean of locks and clocks, and softly oiled with mind-opening unguents in their Initiations - the young men and women are secure and at home wherever they find themselves, free of fear and guilt by virtue of their innate honour, mutual loyalty and mindful nobility. They follow the original Golden Rule.
Their virtue is their shield, and the only thing that can leave them open to karma’s intrusions into their freedom is the betrayal of their principles. They share everything and are generous and forgiving of each other’s petty foibles, aware of the obligations inherent in true nobility. The Centraxians are a loving tribal family – and like most families they have secrets, envies and suppressed frictions lurking beneath the amiable supportive surfaces of their communal lives.
“Ramses.” Racheal’s whisper is followed by her moist tongue as it slips into his ear. He doesn’t react. She’s rarely seen him this exhausted before and tries to review the events of the preceding evening, but her mind is a confusion of festive images; wine goblets, the moot around the table, laughter, hash, music – and Ram’yana’s musical hands kneading her eager body. She seems to recall that she passed out in their bed unusually early, around one or two in the morn, but after that… nothing but a partial memory of a dream.
“Ram’yana.” Now her young man lies naked beside her and she becomes fully aware that her young body has made love the night before - but she can recall nothing of it. Why should you have all the fun, she complains to her flesh while she admires the lines of Ram’yana’s firm wispy-haired jaw. Or you, for that matter?
“My love,” she says more loudly, insistently, squeezing her thighs around his leg and airily stroking his nipple with her palm. She feels a lascivious need rising within her and decides not to deny the urgings of her insistent teenage flesh. Until a few weeks ago the Lady Racheal had been a virgin, too selective to find a man or boy to admire and admit into the mysteries of her intimacy. Finding the right mate and companion wasn’t easy for the young witch, who had begun her search the day she turned eighteen. Then she met Ram’yana – only a few months her junior but vastly more experienced and similarly gifted - and now she’s still making up for the lost, loveless years of her long adolescence.
She strokes his wide hipbone and narrow waist with tobacco and paint-stained fingers and kisses his beardless cheek and throat, licking the salt from his freckled skin as his flesh swells gratifyingly against her inner thigh. Her caresses deliver a rapid response as she explores the topography of his body, tracing a roundabout route that leads unerringly to the engorging object of her desire.
Slipping a slim hand between her legs, Racheal wraps her fingers halfway around the heavy, solid manflesh she’s coming to know so well. Ram’yana mumbles something unintelligible into her hair but remains immobile as he hardens in her palm. A guitar strums somewhere in the interlocked houses, beginning a series of repetitive chords that peal into the city’s soundscape; a kettle screams steamily in the kitchen below. “Ramses,” she calls insistently and he begins to snore softly.
Damn! Lady Racheal closes her eyes and strokes herself tentatively, sliding two fingers into her pubic hair and rubbing herself, slowly at first and then with increasing intensity as she homes in on the smooth pearl swelling between her fingertips. She flicks the first tendrils of guilt from her mind, eschewing all aspects of the illusory, judgmental mythologies drummed into her in childhood. The young priestess is moist and ready, poised to slide her fingers inside when she opens her eyes to the beautiful erect male animal lying next to her - and feels her body make an instant decision. Why waste it?
Her hand closes halfway around his fleshy mass and she positions him between her thighs, closing her legs around his morning glory and pushing him slowly and deliciously through her damp cleft, until his swollen knob emerges to squeeze between her flexing bum cheeks. The girl rocks her hips and saws the hot flesh against her clitoris. Delicious… Using her man’s sleeping body this way makes her feel devilish. I really shouldn’t… After a moment’s reflection she decides she’s merely being mischievous - and he wouldn’t mind if he knew. Besides, he’ll probably wake up…
“Wake up, love, ‘tis almost noon.” Racheal rocks her pelvis slowly, sliding her pelvis back and forth to rub her love button against her young man’s addictive perfection, reaching down to hold him firmly in place between her furry lips with a deft familiar touch. Her fingers sink into his flesh and her breath begins to flow as swiftly as the rampant heart beating behind her swelling breasts. He stretches in his sleep and rears irresistibly, stretched full-length between her nether lips, and she feels the hungry heat swelling behind her navel; her body’s demands won’t be denied for much longer. “Wake up, my love.”
