Angelic Tantra - Psychedelic Water 5

Angelic Tantra

Psychedelic Water 5

*

The spirit cave hangs above their heads on the edge of the high volcanic escarpment, where the uninhabited plateau rolls through koala forests and rugged National Parks. The recovering canopy of gum trees and torn-open rainforest reaches the horizon, lining the rim of an ancient volcanic crater and fringing the densely populated foothills that face the planetary ocean.

Half a moon clears the clifftop and its argent glow lends a bluish pallour to the happy party people. They wander from fire to fire while bonging on, dancing to the trance music, playing drums or making love beneath the rainforest canopy that fringes the open paddock and burbling creek.

A few years ago the Star Earth land was a failing cattle ranch that replaced a failed dairy property, which had supplanted a massive primordial rainforest housing five thousand species of animals and plants on every acre of fertile soil. Horned beasts have finally stopped trampling and eating every sapling that tries to emerge from the thinning soil, and trees are returning of their own accord – helped along by extensive plantings of rare and endangered species undertaken by the Star Earth tribe, with the help of a stream of visiting volunteers and WOOFers; Willing Workers on Organic Farms.

When the tribe’s members first moved to the land more than a decade earlier, the long-established deep ecologists of Nimbin and its surrounds congratulated the clan on freeing another trashed and blocked-up block of land from enslavement. They opened the acreage and its thousands of macadamia nut trees to all comers, sharing the land with anyone and everyone who cared to join the teepee village that spread its circle around the paddock at the edge of the spa-pool creek.

No permanent structures were allowed and a number of new settlers and young ferals set up semi-permanent camp around the slopes and flatlands. The first family and their cohort released the Star Earth tribe’s parcel of planet Earth from its metal-barbed proper ties, which had reduced the nurturing powers of Mother Nature to a state of helpless, fruitless bondage.

Cattle fences demark the extensive borders of ubiquitous redneck barbarians who enslave the living Earth, and the barbed wire ends where true freedom begins. Magic thrives beyond the lore-less realm of orcish human predators, condemned to appease their needless appetite for suffering and death by their unexamined ignorance and ruthless, rootless greed. Real Life always dwells outside the door, past the fence and beyond the fringe; a hollow husk lined with spiky vines is all you find within walls and fences built on fear, loathing and illusory money-mad schemes.

Some of the fruits of the free tribe’s labours are already being consumed by revellers at the pre-Mardi Grass doof. Loudspeakers rumble through the valley of the Star Earth land at this late and early hour, but the volume of the trance tracks has been lowered a little out of respect for the nearest neighbours – a well-established commune of Bodhisattvas spreading round the base of the cliff, across the narrow twisting river.

Crater walls line the precipitous approaches into the winding valley and the pristine river flows off the high escarpment to plummet over the dramatically beautiful Tuntable Falls; below the waterfall are the first dotted dwellings of the genuine, famously original hippie commune of Oz. The valley ‘neath the falls is the primal home of the alternative back-to-the-land movement which swept the nation a generation before the Star Earth tribe settled onto their hundred and eleven acres of paradise, just a little way downstream from the source of the Aquarian spring.

Their migration to the valley recapitulated the successful dreams of the preceding generation of alternative pioneers, who had discovered the Rainbow Region en masse while the Summer of Love was still a bright memory - and an alluringly optimistic template for an extraordinary future.

The local hippie movement came of age and the new local era of fun and games began with the extraordinary Aquarius Festival. The promise of a raging, free-thinking, free-loving New Age convocation drew thousands of disestablished young people from the Vietnam War-era cities and fading agricultural towns. At the beginning of the oil-mongering global recession the village of Nimbin was already a ghost town; only a couple of shops remained open, along with the grand wooden Freemason’s Hotel. The Aquarius Festival organisers realised that the entire region was for sale – and going for a song – so they made shares in the land available to anyone and everyone, at a cost of two hundred paper dollars each.

The decimated land was opened to anciently new Flower Power crops planted by a horde of free-spirited communal settlers, who seeded the hills and valleys with tall Viet-Cong and Cambodian strains of Cannabis sativa. Hemp had been grown in the Great Southland since the first days of the struggling British colony in the late eighteenth century, but now stronger, more psychoactive varieties had returned from imperialist Indo-Chinese wars in the duffel bags of shell-shocked veterans.

