The children of the revolution basked in the light of a day that could end in a single bright moment, when all of Humanity’s elaborately embroidered civilizations might evaporate overnight without warning. ‘One flash and you’re ash’ was a common expression, instantly understood by all who heard it. Most everyone believed that a Sword of Damocles hung poised over their heads, ready to fall at the slightest sign of social instability or transformation.
In the red herring, red-baiting, Communist-hating years of the old Cold War, the citizens of the ‘Western World’ believed similar things about the Red East that the Communists believed about the Capitalist West. “Soviet Union” meant “
In either hemisphere, questioning the dominant paradigm of military-industrial feudal rulership was deemed foolish, unpatriotic and seditious. Whether they were unpaid peasants, wage-slave treadmill operators or hapless bureaucrats, the people of the late Twentieth Century excused their mindless behaviour by perpetuating the fantasy that they couldn’t rock the leaky boat when everyone was in the same unsound, war-bound vessel. They slowly became numbed enough to believe the Orwellian dictum that ‘war is peace’ and built machines that would eat their children and poison their descendants for money-grubbing corporate gangster ‘elites’.
When you’re repeatedly told that Armageddon is a button-push away and you all have to pull together if you’re to row the boat ashore, hallelujah! The well trained hive-bound domesticated primates co-operate – and close their eyes to the crimes committed in their name by murderous armies, war industry tycoons and dynastic gangster governments. Ingrained hostility almost seems natural when little children have been ordered to salute flags and make patriotic oaths on both sides of the Ideological Curtain for generations - and when parents customarily give impressionable youngsters toy weapons as presents, to act out the eternal cat and mouse game of Pyrrhic victory and brave pointless sacrifice.
There’s nothing new or original in the astoundingly profitable business of destruction and all the industrious reconstruction that follows – patriotism has been the last refuge of scoundrels for millennia and the worst scoundrels are usually found atop the pediments of society, running the peasants from pillar to post. But in the Cold War the protection racket of government reached its apotheosis, and everyone everywhere could be coerced, threatened, blackmailed and turned into mindless overworked wage slaves for the first time in history.
The purblind people were taught that Spaceship Earth was an inexhaustible treasure-trove of forests, minerals and other substances that would continually be there, to be used in an endless money-spinning phony war. The Communist era lasted a lifetime, and for two generations the farce of ‘Superpower Rivalry’ continued, unexamined and unchallenged except by radical, unblinkered youngsters who screamed the truth in the streets and universities, pointing out that the empires had no clothes. They were beaten, teargassed, imprisoned and vilified for their troubles.
When the ongoing tepid non-war drew yet another fresh generation into its salivating maw, when the military-industrial-business complex of invested interests held nations of grey flannel suits by their striped necktie throats - when tens of thousands of thermonuclear warheads hung poised and ready to be flung into the living, breathing, fragile biosphere by mighty, brainless colossuses, it was time for many to pack up and leave.
And that’s just what a large proportion of the best and brightest did when threatened with senseless annihilation; they left the bulls-eye targets of the fragile urban metropolises and returned to the land, to learn what life was really all about. They abandoned their workaday, beurocratic brothers and studious secretarial sisters to fight the rising tide of neo-feudal fascism in the concrete guttered trenches of urban protest and turmoil – left them behind in the toxic, gritty cities, to ultimately sell out or be sold out when the ephemeral superseded luxuries of society’s seductions slipped their greasy, cancerous tendrils into a legion of open but aimless young minds and bodies.
A comfortably numbed society of middle-class ex-protesters sat drinking noxious factory beer in front of corporate idiot boxes, idly wondering where the revolution had gone - proving the hippies had been right when they said ‘never trust anyone over thirty’. They listened to the music of heroic protesting bards from the flowering years of the Summer of Love while they planned for their next brief holiday in a plastic hotel, desperately padding their books for the ever-lurking taxman amidst the ruins of their mortgaged dreams.