She grinds him back and forth between the fur-lined feminine silk of her labia, pressing the roots of his trunk into her burning, burnished pearl. The perfect dildo… she muses. “Fuck me!” she yells and the guitar music abruptly stops. “You’ve never been so hard to wake...” Wake up! She presses her brow against his heart, hoping to reach him by projecting the thought directly into him - but her mental and physical urgings fail to wake her prince from his near-comatose state.
With a mischievous glee only lightly tinged with guilt, Racheal caresses her male’s nude body with her free hand, molding and engraving every facet of his anatomy into her sculptor’s kinesthetic memory as she uses his rigid cock for her private pleasure. “I need thee!” The sight and sensation of his smoothly handsome beauty moistens and heats her flesh until she can stand it no longer. She arches back, curving a perfectly formed leg into the air and rubbing the smooth mushroom cap of his long lingam against her engorged clitoris until her breath pours hot and ragged. The witch girl soars into a long, moaning, satisfying orgasm, reveling in the sight of her unconscious lover until her eyelids squeeze shut in excruciating ecstasy.
Her panting slowly subsides and she opens her eyes to see that Ram’yana hasn’t moved, seemingly unaware of her impassioned cries; and he’s still gloriously hard. The teenage priestess has never had the chance to do this with him before, though she often fantasised fucking a sleeping or chained prince or slave in her schooldays and nights - mere weeks ago, she realises with a shock - and the eroticism of her underhanded, steamy and seamy act makes her even hornier.
Now that the chance to fulfill her fantasy has arrived she’s hot to snatch the fully-fleshed reality and use her man shamelessly, but a twinge of guilt still gnaws at her; then his familiar solidity simmering against her overheated loins overwhelms her prudence and she comes to a decision. “Ramses,” she says, “I’m going to fuck you, all right? But first I have to take a leak. Wait right here…”
Not expecting a reply, Racheal slowly and carefully unwraps her body from his and draws back from him, as Ram’yana turns away to retract into a foetal ball. She worries over how she can possibly use him in that position as she throws a blanket over his nakedness, then wraps a floral towel around her own. She unlatches the bedroom door to step hurriedly into the hall, and is thankful the nearest toilet is free. Closing the door, the priestess listens to the sounds of the Centraxian commune; people are moving around and she can hear a conversation somewhere in the distance, mumbling through the rumble of traffic and the drone of distant aircraft. Am I really going to do it? The girl examines her conscience as she drops the lid and sits down. The guitar begins strumming again and she feels a sly certainty rising up her spine.
When Lady Racheal completes her toilet she eagerly scampers out of the room, excitedly anticipating the bed-games to come. She emerges from the bathroom to literally bump into the wiry bulk of the Cold Wanderer, who waits on the landing outside the bathroom. Amid the confusion the towel slips from Racheal’s flailing grasp and falls to the carpeted floor.
“Oops,” exclaims Wanderer. His pale blue-grey eyes appear dazed and distorted behind his thick glass lenses and she watches them widen as he unabashedly scans her nakedness from toes to crown, pausing at points of special interest. It isn’t the first time the prematurely balding anarchist has seen her naked, and Racheal unhurriedly raises a forearm to cover her ample breasts as best she can, demurely covering her damp pubic hair with her other hand.