When the newcomers saw their cannabis plants climb twenty feet into the sky in the fertile subtropical paradise, they turned their newly acquired agricultural confidence to vegetables and fruit trees – and slowly discovered unique remnant rainforest seed-banks that the redneck cow ranchers had not quite completely annihilated. They learned the old ways of the lunar cycle and the eightfold wheel of the solar year, and many trained in various forms of yoga, Tantra, Rolfing, Primal Screaming, meditation, Taoism, Tai Chi, fasting, colonic irrigation, magic, Crowleyan Magick, Wicca, herbal medicine, Tae Kwan Do, acupuncture, Ayurveda, Mahikari, Zen, black market Capitalism, Satanism, Communism, Anarchism and other schisms, and Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Goddess or guru worship, to name but a few. And almost all of them became deep green ecologists as they migrated into the emptying old logging towns that had cut off the branches from which they depended.

Some of the New Age settlers spied arcane native fairies watching them from the primeval rainforests and flying saucers soared overhead as often as showers of meteors, but the witnesses usually knew better than to speak of these things among outsiders. Some communicated with Devas and the ancient entities of the eternal landform, which sometimes noticed the newcomers that had driven away the Aboriginal people (The local Kooris knew the ways and means of the land and are still part of its spirited dreaming mind). Other, rarer new settlers practiced astral travel, clairvoyance, telepathy and telekinesis, levitation and higher forms of chakra yoga and its multicultural equivalents.

The Children of the Revolution banded together in the Rainbow Region and many other enclaves across the spun-out globe of the Old Cold War. While others dug bunkers against an unsurvivable holocaust the Aquarian flower children planted forest nurseries from the surviving seeds and halted the last of the local ‘old growth’ primordial rainforest logging with protests, blockades and political action, before turning their sights on saving the planet.

The Star Earth land provides deep wellsprings that jet from the ancient volcanic hills, to flow in pristine mineral water rivulets down the forested and orchard-lined slopes. They pour past thousands of macadamia trees, various fruits, nuts, berries and recovering rainforest stands, to wind their way into the rocky spas and platypus pool swimming holes of the drinking-quality waterway that borders the festival site. The doof spreads its sights, lights, scents and sounds across the flat paddock at the valley’s base. The revellers groove between small rainforest-lined streams and the main channel of the spa-strewn tumbling creek – the waterway that spawned a secret stream of consciousness which still penetrates the torpid veil of human self-enslavement and delusion at the dawn of the new millennium.

Way away on the far side of the high wild plateau that looms above the valley, million dollar mansions, lush hobby farms and well-concealed grass castles overlook the world-spanning Pacific. Unsurprisingly, many of the inhabitants of these upwardly mobile yuppie zones appear much straighter and die-cast than they actually are. As the old local saying goes, ‘the shorter the hair, the bigger the crop’ – and almost every Munchkin in Oz breaks one or more indiscriminately stupid victimless ‘crimes’ every day as they career through frenetic lives of endless work, play and consumption. The official figures say more than a third of them regularly smoke ganga, weed, marijuana, green, mull, pot, grass - in joints or jays or spliffs or numbers, pipes, hubble-bubbles or bongs, with spin or without.

It isn’t a wise idea to spread the fact around – you never know when someone is the brother or sister or father or daughter of a cop (hi to you all out there!), or simply a paranoid, neurotic law-abiding busybody. The fact that many of the police are in on all the usually suspect rigged games - and often organising them, covertly or blatantly - is no surprise in a hypocritical nation where corruption is always on the edge of being rife. In their jingoistic patriotic pride, the Munchkins console themselves with the national notion that at least it’s better in Oz than in many other places ‘overseas’, where bribery is the overt institutionalised norm and life is considered even more absurdly cheap and disposable.

All across the desiccating world, everyone pretends that the emperor is wearing beautiful clothes while they keep raking in the transient benefits of sucking the life from the planet. An easily cultivated plant that Humanity has used since before this brief, warm interglacial period began fourteen millennia ago is almost universally banned on pain of fine, penal servitude and even death.