The few that escaped the system swore they’d stay wild and free, almost invariably deciding it was better to rule themselves in
Some created enclaves in the cities and towns and a free flow of people and ideas streamed between communes and collective farms, artist’s colonies, shared townhouses and huge agglomerations of suburban squats. Unplanned and unpredictable, the counter-culture flourished and grew as its ideas began to cross-pollinate and spread into the fossilised feudal mainstream.
The common talk on the fringes still revolved around a complete restructuring of society and it wasn’t conducted in whispers, but was broadcast through loudhailers and community radio stations, spread through all manner of pamphlets, newspapers and magazines and transmitted face to face in meeting halls, universities - and the prolific prison cells that held a legion of victimless free radicals alongside the perpetual underclass of impoverished gambling losers.
The tribe of Centraxians dwelled in this half-light of the nascent New Era, in the generation betwixt the false Dawn of the Age of Aquarius and the transforming twilight of the Harmonic Convergence. It was an era when everyone, at one time or another, found themselves imagining the end of everything they could see around them. Most everyone experienced the same vision at one time or another; they’d have a momentary flash of everything disappeared in a single blinding instant, all the way to the horizon - all dreams and aspirations, all the works of Humanity and their own fragile bodies, vapourising in a single apocalyptic white-hot explosion that blew you away so fast you never had time to know you were gone. Such was life.
It was a world that had developed a deep schizophrenic chasm in its collective psyche, a fracture that was rent wide open during the weeks of the Cuban Missile Crisis – forever capitalised in the minds of those who lived through it – when all the peoples of the advanced nations realised how close they were to utter oblivion.
Men and women wandered cities and suburbs, understanding that this could be their last day on Earth. Reactions ranged from utter denial to total psychotic shock, with every nuance of neurosis in between, and in late 1962 - just after the planetary lineup that heralded the precessional dawning of the astrological Age of Aquarius – the mad, M.A.D. tenet of Mutually Assured Destruction changed human cultures, fears and aspirations forever.
Nothing ever quite returned to the fondly imagined former state of feudal-industrial ‘normality’ and the Bohemian counter culture was swollen by a new generation of fringe-dwellers and bold pioneering explorers, out beyond the frontiers of the hidebound collective imagination.
Oz was as far as anyone could get from the whims and winds of global politics and neo-industrial waste (excepting perhaps for
Now, as the tribe of Centraxians expands and establishes bases in the Emerald City and the rainforest remnants of a primordial wilderness, a bloodless coup has overthrown the nation’s duly elected government and leader. The sacrificial White Lamb had brought free university education, free national health, equal pay for women, fault-free divorce, land rights for some of the desert dwelling indigenous people, ended the county’s involvement in the Vietnam war and pardoned the legion of jailed and refugee draft resisters that had accumulated in the rural fastnesses and urban safe-houses during that fabulously money-making war. The luminal leader had begun to nationalise key industries and threatened the subsidies and kickbacks of the privileged few.
Prime Minister Whitlam brought the fruits of post-modern civilisation to a barbarous land of forelock-tugging, sheep loving drunken footbrawlers living on the edge of the world in someone else’s land. And he mentioned the possibility of removing some of the prime secret assets of the
A few weeks later this elected leader was deposed, removed, summarily dismissed in a way that no-one thought possible in the untested young democracy of Oz, and the local tide of change was ‘redirected’ by the same agents of global death that had so recently committed much worse crimes in Chile, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam (Ever hear of The Falcon and the Snowman?).
The Flower Children left the cities and established innumerable seedling colonies across the land in every conceivable nook and cranny, sprouting amid the inbred, hidebound and largely illiterate cow farmers and loggers of the half-tamed and half trashed hinterlands. In the recession that followed the White Lamb’s demise, hundreds of empty condemned or abandoned urban buildings rapidly filled with teenage runaways and change agents of all ages. They lived cheek and jowl with derelicts, artists, musicians, travelers and the hitherto homeless and woebegone. Gurus, philosophers, hedonists, anarchists, spiritual masseurs, petty criminals and petit tyrants abounded amid a horde of astrologers, palmists, clairvoyants, herbalists, witches, actors, performers, buskers, illegal sex workers, equally illegal homosexual pariahs and gold-toothed flash-rat petty entrepreneurs and pimps.