She smiles as his eyes reach hers and bends to pick up the towel, just as Wanderer chooses that instant to do the same; her left breast mashes into the side of his head and he pauses while she jumps back a step. He slowly lifts the towel to her and his hairy cheek brushes against her belly. His beard sandpapers her skin while hairy knuckles scrape past her knee and touch her thigh and pubic hair in a series of unmistakably deliberate accidents – and his hand pauses to make contact with her swollen labia. Electric tingles rush though her body as she feels the unfamiliar textures and shapes of his fingers begin to move against her. I’ve never been touched there by another man…
Standing naked and exposed in the hallway, her fresh-come flesh pimpling in the draught, Racheal stares wordlessly into his lenses as Ram’s old friend and ally presses his other hand against her breast, slipping it beneath her palm. Give me the towel, she thinks, and after an interminable few seconds battling her will the Cold Wanderer sighs loudly and obliges by wrapping his arms around her and draping the cloth over her back and shoulders. She can feel herself blushing and is infuriated by the searing flush of arousal coursing through her rushing blood and vividly horny loins.
“Not so cold, really,” he says while she turns away and wraps the suddenly inadequate towel around her nakedness. Racheal turns to face him and feels even more exposed before his hungry regard.
“Cold enough,” she says with as much sarcasm as she can muster, impatiently thinking of Ram’s familiar flesh waiting in her warm bed; then she finds herself staring at the bulge in Wanderer’s army pants. The startled girl doesn’t pull away when the older man – all of twenty-five – steps up to her, unexpectedly grabs her slim arms in his calloused hands and kisses her full on the mouth, sliding his tobacco-stained, coffee flavoured tongue between her lips.
Racheal’s outrage struggles with the intoxicating lust raging through her body and despite her better judgment she relents to the unexpected intrusion, sucking his tongue between her lips and biting it gently as his hands begin to explore her more intimately. Crazy… she thinks; Madness - what am I doing… with Ram’s friend… It’s like kissing a teddy bear. She smiles around the strange throbbing tongue. Ha! Some friend… Oh, Goddess, what a weird life you give me…
“Mmmm,” the teenager purrs as Wanderer’s tongue slips out of her mouth. “So that’s what a beard feels like.” She takes a step back and rubs his cheek diplomatically with the hand that had so recently stroked her wet pussy, holding the skimpy towel up between them and dislodging his rough caresses with her other. I wish I hadn’t washed my hands. He begins to move toward her and she steps further from his reach. “He’s waiting,” she lies and walks backward, holding the towel in front of her and staring into Wanderer’s pleading eyes, until the bedroom door breaks the magnetic link to his unbidden animal lust. Goddess, Racheal thinks, nipples tingling as she drops the towel over a chair, diplomacy’s a bitch.
She turns to the bed and sighs with a mixture of relief and lust; her lover has rolled onto his back and sloughed off the blanket, and though he’s still asleep the girl is red hot and quivering with anticipation, unendurably inflamed by her encounter in the hallway. The square silver Talisman at the young shaman’s throat reflects sunlight directly into her eyes and her towel falls to the floor, instantly and fully forgotten as the bearded Cold Wanderer.
The nubile priestess bends down on all fours and creeps across the rug, a hungry tigress stalking sleeping prey, her breasts swaying comfortingly between her arms. “Time for breakfast! Rise and shine!” She halts by Ram’s side, lowering her head to tickle his loins with her long blond tresses, teasing him back to full size in preparation for her feast. The priestess opens a bottle of massage oil and dabs some into her palms, rubbing them together above his body. Then she wraps both hands around his staff - one atop the other to grasp a little more than half its length - and begins to stroke his now-familiar everlusting flesh. Racheal tries to touch her fingers and thumbs together around its girth, but even when she squeezes as tightly as she can she can’t encompass the blood-gorged cylinder.
“Wake up, sleepy head.” He swells even more until fever-hot veins pulse fiercely within her palms, purpling the divine pale rod that rises to worship her day and night. “Rise and Shine!” She opens her mouth wide, an inch from the summit, exhaling her hot live breath so softly the glans mists over as the proud phallus rises to full extension. The salty smell is irresistible and her tongue has to wrap around it, just below the bulging head; she tastes a saline pearl emerging from the tip and waits for him to jump awake.