That the plant is infinitely useful and versatile – an unparalleled and indispensable medicine, building material, food crop, oil source, paper supply, carbon sink, plastic precursor, clothing, rope and heavy material source throughout human history is blithely ignored by purblind and well-bribed legislatures and congresses everywhere. The fact that almost all peer-reviewed scientific studies only show benefits from using the plant - and fail to confirm any deleterious effects no matter how well-funded their researches – is similarly ignored. Too many hands are too deeply embedded in too many pockets for the exponents of the sane course of legalisation or even decriminalisation to make easy inroads into the crazy status quo.

Entire populations are needlessly criminalised and subjected to horrendous ordeals in this senseless lifetime-long prohibition of cannabis, while the crazy carousel of Capitalism keeps spinning erratically round the long-suffering globe and billions of tax-free dollars slush back and forth, funding wars, famines, pestilence and torture – and there’s even more money to be made cleaning up the mess. The only victims of the marijuana trade are the smokers and petty dealers who are arrested, fined and/or jailed by drunken, pill-popping hypocrites – who probably smoke the stuff themselves between sucks on alcoholic baby-bottle substitutes.

Everyone knows that the system is corrupt and we all know it can’t last forever. We all know that the balloon holding the inflated dream of the global economy aloft above the environmental ruin it can’t leave behind will burst, someday – but the Munchkins of Oz are blithe in their certainty that the worst of the foul-smelling explosion will occur a long, long way away from their idyllic island home at the far end of the Earth - and they hope that they won’t still be around to deal with the consequences of their actions and inaction, despite all the latter-day signs to the contrary. Pretending that the party will go on forever while exploiting, plundering and raping the planet can seem like harmless fun at the time – like legal pharmaceutical drugs or binge drinking – but there’s always an unholy mess to deal with in the new dawn.

The birthplace of the alternative nation, the Village of Nimbin is about to be deluged by many short-haired, designer shoe-wearing types, along with a wide range of visitors from the city of Brisbane – a developer’s Paradise Lost that sprawls in a plasticised concrete vomitorium extending for horizons, just over the nearby state border.

The capital of Queensland (where the coast is always warm, rum and beer drinking is the norm and draconian penalties for soft drugs are way out of proportion to the rest of Oz), Brisbane is the bane of all true or indigenous bros and sis’s; a racist place where it’s still technically illegal to have more than two people speaking together on a street corner. Of course, no-one is harassed for this ‘offence’ unless they’re black, or poor, or dreadlocked ferals or hippies. So don’t go to Queensland or Brisbane if you’re one of those, sis or bro – unless you have plenty of money to spend on the fattest police force money can buy.

Bribery booms in a state where more than a third of the criminalised populace is often (or always) stoned, on something other than the legal carcinogenic chemical-laden potion that passes for beer. The most popular local brand of mind-numbing poison is simply called ‘XXXX’. That’s how they spell ‘beer’ in Queensland; don’t say you haven’t been warned if you fall for the tourism board’s ‘fun-in-the-sun Sunshine State tropical wonderland’ claptrap.

The southern subtropical half of Queensland is a police state retirement village and suburban mental wilderness full of beer-bellied rednecks and conformists who consider themselves rebels, while the tropical north is a functionally unliveable crocodile and mosquito-infested torrential downpour for at least half of any given year. Queensland is the inverted antipodean Deep South State, replete with stinking humidity, herbicide poisoned sugar cane, destructive cyclones, racist divides and huge scaly reptiles that will eat you alive if you fall asleep beside any waterway. The idyllic looking reef-girt sea is full of deadly bloated jellyfish, tiny poisonous stingers and huge primordial man-eating predators.

Over the border in New South Wales things are more than a little different. There aren’t as many rednecks, there’s less racism, a fraction less corruption and there are no lethal jellyfish or crocodiles at all - except for the equally short-sighted two-legged kind in suits. These dinosaurs still chew up the coastline and excrete square concreted bone boxes onto the sandy land, where the last stands of Paradise had so recently survived everything else Nature and Humanity could throw at them.