The Court of Centraxis was spread through rabbit-warren city squats and suburban dream houses, wide rural acreages and small shacks and cabins in rainforest gorges and failing cattle-infested farmlands. Its commonwealth of universalised nobles reveled in their unparalleled freedom to live a lifestyle they described as 21st Century Medieval. They enjoyed their self-appointed, ritually anointed roles in the tribe and their mutually exalted stations to the hilt.
The Centraxians were free to do whatever they wished or could get away with, their actions circumscribed only by the limits of the Golden Rule; ‘Do as ye’d be done by’. The variegated tribes of the Courts of Chaos and Discordia, with which the Realm of Centraxis was loosely affiliated, often ignored even this simple credo.
The clans of Centraxis speak in a curious blend of quasi-medieval argot and idiosyncratic slang amongst themselves, and whether together or apart they ritually invoke their higher archetypes daily. They open their bodies and souls to symbiosis with greater, more perceptive and graceful aspects of themselves. In an expansive supersensory awareness that transcends the concept of possession, the members of the tribal Court consciously assume their self-ordained positions in the Realm, and each regards their comrades through the lens of their chosen Role.
Through this mutually reinforcing matrix of shared vision and heightened perception, some begin to paradoxically slip the bonds of their individual egos and make their way into the ancient, poorly chartered waters of the collective consciousness - that sleepwalking Humanity calls ‘the unconscious’. They share their explorations of out of body experiences, divination, telepathy, telekinesis and other portals to deeper psychic ability and understanding - and begin to attract the attention of others who are already accessing those selfsame realms of transcendent abilities.
The Centraxians dwell in Taoist and Tantric immersion, sampling the innumerable flavours and textures that an extraordinary confluence of human histories makes available to them. They explore hedonistic erotic lifestyles in shared abodes and salubrious idyllic paradises, while suburbanised millions fester around them in an inarticulate semblance of fearful feudal tawdriness – split, atomised nuclear families huddled beneath a nuclear umbrella in their self-fouling nests.
The teenage Lady Racheal (who is soon to be fully initiated as the High Priestess of the tribe) and her similarly youthful Prince Ram’yana (tribal shaman and Lord’s Deathwatch) wait in the hall with their peers, sipping blood-red claret beneath blood-red graffiti and magical symbols, scrawled and inscribed around the white plastered walls of the longhall.
The teenage lovers have been together almost every hour since the day they first met at a Halloween/Samhain gig sponsored by the magic group known as the Dawn of Ra, less than two moons earlier. The stylish hippie couple shares everything they do or experience and often dissolves into a long-haired velvet cuddling tangle, abandoning the outer world in a pheromonal bliss of teenage kissing and fondling. The perpetually entwined young lovers whisper all their thoughts, fears, hopes and dreams into each other’s ears and already complete the other’s sentences, as their honeymoon extends through the flaming days and blazing nights of its first trimester.
In the flush of first love Ram’yana and Racheal gradually become a newly unified dual presence, a mutual mind created of the innocent melding of soul-mating love and incessant immersion in shared thoughts, dreams and experiences. “It’s not just their hearts that beat as one”, the Cold Wanderer jokes when confronted with the congress of their newly founded Nation of Two. “When they’re together they’re reduced to half a brain each,” he insists.
The young priest and priestess practice the few hints of Tantric techniques they’ve gleaned from their bookish researches and from serendipitous meetings with rare practitioners of supra-sexuality. Instead of creating a baby with their wet fleshy transits to soul-searing simultaneous orgasms, the lovers become something else - a greater, more perceptive being than the sum of their complementary interpenetrating parts.
