Fresh Flesh, Old Bones
Psychedelic Water 7
Do you ever know a lover for the first time? Can two immortal hearts that truly beat as one ever be lost to one another - or are we drawn back time and again in serial encounters spread across many millennia of flowering incarnations budding from the Tree of Life?
All deep contact between living beings spreads deeper resonances throughout the infinite sea, and no distance or barrier can forestall the impassioned rush of life’s search for life. Nothing can impede a truly burning will’s insatiable yearning to be united with the beloved, the soul mate - the other, better half.
The pioneers of the first hippy era’s back to the land movement were born into suburban mediocrity and swore to create something better and nobler than the self-defeatist bondage of the cloned patriarchal castle-homes that spawned them. They longed to see the stars which were becoming invisible in the polluted urban skies and see horizons beyond the cluttered landscapes of their birth. The first flower children had grown up in a war-torn world where subservient insecure wage slaves were able to lord it over their families in whichever manner they saw fit - often emboldened to tyranny in the sanctity of private home or bedroom.
Women and children were desperately subordinate to the wishes of the sole breadwinner. Disciplining children by hitting, beating, caning or strapping them and the widespread practice of ‘wife beating’ were considered normal, if distasteful occurrences; affairs best left to simmer between man and wife behind the castle’s locked doors and the green moat of its defensively fenced-off lawn.
Almost all the hippies dreamed of finding their soul mate somewhere in the wide undifferentiated loving embrace of the natural world, someone to share their entire lives with – whether or not they believed in the bonds and shackles of official matyr-money or chain-link welded bliss. In the search for the perfect mate, a suddenly freed new generation searched and roamed through the open bodies, minds and souls of an alternative nation.
They became happily ensconced in bustling urban or rural communes, or in shacks and homesteads in empty valleys and primordial forests, well beyond the sites, sight and oversight of straights and uptight prudish control freaks. They shared everything - or the little they had - in ardent fealty to the new movement of love and enlightenment that soared way beyond surface friendships, and often began or culminated with the melding of fevered flesh and pounding blood.
The folksong-singing, anti-war protesting, rock and roll-powered flower children swiftly learned that no matter how far you ran, you couldn’t leave your self behind. Beyond the brightly lit city walls, romantic fireside candlelit nights in a new idyllic paradise could swiftly transform to desperate cabin fever in the long hot wet seasons or frigid winters. Partners, friends and lovers were flooded in and trapped, truly isolated and alone together for the first time in their young lives.
When the distractions that had served to keep bright young minds averted from the terrors that had consumed or influenced their childhoods were gone, and they were left to finally deal with their own untrained opening minds, many young people found that they couldn’t cope with the memories and thoughts that welled up in the long empty silences of their remote new homes. The first wet season or frozen moon spelled the end of many passionate new relationships when lovers were locked together in shacks, tents, teepees and cabins for twenty four hours a day.
Many of the new settlers ignored the hippies’ advice to share their caring around, and tried to replicate the nuclear family nightmare they thought they were escaping - living as a single housebound husband and wife in an isolated country dwelling. Most soon discovered that the monogamous idyll suited the open ranges and deep forests even less well than it had the suburbs. They discovered that love could be traduced by unexamined customs, booby trapped moralities and ingrained habits that rose from the depths of their programming to split their fused souls asunder.
Some turned to one or more of the many ‘spiritual’ or religious cults and groups - that had sprouted everywhere like magic mushrooms after the ever-flowing, free loving psychedelic downpour of the Swinging ‘Sixties - to assuage their inner doubts and terrors with ancient certitudes, easy platitudes or hoary oaths.
Others decided to cast out the notions of monogamy and religion along with all the other superfluous baggage of what was, after all, an inherently doomed civilization. They sampled titbits and mouthfuls of the feast laid out before them in the sweltering subtropical summers of love of the gorgeous Rainbow Region – the far eastern zone of the island continent of Oz, primordial home of the original hippy communes – or in other centres of ‘alternative lifestyles’, clustered all around the coasts and ranges of the almost unpopulated dreaming landscape.
By the time the second generation of flower children sprang from the fertile loins of beaded long-haired hippies and barefoot poetic beatniks, Reggae was engaged in a brief duel with Punk Rock. Utterly different styles of music, fashion and morality competed for the enflamed minds and bodies of a new army of disaffected youth, spilling from the filthy cities at the beginning of the old cold war’s pyrrhic endgame. A New Wave of settlers mingled with the old guard of righteous tokers and trippers and new beats and rhythms boomed through the hills and roared across the valleys.
All over the Anglo world, pierced Punks faced off against tribal Rastafarii in the latest of a long line of music-centred culture wars. But unlike the previous battles between Mods versus Rockers or Longhairs versus Skinheads, the apparently inimical musical movements transcended their racist roots as wise leaders organised gigs where Reggae and Punk bands played back to back, one after the other. Deep contact of all kinds ensued as the safety pin-pierced, raggedly anarchic punks were forced to mix and mingle with dreadlock-sporting spiritual Rastas, and both faded into the pages of history in a strange lockstep dance.
A very short generation later in the ’80s and ’90s, the blended offspring of the Lions of Zion and the Sex Pistols stood before bulldozers and chainsaws, holding the line the hippies and deep ecologists had marked out in the soil of the ’sixties and early ’seventies. They were decked out in wild dreadlocks, pinned-up rags and body piercings – a weird melding of the old reggae and punk fashions their young parents had struggled through and thrown aside in order to conceive them in the fusing, confusing decade that history largely ignored.