Retirees and ‘sea changers’ move into these insecure shoulder-to- shoulder devo leper colonies, filling the bare toxic boxes with plastic crap and the concrete paveways with fume-spewing infernal combustion engines. Then they begin to wonder where all the brochure-promised paradise has gone as they install air conditioners and chop down the last trees, to moat their already crumbling dreams of home with chlorinated private swimming pools in sight of the free, blue, warm Pacific.

Wide-eyed sedentary ‘tree changers’ on marginal blocks of land become disenchanted loggers and ranchers when the idyll fades and their unexamined dreams fall prey to their enthusiastic ignorant blunderings,. The last of the surviving wildlife is devoured or driven off by their carnivorous pets and territorial livestock as a new acre of bumfluff-covered desert blooms from the mind of Regular Guy.

Just over the mountain escarpment from these gormless dispirited hobbyists and brick vereereal concrete warrens, early birds capture early worms and travellers stake out their claims on the best campsites and lovers, before the official start of the annual celebration at the first weekend of May. The Rainbow Region spreads inland from the wide sandy coastal bleachers, a peacefully throbbing nerve-centre of theatrical political extremists and cunning deep ecologists. These wise custodians have seen what’s befallen the rest of Paradise, and have done their best to ensure the same won’t happen to the land they’ve actively worked to protect, replant and nurture since the predawn of the Aquarian age.

Every year the Nimbin Mardi Grass magnetises hordes of the faithful to the little painted village - wise older heads and hippies, trippy young stoners, red-eyed speed demons, tribes of dreadlocked ferals, Goths, Wiccans and pagans of all stripes, smiling happy eccie doofers and trancers, earnest pilgrims, bikie gangs, seekers on the paths or the song lines; an indescribable motley of all the ‘alternative’ peoples under the Sun, including the indigenous Bunjalung Nation. It’s a wild ride, an extended weekend of sex, drugs, rock, roll, trance and dance, a psychedelically swinging singles scene that opens hearts, wallets and thighs to new possibilities in a cornucopia of gourmet and gourmand delights.

Some visitors will fly into the country for the event and many will be undeterred by the infamous tyranny of distance within Oz, travelling from everywhere and anyplace across the far-flung continent. The annual pilgrimage to the legendary Mardi Grass will swell the tiny local population of brave souls by tens of thousands, all of whom must dare the drug-swabbing sniffer dog roadblocks, speed traps, lack of accommodation, potential storms and floods and the lousy, dangerous roads themselves, to cross the mysterious ill-defined border into the fabled Rainbow Region.

Everyone comes for a legendary, region-spanning festival celebrating the home-grown and colourfully diverse marijuana culture at the height of the harvest season, when the best heads are just coming to the boil – or have already been snap-dried or carefully cured in anticipation of the event. Some venture to the Mardi Grass to sample the wide range of organic fare and handmade wares in the splendid sacred surrounds, and others for the plethora of eager buyers. There’s even some home-made local hashish of decent quality, produced especially for the festival - but hash is still mistreated and misclassified as a narcotic by the purblind legislature, and attracts more than its fair share of opprobrium and unwelcome attention.

Sensibly, most of the police attention is really focused on actually dangerous chemical drugs, like the extended dysfunctional families of opium and speed. They know that marijuana is essentially harmless – many smoke it themselves and they’re surrounded by a culture that uses it all the time, are continually exposed to the stuff in countless social settings.

Yet pressure is applied from poll-driven, minority scapegoating politicians of all stipes to regularly increase the levels of surveillance and harassment of harmless, victimless pot smokers, and the streets of Nimbin are filling with patrolling gangs of riot police, a wide range of siren-bearing, lightshow-capped vehicles, pairs of mounties clip-clopping their way along the bitumen - and a bevy of unseen informants and agents from a host of agencies.

These days there’s hardly any smack in the notorious little village of Nimbin (the place tabloid and TV media perennially dub ‘Sinbin’ in a desperate search for relevance). Speedy ice has supplanted opiates as the lethal money-spinning concoction of note in the early Third Millennium, and nowadays there are no dead junkies lying in the toilets or streets or backstreet gardens of Nimbin. Stepped-on ecstasy, speed and ice are the main chemicals used by ignorant consumers at the dawn of the new millennium.