Racheal has fortuitously been on the pill since a moon before they met and is unspeakably grateful she can regularly experience the heights of loving, creaming passion without fear of the usual consequences – and without a deadening barrier of dull rubber between her naked membranes and the lusty flesh of her mate (The hormone-traducing substances flowing through her veins have yet to show her their darker sides, and most people consider the pill to be a glorious boon handed to them by a bountiful and sympathetic world). The lovers’ unquiet hands incessantly caress their newfound other halves, and their fingers are usually entwined whenever they walk, stand, sit or talk together; tonight is no exception as they share in the ribald tribal revelry in the populous Centraxian squat.
Outside, in the evening post-peak hour heat, streams of fume-spewing infernal combustion vehicles paint white and red streaks on the rain-slicked tar. They mar the sultry evening with their busy noise and peace-disturbing rushed anxiety, rolling and roaring along the inner-city street scant paces from the longhall’s open barred windows.
The attention of passers by - on their way home from work or to dinner or on a sojourn into the nearby central city - is drawn by the dramatic sight of theatrical hippies in their natural element. Some intrigued pedestrians stop and stare for minutes or longer, peering through the windows at a tableau of uninhibited young revelers, spread like a repast before their fascinated, famished stares. Some of the tribe-members have discovered their peers in precisely this fashion, overcoming all self-consciousness to enter the open door and join in the reveries.
The assembled members of the tribe of Centraxis party, make plans and talk seriously of the state of the planet, drink, eat, smoke, kiss and play games of Go, Backgammon and Chess. They’re all dressed to the nines in artistic ensembles of leather, velvet, satin and lace, and many wear artfully applied and dramatic theatrical makeup. They share the muse of the jam on acoustic guitars, mandolins, flutes, lutes, dulcimers, drums and harmoniums; the Lords Kha-Aan, Moonwatcher and Li Po serenade their circle on guitars and mandolin while Heather plays bongos and
In a break in the music their liege lord leans toward his new oracle and the tribe’s soon-to-be High Priestess. “The next moon marks thy Initiation, my Lady,” Kha-Aan rumbles across the hall. Racheal flicks her eyes in his direction and gives him an imperious nod. “Art thou ready for thy journey through the looking glass, and all the mysteries and insights it entails?”
“Aye, my lord Kha-Aan,” the oracle answers with level voice, a serious expression framed by her long blonde tresses. “That I am - ready for anything.” Her hand slides along Ram’yana’s velvet-clad thigh and her sapphire eyeshine glimmers as the girl replies to her liege.
The cavalier strokes his mustachios and draws on a long-stemmed briar pipe. His eyes twinkle back at her as he exhales a cloud of fragrant smoke laden with his deepest baritone rumble. “In the tribes of the hog riders, such a bold statement might be mistaken for an invitation.” He continues before the surprise smouldering in the young priestess’s stare becomes a sullen anger. “Mayhap my Lady will know what I mean when the time comes to ask, “Art thou ready?” The snickers of a handful of nobles slink around the hall. “No,” he insists, “’tis a serious question – particularly when the time cometh, as it must. All here know whereof I speak – except,” he says, inclining his head toward Racheal, “our uninitiated Lady and our doubtless puzzled guests.”
He quaffs his goblet and shows the assembled Tri-Aans and visitors his teeth. “All will be revealed – but not unless and until this blessed messenger of the Gods turns up with our tickets to ride. Now let’s have another tune, my merry bards and minstrels! Lay on!” His goblet strikes the table like a gavel and the lord takes up his guitar.
Prince Ram’yana runs his hands through his Lady Racheal’s mane as they join in the shared song, the young lovers filling every moment’s nuance and every joke’s denouement with unconstrained joy. He feels the tension drain away from his lover’s body and mind as they kiss and caress. Life is good and all the world loves a lover – except for those who are envious, or have never known love.
Lust and jealousy shine in the eyes of many a lovelorn witness who peeks through the barred windows of their mental cells as they peer into the squat from the outside world. Thankfully, open malice is a rare reaction among the surprisingly tolerant voyeurs from the surrounding nation of Oz. Many who stop to stare wistfully at the partying clan wish they could enter the bright candlelit hippie world of the Centraxians – yet very few realise they’d be openly welcome, if they only dared approach the unlocked open door.