Her lover doesn’t stir when her lips envelope the glans, rolling it lambently around her gums as she suckles, a young babe with a huge nipple completely filling her mouth. “Mmmmm.” She hums, vibrating her taut mouth around him. He really is out of it. Why doesn’t he wake up? Her eyes drift up to his face. He looks so young when he’s sleeping, like a young boy. Ram’s mouth is agape, dreams tracing flickering paths behind his long-lashed eyelids; his skin is whiter than the plaster wall but his cheeks appear flushed as always, bright cherry points dotting his high, sharply defined cheekbones. He needs to eat more.
Temptation drives her on, oiling her loins and firming her resolve while she laves her lingam, lips stretching wide to swallow the thick length half-way down ‘til her lips meet her hand. Careful to keep her teeth from his swollen flesh, she can barely take more without choking and gagging, despite months of regular practice. Following the insistent urges of her blossoming young body she blissfully fellates, masturbates and inflates her personal ramrod, soaking it with spittle and drawing the spicy salts of its masculine essences into her lasciviously sucking mouth. He has to wake up soon.
The world dissolves, leaving only the taste and texture of her beautiful cock and the rising need to plant it deep in her ravenous womb. Swelling lips trail up the curving length of flesh until they stretch around her huge knob and she can wait no longer; she releases the rearing shaft from her mouth and climbs aboard. Kneeling astride her sleeping mate - sprawled naked and unknowing between her thighs on their stained linen sheet - Racheal examines her conscience one more time. He’s mine, she decides after a moment, and he won’t mind. Look at him – so beautiful… She reaches down and rubs her big cock against her heated sex, gripping with both hands to position it as she clambers on. “O yessss…”
The witchy bride lowers herself slowly, swallowing up the swollen oval head of her personal familiar. Her fur-girt elastic lips stretch past her enslaved prince’s smooth, sponge-coated meat and lock tightly around the thick serpentine shaft beyond the bulge. “Mmm… Oh, oh my god…” Almost lost in lust, Racheal decides she won’t wake her lover now - not if she can help it; her fantasy is finally being realised and she doesn’t want to spoil it. It’s not like I’m actually raping him. He’s mine! She gazes down at his sleeping face. Or is he awake, just faking?
Intimations of doubt and guilt add a frisson of further excitement to her unbelievably aroused state. I’ve never felt so much before. She chews at him, exercising her womanly musculature on the first inches of her ecstasy. Every inch, every millimeter… Like electricity - my nipples are bursting… oh, fuckk… “Wake up, love… mmm, oh Goddess, uhh, oh darling – my prince - so fucking… mm… gorgeous…”
She grinds down inexorably until half his length spears into her and a throbbing heat fills her vagina and belly. This is my cock, my boy, all mine. Why shouldn’t I have him? Balanced on the balls of her feet with hands on her wide-spread knees for support, she wants to feel cock, just cock, holding herself away from the rest of his body with an athletic effort that distends her flexing muscles and tendons. Her legs burn all the way from her calves to her womb as she suspends herself impaled on her pole. Then she drops, guiding the thick arrow with her hands to force in as much as she can - until it hits the spot.
“OOhhh!” Racheal’s unbound shriek fills the room “Oh, fuck, oh Goddess, oh yesss!” When her bum touches down and mashes into the hairy softness of his oval roots, a flood of heated fluids races through her veins and pours from her cleft, drenching their thighs. She creams and screams with eyes squeezed shut and her hands claw at her breasts as her ecstasy pushes her even further over the brink of explosive oblivion.
The tribal priestess reels around her trance-bound mate and steadies herself, teary eyes opening to watch him intently, burning his features into her mind while her body takes over and begins to energetically fuck her living, sleeping sex toy.
The Lady Racheal surrenders to raw sensation for the first time in her life, without the superfluous clutter of emotions or games of propriety, fear or love - total immersion in hot, raw, incomparable sex, a surrender that unleashes the wanton fucking machine of her body to its rampant unbound demands. “Oh my god, oh man, this is what I’m made for!” she yells as Ram’s naked body bounces around on the mattress, pinioned by her ardour. The priestess knows that her cries fly through the walls and windows of the large communal dwelling, but she’s lost in the urgency of the moment, uncaring of any witnesses to her unbridled joy. “Oh Ramses… uhh, ohh, uhhngg!”