These days the cafes in town don’t have to drill small holes through all their teaspoons to stop the cutlery being stolen, or beat all their spoons flat until they resemble small oval egg-flippers that can’t hold liquids. The many intact teaspoons in Nimbin’s Rainbow Café are a sure sign of healthier high times, after the post-punk, repetitive mechanised industrial muzak and gangster hip-hop doldrum decades. The latter days of the old millennium were despoiled by the utterly dumb or comfortably numb twin curses of poor musicianship and bad poetry, which ruined the ears and tastes of a bored and dejected ex-generation with death-worshipping fads that grew ever more jaded until they faded from view.

These days things are looking up – but the price of real estate around Nimbin has been rising steeply along with the uplifting optimism, party because of (and no longer despite) its reputation for alternative lifestyles, the lack of government services and control, a plethora of free thinkers, anarchists, young runaways and tearaways, artist’s and musician’s colonies, organic food, medicines and drugs, clean water, plentiful rain, enlighteningly interesting inhabitants, peaceful remote communes, a well-evolved alternative, intelligent, creatively original culture and music - and wild, constant partying.

The breathtaking natural beauty of the place is also beginning to attract more of the spoilers and despoilers, developers and klutzy suburbanite parasites, who think the relatively undefiled Rainbow Region would look a lot better with a few more walls and fences, a radical haircut and a judicious application of even more herbicide. They all want a cow and a horse and chickens and sheep and neatly mown lawns, and they don’t want ‘druggies’ walking on their grass or protesting when they sell the trees on ‘their’ newly-purchased land to make room for their destructive fantasies.

Understandably, in the few days before the official start of Mardi Grass, straight-looking people are already descending on Nimbin and its environs from the meathead police state just over the border, and two of them are making noisy enthusiastic love only a few feet from the duvet on which Ram’yana and Angel lay spooning in the moonlight.

*

The feral Angel’s waist-length dreadlocks swirl around her perspiration-slicked body as her slender hand extends down behind her flanks. The wild teenage grrl’s palm slithers between their close-pressed skins, stroking the down on her mature lover’s naked belly until her black sharpened fingernails reach his curly pubic pelt.

The young feral lies back with the upper half of her slickly smooth slim frame twisted onto the eiderdown as she nestles into his lap. Angel smiles up through her dreads into the older shaman’s awed gaze while she raises her calves and spreads her soft young thighs for him. Her pointed, glitter-pierced tongue protrudes lasciviously from black painted lips as she moans and anoints the crown of his inflated flesh with her scented oil. His hands roam the drunken, ecstatic grrl’s silken skin, pausing at each adornment of metal ring or stud that pierces her surprisingly responsive little body.

The Goth grrl hesitates as she spreads her hairless well-waxed rim around his manhood, breathlessly measuring his girth with encircling fingers that reach halfway around her new lover’s unfamiliar hard hot flesh. Angel draws an impeding strand of ripped material from between her pale firm cheeks and thighs as she impatiently presses his manhood into the gateway of her simmering furnace.

She gasps when his sceptre slips between her silver-studded lips and the electrifying charge of expectant sexual bliss wells within the tripping lovers as the teen tries to stretch her beringed little fingers around his blood-hot, saliva-primed slickness. The last few sips of Strega lie forgotten in the liqueur bottle lying beside remnants of the young pagan’s ripped-apart dress, motley fragments of mismatched cloth randomly snaking across Ram’s bedding, stash and camera on the soft grass-covered earth.

Time slows, almost stilled by the nerve-bright conjunction of hearts and loins and the phantasmagorical blend of substances flowing through the lovers’ bodies and minds. Every sensation deepens into a fugue of exquisite vividness and their skins and auras glow and swirl as floral growths swarm across their surfaces in intricate visions of supreme clarity.

Pairs of cuddling couples and uninhibited lovers cry out and disport in the dappled darkness beneath the broken canopy of the river’s edge, dim silhouettes shifting around the bearded long-haired hippie and the dreadlocked feral Goth. Anonymous visitors from everywhere and anyplace enjoy the open-minded hospitality of the Star Earth tribe, their multilingual exclamations almost inaudible beneath the mind-smearing music and the pulse-quickening beat of a dozen drums.