The ladies and lords of the court are delaying their planned feast in expectation of a late arrival; a purveyor of rare and enchanting substances that have traveled from all around the far-flung globe. Most of the court has prepared for the impending event by developing an empty stomach, but as midnight approaches they grow resigned to the lesser comforts of munchies, grass and red wine as the promised supplier fails to make an appearance.
By the time the wee hours are drifting toward dawn, the pleasures of the night gradually take their toll and the Centraxians begin to drift off through the complex rabbit-warren of conjoined houses and missing walls. Racheal and Ram finally take their leave of Li Po and Freedom - who hardly notice their departure, reclining on a chaise lounge in semi-conjugal bliss - and climb the stairs into their bed and each other as they do every night, morning and afternoon.
The lovers wake a few minutes shy of noon, bright daylight tickling their eyelids, reflecting brightly through their high barred window from a high white wall. A surreal plastic lipstick display and mirrored cabinet perches above them on the windowsill, effectively blocking the view of the nearest houseful of curious neighbours. A self-proclaimed witch lives fifteen feet away, and her window faces the Centraxians’ bed chamber across a narrow one-lane alley. An old Beatles song blares from her open window, wafting in with the heat of the day;
‘We’re Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band,
We hope that you enjoy the show…’
“Good morning, beautiful.” Ram’s voice, his softly wandering hands and insistent, ever-ready waking youth spur Racheal’s cheeks to shade from somnolent peach-blossom to an even more roseate blush. A smile curls her full lips and her night-mauve eyelids begin to flutter open before she gives up the attempt; Racheal’s awareness passes into more intimate senses that can more fully appreciate the close pressure of his warm smooth body.
“Mmmm…” Her snoozy seductive voice speaks volumes in a single consonant as she wakes with her lean, slightly sweaty limbs wrapped around the lanky length of her supine prince. One of the priestess’s thighs is pinned beneath Ram’s hip and she shifts more deeply into his lap to relocate it. The stale redolence of spilt wine and other sticky fluids wafts past her nostrils as the goose-down rainbow quilt flares around the girl when she hoists herself full-length atop her young man, still half immersed in her dreamy fantasias.
“Good morning, breakfast. Rise and shine…” A warm breeze draughts through the open window and tickles their crevices, teasing the lovers’ awareness back from the shores of infinity to the surface of their skins and beyond, to meld into an autonomic loving embrace. Lips meet and tongues slither through parted teeth into thoroughly familiar soft cheeks.
Ram’yana watches his lady carefully, drinking in her alluring blonde-rimmed face and enticing shapely body while teasing her with a touch as gentle as the vagrant breeze. He continues where the draught cannot, to explore her deeper recesses and more secret shielded declivities. Racheal’s firm, perfectly rounded backside rises beneath his light touch as she reaches down to take charge of her personal morning glory, her tongue thrusting suggestively into his throat.
The free-spirited girl rears above her young man and her mouth spreads into a
The youth’s ever-fresh familiar touch electrifies Racheal and her eyelids snap open as she quivers on the verge of fulfillment. Her nether lips part and spread outward around his engorged velvet head as the young Wiccan girl begins to dance upon its imposing summit, while she holds Ram’s waking eyes with her impassioned gaze. Better than a broomstick… Racheal smiles to herself, and the wicked imagery inspires her to greater heights and depths. She looks down toward the hypnotic vision of their pinkly meeting flesh at the same instant her lover does, and they sigh in unison at the inspiringly visceral sight.
“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends,
High with a little help from my friends…”
Racheal sweeps her head down to meet her beau’s waiting mouth, cutting off the erotic view of her firm swaying breasts as they frame his long lingam, embedded in her moist furry yoni. All her pink lips stretch elastically around his throbbing staff and questing tongue - which she folds back into his mouth with her own in an insistently rigid thrust, commanding her man-boy’s rapt attention as he suckles on her wet oracular muscle.