Racheal forgets her qualms and feels her mind drifting away while her supercharged flesh gallops beyond her control. She’s lost within the wild passions of her rampaging teenage body, surrendering the reins to its determined animal wisdom.
When she frees the willful Amazon waiting in the caverns of her instincts and gives it free rein, the wild witch discovers her flesh knows how to milk her male’s versatile shaft in the most satisfying ways, melding with it until he’s a seamless part of her, truly her cock roiling through her loins. She opens her mind to the inexpressible sensations and ecstasies undiscovered by her reasoning brain; my head stifles and gags my all-knowing flesh, she thinks, her mind desperately attempting to gain control of her attention. Shut up! Oh fuck, oh yes, this is so good! "Mmm…"
The priestess absorbs the enduring sights and sensations from a remote vantage, somehow remaining linked within the wildly fucking white female ape as she rams herself up and down, bouncing and writhing in a frenzy of orgasmic shrieking astride her prime mate. She comes again and again, riding her cock all the way into a frothing, galloping, breathless trance, slumping dazedly across her docile slumbering male and gripping him inside and out with all the might of her primeval embrace.
Racheal gradually returns to herself, exercising her muscles around the hard fleshy tube resting tautly inside her. Gripping and releasing, contracting and relaxing, she tries to entice the hot seeds swimming in its roots to explode up into her womb and blow her to heaven yet again. I’m like a vampire, sucking, sucking, while he sleeps...
“Come,” she entreats him, “come inside me, come my love!”
As she practices her wiles she chants in his ear, a spell she’s learned from a girlfriend at school camp. Nadia had lain with her beneath the Milky Way, making wishes on shooting stars. The dark-skinned immigrant girl sang the song and then giggled as Racheal sang it back to her. She told her it was an old chant to make boys spurt their seed quickly, beyond their control - and then she’d rolled onto Racheal (though she wasn’t called Racheal then) and played with her budding boobies. It had been the first time another person had touched her that way. Then the old bag teacher had discovered them and literally dragged them back to their dormitory bunks.
The spell comes back to her without conscious thought; this is my first chance to test it. The Centraxian High Priestess croons the unfamiliar words into her young groom’s ear while milking him with her straining young membranes, masticating his meat and thirsting to drink deeply of him. She feels him swell to the spell and thrills to the bulging heat rising up his shaft – she can feel it expand inside her, rising within him, within her, within them both until a bursting fountain of sticky white heat erupts into her flexing pussy and she drives his huge spurting cock all the way home.
“Ohh! Ohhh! Ram! Come, oh, come inside me! Oh, ohh, ummm, ohhh, yes, oh my love, my ohh man, my prince oohhh!” The searing bomb-burst melts her mind and blows her over the edge of endurance as the flaming stream merges with her steaming flesh.
An immeasurable time later Racheal realises she’s drooling on her prince’s chest. O Goddess, thank you for this cock…thank you for this beautiful man… Then her mind switches gear. Glad I’m on the pill. She knows that hers is the first (and maybe last) generation of young women gifted with the chance to experience the raw unadulterated power of unsheathed sex, with no fear of pregnancy, guilt or incurable disease - and she thanks her lucky stars. “Wow, Nadia,” she thinks aloud, “that really worked.” She has no fear of waking Ram’yana now. “After all, if you could sleep through THAT…”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t, my Lady.” The familiar drawling voice rumbles softly behind her, then continues tremulously; “That is… if you don’t mind…” Racheal's body clamps down and freezes, her muscles contracting around the thick manhood illicitly crammed inside her brazen sex. A True Story
Continues… - R.A.
Images - Author's

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Posted by The Prince of Centraxis at 1:27:00 PM

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