The wide world fades around the hot carnal bubble of the newfound lovers’ mutual fascination and thoughts dissolve in the impassioned immanence of their well-lubricated embrace. The ground beneath their electrified flesh vibrates with deeply pounding frequencies that quiver in their meat and bones, undulating waves of sound and music flowing through their souls as their firm, magnetically attracted bodies stretch toward union. The pagan grrl’s unfamiliar sweet scent mingles with herbal liqueur, woodsmoke and cannabis resin, filling Ram’s nostrils and entrancing his enraptured mind as he nuzzles into the dark coils of Angel’s thick, fuzzy dreadlocks and kisses her elegant neck. Perspiration shimmers on her shimmying fever-hot skin as the fresh-fleshed teenager guides him into the smooth, wet, blazing silk of her incredibly tight seam. “Oh, Goddess,” she murmurs, “Oh man oh man…”

The shaman sheds the last thin skins of his clothing with economical shrugs as the Goth witch squeezes him past her barely penetrable lips. He desperately needs to feel every inch of her fresh eager body against his skin, inside and out, and the cold night air is forgotten as Angel enfolds him in her sweltering intimacy. A low-pitched feline moan vibrates into his blood while coloured lights swirl in their imaginations. His tongue slips into the young girl’s ring-bedecked ear and his beard tickles her twisting throat. Her sweat-wet spine and ribcage slither and slide against Ram’s furry chest as she writhes and giggles in his arms, a graceful feminine squirming that lubricates his serpentine staff as her inner lips mash apart around its head. “Oh, Angel… Merry Meet indeed…”

She silences his artless patter with ring-pierced lips and stud-holed tongue. Spotlights spin around the acacia bushes that spread above their bower, providing an illusion of privacy for the newly met lovers as they sigh beneath a glittering infinitude of stars. They open themselves to each other’s unknown delights a scant dozen paces from the nearest partygoers, who are dancing, talking, laughing and courting on the brilliantly lit paddock, oblivious to the trippers’ urgently involved passion.

Enclosed in a bubble of blinding bliss, the shaman is thoroughly entranced by the gorgeous female creature. The crafty elfin girl pulls his hand down her belly to her tautly stretched outer lips and guides his questing fingertips to the swelling bud of her clitoris. Ram savours the strangely exquisite sensation of the teen’s hard silver labial studs gliding between his fingers and the sensitive spongy head of his rigid cock. He gasps with the smooth rubbery glide of her slick fluid labia as she works her way down around its supersensitised summit and the radiant tunnel of her love parts its exquisitely wrought inner gates for him.

Angel’s constellation of body piercings roll against his skin and dig into his flesh, strangely intriguing aphrodisiacs for the fortunate mature male who’s taken the wayward feral teen’s wandering fancy. He carefully slips his fingertip from one of the rings piercing her breasts and his palm glides along the grrl’s trembling, sweat-slaked bony shoulders and gracile biceps, skinny elfin torso and slender flat belly while he rolls her steaming clitoris between his erection and his thumb.

Ram wants to press the diminutive feral girl down into his lap and glide deeply into Angel’s willing taut loins yet he doesn’t dare move, so tight is the ring that encircles the cap of his engorgement as she leans up and moans against his cheek. He’s so much taller than the teen that their faces don’t meet as she sits back against his torso, mounted atop his erection as he cuddles her in enfolding arms that easily reach her extremities.

He strokes her calves, thighs, flanks and loins when the intoxicated nymph falls back and gasps for breath with her lower half turned to one side, her tongue stretching through his beard in search of his lips. Oh Goddess! The shaman’s expanded mind glows in grateful paean to Lady Luck and the Earth Mother for bestowed this glorious young female creature upon him. Angel flexes her buttocks around him and her tongue finds his lips again and explores his mouth.

Angel breaks away to hiss a voluble susurrus of white noise that’s completely lost in the pounding waves of sound. She twists back around in his embrace and squeezes her arching spine against Ram’s hairy chest while she purrs and growls ‘neath the sparse canopy of rainbow-lit young trees. “Oh wow, you tripping out too?” she moans at the edge of audibility, “oh dude, oh man, uh, oh man!” Shifting shadows of leafy boughs dapple the luminous emerging moon and the sky-spanning Milky Way. “Tripping in,” he insists into her fragrant dreadlocks.