The defacto Centraxian High Priestess bears down to slowly engulf her Hierophant with rings of tautly stretched satin heat as her tongue extends into his mouth, miming his entry into the slick flaming furnace of her slim belly. When she can take no more into her barely experienced loins the teenage witch begins to slowly ride up and down, kneeling astride her lucky hippie mate and moaning softly along with the music pouring through the barred window.
“You’re such a lovely audience we’d like to take you home with us
We’d love to take you home…”
Suspended on palms and knees, loins and tongue, Racheal suddenly pulls her hips back to expose Ram’s hot wetted rod to the warm breeze before swiftly thrusting back down around his ripe rigidity. Her body withdraws from him, timed with the movements of her tongue, and the lusty girl begins to repeat the interlinked motions with a quickening, erotically charged tempo that’s almost robotic. Her fluids salve their mouths and loins with an overflow of succulent juices that oils the rampant insistence of their virile insatiable bodies.
The Lady Racheal releases herself to the ingrained womanly knowledge of her aroused flesh. Her ecstatic mind follows in the foaming wake as her body takes its head, obsessively immersed in the newly familiar rising tide of steaming, creaming pleasure. She’s never gone ‘all the way’ with any other male - has only ever experienced real, actual, throbbing hot sex with her Prince Ram’yana - and their fairytale lovemaking never fails to fulfill her newly unleashed insatiable young horniness. Racheal closes her eyes and breathes Ram’s warm breath into her lungs as it streams around her pumping tongue.
Half-seen erotic images flit behind her sealed eyelids, other faces and skins replacing that of her handsome young lover. Some are well-known friends, some strange or unknown, some familiar figments of her once-lonely teen imaginings - and the imaginary hard heat of various male bodies pinned beneath and within her, in a lividly vivid succession of imaginary fuck buddies, is fleshed out by the reality of her mate’s accelerating strokes and hotly streaming breath. Ram’yana caresses his Lady’s taut flanks, muscular belly and swaying breasts with his long, magical musician’s fingers, trailing streams of liquid fire along her flushed white skin.
The imaginative priestess bucks up and down, her weight balanced on grasping hands that pin her lover’s wrists to the springy bed. She rides the fragmented fornicating masculine figments of her imaginary nation toward the singular place where parallel lines meet and all become one. Ram’s thrusts fuel the flowering succession of erotic images flowing through her sensoria with a pounding rush of viscerally raw pure sex. As they approach the heights of ecstasy, Racheal fixes upon an emergent vision of a muscular black-skinned man staked out beneath her; his arousing mature scarred masculinity overlays the smooth-skinned white body of her supine young prince with a startling contrast.
The imposing image stabilises and Racheal wills the exotic enslaved spirit into the flesh of her unknowing ardent paramour, placing the contours of hard, swollen muscle within Ram’s cantilevering flesh while her body rocks and rolls around him. She grips her lover’s wrists and draws them out above him as far as she can, mirroring the posture of the staked-out black man - pinning his arms with her weight and riding the wide-toothed giant in her mind as she watches him ride and rise inside Ram’s eager adolescent body.
When her breath becomes a ragged roar and a blinding climax begins to swell up her spine with the irresistible flare of an igniting rocket, the Lady Racheal rides outside herself; the priestess observes her raging, plunging body and wantonly wicked mind from an exalted, timeless plateau, with the dispassionate inner eye of a natural-born artist. She watches the mating teenagers as they thrust and bounce, trapped within the ancient hormonal imperatives of unrestrained and untrained youth.
She finds herself whimsically surprised at how young the lovers appear from the ageless perspective of her higher self – and then Racheal squirms back into her flesh to focus more fully on the solid incarnadine maleness pulsing within her loins. She winces with a guilty inner twinge at her unseemly bondage fantasies – images that the girl has quietly nurtured for many years – and resolves to whisper her secret dreams into Ram’s elongated ear. When I get the chance, the priestess tells herself while her mind spins around the central pivot of his maleness.
I wonder if he suspects? Racheal asks herself, slipping back outside her flesh to watch her body pump up and down while her tongue pistons into her pretty man’s mouth. She knows she can’t continue to use him to flesh out her fantasies like this; the only way to assuage the residue of guilt already rising in her is to confess her fantasies to him… someday.
The real thing is so much better, the wise girl reminds herself as she focuses on Ram’s incendiary cock squeezing through her, in and out, back and forth. Racheal’s tightly gripping musculature draws him back again and again as her beautiful young prince grasps his girl by her bouncing flanks and sensitive cheeks. Or… is he thinking of somebody else, too? I have to talk to him… about… oh that’s so good… “Oh God, oh fuck!”
She finds her thoughts insufferable and abandons her dissolving mind, to completely inhabit the unforgettably vivid sensations of vibrant, vital sexuality. The teenager moans and cries out as her overheated body shimmies up and down for a timeless squeezing stretch toward ever deeper, ever closer union with her beloved horny mate. She comes in a screaming bouncing frenzy, bumping, grinding, groaning and writhing on her male as he climbs right up to the clasping entrance to her womb. Her untethered body renews its striving plunge toward a mind-blowing wave of unbearable orgasm, as her drowning mind struggles to somehow distract the primal primate urges of the snorting, moaning, disporting young womanimal Racheal always becomes when she comes.
The ninety-third time his cock’s been inside me. Racheal keeps a careful count, since her first supine fumbling with Prince Ram’yana several scant weeks earlier. The significance of the number to her Kabalistically-trained mind occurs to the occult-loving priestess in an instantaneous flash, as her body slips down the slope of a rolling orgasmic tidal wave; the Gematrica God number… Oh, sweet Goddess, oh, ohh! Better than I ever imagined… uhh… so glad those stupid girls were wrong… “Oh, ohh, fuck! Oh yess, ohh wow!” Not laying back and enduring it like they said… so good… so beautiful… he’s so fucking addictive, so horny… and he wants me as much as I want him! O Goddess! He loves me as I love him! How can this be real?
“Could it be any body?
I just need someone to love…”
The witch-girl plunges proudly, breasts bouncing in the hot summery breeze in time with the music. Her mind’s distractions recede beneath the simmering cauldron of their loving as she leans down to kiss her lover’s full red lips and her blonde tresses cascade around their mashing mouths. She pleasures herself and her chosen one with eternally fresh movements and sensations that arise from primeval wellsprings of longing - and the inbuilt, flesh-stored knowledge of their sex-split species.
Racheal flexes muscles she never knew she had, working her captive male fully inside her belly with unprecedented strength and finesse; she feels utterly confident and in total control. And then the rush comes streaming up her spine and explodes through her, searing through her blood, spreading from her flaming clitoris and searing cock-stretched belly.
“Don’t come,” she gasps, showering his face and throat with kisses. “Don’t come…” She rams him in as deeply as she can and explodes in a screaming, flailing frenzy of scarlet lightning that courses up through her arching stretched belly, her flaming breasts, her growling throat and into her shut-eyed head - and back out through every pore, lighting every nerve and every living cell in a blinding, infinite moment of stellar, soul-searing nova. “Ohhh! Come! Ohh, fuck, come in me NOW!”
The priestess’ thighs and arms and her inward muscles constrict around the male half of the twin-spined dual creature they’ve become, as she flexes up and backward, whipping her long blonde hair into a flailing sheath of gold. The sight, sounds and sensations of her startling ecstasy inflame Ram’yana to the brink of spouting his seeds into the glorious grasping suction of her muscular loins. He rampantly impales his engorgingly beauteous beloved, following the guidance of her moans and screams of encouragement – yet he manages to hold himself back by immersing himself in her sensations, her needs, her longings and ultimate, cosmic, orgasmic fulfillment.