Infinity fades before the argent lunar onslaught, the urgent psychedelic lightshow and the ardent blinding power of primeval sex that fills the blending awareness of the total, totalled strangers. As Angel’s eyes shift sidewise to become glittering slits focusing on the vast vault of heaven, she calls out to the emergent moon in a strident voice that pierces the deafening tumult of the doof. “Oh, La Luna! Oh, Goddess, Diana!”

A slender arm raises and the wicked Wiccan grrl’s palm opens to catch the fluttering moonbeams as they pour down through the feathery canopy of their primal primate nest. “Isis, Astarte, Hecate, Demeter…” she sings as her loins clench around her captivated male. Angel’s free hand descends to the silver amulet at her throat and she cups and strokes it as her face turns to bathe more fully in the moonlight. “…Aradia, Diana, Inana!”

Ram considers the unusual, almost heretical arrangement of the traditional septet of greater goddesses from the various Wiccan pantheons and orders. Aradia… His spine tingles and their fingers entwine and splay around the livid juncture of their genitals while the Name thrills through his nervous system, echoing through the corridors of endless memory. The lovers hover on the brink of consummated desire in a time-dissolving, psilocybin-infused idyll while his monkey mind spins its gears. Tuscan Queen of the Witches, daughter of Great Mother Duana by the Promethean Lightmaker… “Oh dude,” Angel cries a fraction less loudly, “I’m so wet…”

She’s so slim, so tight, the dazzled, tripping man realises, so fresh… The exotic feminine creature’s smooth, slick legs widen and her muscular cheeks spread as she readies herself for impending entry. “Feel…” Angel tilts her well-cushioned head against his shoulder and kisses his bearded throat as sharp-nailed fingertips guide his caress down toward moist tender lips, stretching elastically to admit him to unplumbed deeper mysteries.

Perspiring in the cold night air, she presses down around Ram’s ensnared pole and her skinny muscular legs wrap back around his thighs as beringed toes lock behind his longer, stronger, fuzz-covered limbs. Her pinioning leverage slowly thrusts his shaft up between her layered lips as his legs straighten out and the feral female opens her youthful buds to him as completely as she can. “Take it slow…” she growls seductively. “You know, at first…” She stops moving when her rubber band lips have completely enfolded his swollen glans and Ram sighs in a commingled swelter of ecstasy, compassion and frustration.

“Oh, Goddess…” All his doubts and concerns about her age and inebriation disappear before the undeniable reality of Angel’s entrancing eager readiness. Ram still holds back, barely able to resist plunging headlong into the blazing, brazen grrl’s irresistible interior. Her willing hairless loins are so alluringly slick and near-impenetrably tight that he knows he can easily hurt the fey young creature if he doesn’t follow her wise advice and secret plea. He strokes her skin while their drugged and hormone-enflamed bodies squirm together, beyond all thought of stopping as their flesh melds together so deliciously slowly that every millimetre of nerve-clustered membranes is an intricately textured unfolding horizon, a deliriously pleasurable expanse of a new and unexplored tropical continent.

It’s a long, long time since the hermetic shaman has felt such wantonly experienced innocence, felt such willing, supersensitive surrender or made love with so symmetrically flawless and precociously talented an elfin beauty (her splendour is neither enhanced nor marred by her artful array of body decorations in his adoring, tripping sight). It’s been even longer since such an entrancingly taut, smoothly waxed young maiden has stretched her charmingly engaging treasures around his rampant sceptre. The magician waits for the teen to lead their dance onward to primeval consummation with heart-pounding anticipation as geometric patterns swirl through his mind’s eye. “…Sweet-scented Angel, cupping my wand…”

The teenager takes matters into her own hands. She sighs and pulls him around as she rolls backward on top of him, and he rolls with the grrl as her legs open to the moon-bright sky. Her dreads spread around his torso while sharp-nailed fingers dance between her thighs, and the feral Goth’s small palms grasp his length and work him inward as she hums to the unmoving treetops and luminous moon. The intoxicated teenager is utterly, vulnerably naked to her new lover’s will, open and ready for the whole wide wondrous world to enter her sensitised senses, her ripened flesh and simmering blood. Horny lust and sweet surrender have supplanted all remnants of caution and shyness; using a dumb cloak of unfeeling latex rubber to separate his straining pole of blood-engorged flesh from her impatiently expectant, feverishly wet secret skin is the furthest thing from both their tripping minds.