They surf the tsunami’s crest to an enduring timeless moment that the young shaman and priestess carry with them ever after, a peak moment, a high-water mark that defines the potency of their ongoing intimacy; Ram’yana can feel what she feels in both their bodies at once; the shaman feels himself inside her, feeling him inside her, molten and fusing inside their infinitely expanding single self. Their minds are a singular bright beacon, as indisputably indivisible as the flaming spasms and breathtaking, searing light exploding through their teenage bodies. United together, they ignite in a fusion of male and female, yang and yin, all shadowy potentials infused with the ineluctable energies of their fulfilled and interlocking desires.
Racheal has always wondered, and now she experiences what it is to impale a willing female, riding a young woman who gasps and stretches her succulent membranes around her male, grasping at his electric, burning cock. Ram’yana learns what it is to be ploughed and filled and fulfilled by an ardent, powerful male, lovingly riding and guiding him to the source of mutual melding fusion. He knows what it is to explode into ongoing ecstasy and simultaneously crave male seed spurting inside a ravenous womb. They are one conjoined being in deep primal conclave of ancestral hermaphroditic union with itself, as s/he soaks their balls and buns and thighs with the ready flood of their lubing, loving juices - and the same scream erupts from twinned hearts and wide-open throats and minds.
Ram’yana’s ego explodes, releasing him to pour outward with his paramour’s spreading conflagration, moving as her, experiencing her climax through their joined nervous systems and telempathic minds while his seed swells within him, only restrained by a fading vestige of his individual will. Their thoughts swirl together, twist apart and reform again in the wild tumult of their young, barely trained strivings toward true Tantric union.
“Do you believe in a love at first sight?
Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time,
What do you see when you turn out the light?
I can’t tell you but I know it’s mine…”
A kaleidoscope of disconnected images flows through Racheal and twists off into the distance before she can apprehend its portent – spiderweb patterns on the edge of her vision, framing a galloping unbridled white mare in a blazing stone church, that becomes a blue-skinned female centaur racing though a forest with molten, distended eggs heaped about like misshapen toadstools… a grinning skull wearing a battered warrior’s helmet beneath a broken cyclopean statue of a disfigured, vandalised queen from some anonymous antiquity… a shattering mirror…
The unendurable explosive rush sends a streaming pulse pounding through her belly and brain that leaves the young priestess beached and gasping on the heaving
Ram’yana watches his beloved’s electric blue eyes laze open and snap into focus. The priestess holds his enraptured gaze while riptide waves of soul-igniting ecstasy ripple through their melded flesh, begetting tremors that rumble from her deepest centres to the surface of her trembling, gasping body. The lovers sink into mutual self-hypnotised admiration until their eyes widen at the same instant. You can hear! In me… Here inside, with! The revelation is unprovably undeniable; a deep, interconnected telempathic identification between the soul-twinned mates that rocks them both to their mutual core.
We can hear this! The thought rises from her, through her, in her and in him/her - a subtle vibration felt as well as heard, carried within the charged magnetic field created by the linked tripartite union of their dilated eyes, pounding hearts and enflamed genitals. The vibrating, trembling lovers are a two-headed pair of Siamese twins, joined at the loins and hips and sharing one molten mind. The question tilts Racheal’s head downward, her eyes rolling up to stay focused on his; Ram’yana sees her central eye ignite in the centre of her brow.
Of course, he answers with a slight inclination of his head. We are this. He feels her watch a third eye appear within his own high forehead in a purpling shimmer, feels the resonant glow responding on her brow as his consciousness begins to shimmy and shift… The Shining Ones…
“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends,
High with a little help from my friends.”
“Uh… um, hi…” an uncertain but familiar voice jags into their secluded paradise. The untimely intrusion saws through their unprecedented telepathic union with jaggedly intrusive edges of emotion-charged distraction. Soon, the lovers promise wordlessly before their eyes flicker to the doorway, breaking their connected focus.
Arne Stook leans around the threshold, his chip-toothed smile verging on a leer. “Sorry to interrupt, guys…” Not again… not now… not NOW…
A True Story
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