The lithe Gothic elf bends her knees and flexes her muscles against him and Ram is amazed once again at the weightless grace of the drunken grrl. She hoists herself upward and squats over his recumbent body, dreadlocks spilling down onto his belly to conceal her pale lovely back and perfect derriere within their dark organic mantle. Her bigger, stronger partner effortlessly lifts the dreadlocked young female, pinning handfuls of serpentine locks to her ribcage. His hands slide down to Angel’s waist as she bends forward, raking his sensitive sack and the full length of his shaft with her long nails as she reaches between her thighs to hold him in place. “Mmm,” she purrs, “mm, that feels good…”

“Oh sweet goddess,” he agrees, “better than that… the best…” His incessantly ticking mind scans the detritus of ages to recall a more sensually unforgettable partner. Wish I could see her more clearly… The wild feral Angel growls in her throat and leans forward to grasp his shins, balancing daintily on his pole with her small feline feet digging into the grassy red soil and her sharp fingernails clawing into his calves. Ram’s hands slide to her hips and move around her flanks to caress her cheeks and hold her aloft. “Mm, heaven-sent Angel descending from above…” Her dreadlocks snap forward and lash at his legs, breaking the resurgent noise of the shaman’s thoughts and fully returning him to the surreal impassioned eternity of their excruciatingly delayed fuck. Angel’s nude, slippery nubile form is suddenly, blindingly revealed in a glaring coruscation of colour that illumines half her shuddering frame as she sways in a semi-delirious gasping swoon astride his unbending pole.

As patterns of coloured light wash across the metal-studded canvas of her suddenly revealed surfaces, Angel shamelessly masturbates in the bright exposure of the panning slide projector, bringing herself to a frothing frenzy as she slides Ram’s skin up and down his swollen shaft with her other hand. “Oh man,” she gasps, “ohh yess…” Her dreads sway in the phosphorescent light and her moon-white skin is suffused with all the colours of the rainbow. “Now…”

She presses down against his pillar of flesh and her tight, silken entryway suddenly spreads and snaps completely around its pythonic head. Ram’yana looks down and his pole seems hugely thick between the girl’s wide-stretched lips and bunched, firmly clenching buttocks in the fractal fragments of psychedelic light. Sheer unalloyed pleasure fills him to the point of ecstasy as Angel’s hot-blooded membranes throb and grasp at his cock. The grrl’s elastic muscles lock around his girth as he finally burrows into her glorious silken interior.

*

A True Story

Continues…

- R.A.

Images - author's

Further True Tales of the prince of Centraxis -

Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow

Psychedelic Water Part 2 - What Thou Wilt

Psychedelic Water Part 3 - Trancefixed

Psychedelic Water Part 4 - Feral Dolphin

Psychedelic Water Part 5 - Angelic Tantra

Psychedelic Water Part 6 - Dreads Unlocked

Psychedelic Water Part 7 - Fresh Flesh, Old Bones

Psychedelic Water 8 - Predawn of Awareness

Psychedelic Water 9 - Merry Moot

Psychedelic Water 10 -Wandering Orgone Wand

Psychedelic Water 11 - Water Power

The Red Pill - Psychedelic Water 12

Mothership Crew - Psychedelic Water 13

Amber Flames - Psychedelic Water 14

Wills Writ on Waves - Psychedelic Water 15

Alternative Universe - Psychedelic Water 16

Fractal Free Will - Psychedelic Water 17

Reorientation - Psychedelic Water 18

Viva La Difference – Psychedelic Water 19

Big Boing Mindstuff – Psychedelic Water 20

Magical Language – Psychedelic Water 21

*

More True Tales of the Prince of Centraxis…

Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents

The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater

Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1

Wild Life Part 1

For further edification see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com

The New Illuminati

(These two sites have been closed to this, their author, by Today.com – who continue to make an earn from them despite deeming them unsuitable - Enlightenment Today and Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )

The Prince of Centraxis

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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com