Forty years after the Summer of Love, the annual Nimbin Mardi Grass and Cannabis Law Reform Rally attracts the latest of a long line of ‘me generations’ to the heaven-sent promise of abundant free love, mind-altering drugs, fantastic music, inspiring images and mind-blowing entertainment. The new seekers flock from the poisonous city-hives for a glimpse into the barest possibility of entertaining the thought of maybe -just maybe - finding a completely different way to live in a world already half destroyed by blind groping money-grubbers.
And every single blessedly forgetful one of them has lived and loved many, many times before; ignorance isn’t bliss, but it often makes new beginnings possible in an ancient world filled with repetitive patterns and recurring themes.
Angel gazes up at her new lover from the coiled basket of her dreadlocks and the silver amulet at her throat glimmers with reflected blue moonlight. “I don’ usually go out with older guys,” she declares in a post-orgasmic languorous sigh. “Always so fuckin’ serious - they always wanna fall in love.” The shaman watches the Wiccan Goth’s drugged vision swim into focus and the young grrl’s pointed critique is blunted by the glimmer in her laughing eyes.
Angel grips the bearded hippy with bony heels and taloned hands and pulls his slim athletic frame onto and into her slender and insistently receptive body with an urgency that makes them both gasp. “Ohh! Ahh… ohh… fuck… mm… oh yeah… Hey man,” she says, squeezing him with all her slim limbs as her face burrows into his long dark hair, “y’won’t practice any black magic on me, will you?”
The hippy shaman glides inside the fey wee witch as he nuzzles into her dreads, unwilling to let her see how he’s stung by her accusation. A strobelight illuminates the feathery branches above their bower, temporarily blacking out the Milky Way while pale naked bodies intertwine with staccato movements in the sporadic reflected brilliance. “Mmm… oh, Angel… not if you don’t want me to,” he murmurs into her ear.
“No way,” she growls into his throat. “Tha’s my job.” Her hallucinating lover smiles hugely as he rams the undeniable evidence of his resuscitated arousal into the inspiringly beautiful little lady’s lubricious interior. He climbs through the thick tickly coils of her dreadlocks and watches the teenager’s open-mouthed bliss when her gorgeous slim body jerks in the flashing light and she cries out into the populous night. “Oh, fuck yeah, oh man, ohh dude, ohh my Pan-man, mmm, ohhh Pan, Iohhh PAN… jus’ take me… uhh… like a fuckin’ drug… uhh uhh uhuhh ohh YEAH!”
“Ohh, Diana!” The trained magician cries out to the silvery moon, divine mate of the Earth-bound Horned One. “Oh, Goddess… Uhh… ahh… lover… Di… Ahh… Naa… mmm, bright divine Angel… Mmm…” The mature hippy rumbles deep within his chest as he moves through the inward grasp of the yelling, bucking young creature. He suspends his weight above her small writhing frame as he ploughs through her slender body and presses her into the grassy soil beneath the wattle trees. Colourful patterns writhe within her translucent skin and doubled afterimages of her unforgettable face overlap the shadowy reality of the girl’s entrancing beauty.
The tripping shaman feels imbued by a power that transcends the substances mixing in his bloodstream. He’s filled with a relentless masculine strength that he recognises as the Horned One – the ancient ultra-male deity which the Wiccan girl has evoked into her lover’s form. He recognised the presence inflating his body and ego from his magical training in the
He slowly withdraws from the incredible suction of Angel’s needy loins and hovers within her flexing entryway while her heels dig into his flexing buttocks and her surprisingly strong leg muscles try to drag him back inside her. He gives the tight young feral grrl the first few inches again - slowly at first, then over and over, gradually quickening his strokes to prime her unsated, drug-fuelled, come-filled young body for more wild flights into psychedelic ecstasy.
As he grins into her gasping face with a smile that verges on becoming a leer, the hairy Pan-ridden man lives only for the incredibly arousing pleasure he elicits in the gorgeous young dreadlocked nymph, and the gratifying moans that pour from her throat to mingle with the sounds of the wild bush party. “Yuh, uhh, nghh, oh yeah, Panman,” she moans, “uhuh… mm… oyesss, oh lover… oh fuck me, oh yeah… ohh ohh ohohohh oh I’m coming!” she cries with extraordinary swiftness. “Ohh! Comeohcomeohman, oh lover, COME!” Her exuberant cries are only partly drowned out by the throbbing bass beats and screaming music pouring across the landscape from the central marquee.
The psilocybin-enhanced shaman can’t tell who’s making the sounds that seem to issue from both their throats at once, rising above the unceasing noises of slapping flesh and squelching loins. His furry limbs and thrusting body feel almost brutish to the mature man, compared with the lithe slippery sleekness of the fey teenager bucking beneath him in the unmown grass and fragrant weeds. His hairy form slides against the feral Angel’s smoothly waxed, metal-pierced splendour as she pulls him deeper into her slim beringed belly with every plunging thrust.
The shaman still experiences a bright, implicately intimate resonance of every sensation his tripping partner feels – enjoys his lover’s sex-infused bliss from within her compact, ultra-sensitive young body - and knows exactly what the wild grrl wants and needs as she screams and writhes in the throes of another astounding orgasm.
Angel’s climax is thrillingly loud amidst the violence of her wide-thighed explosion; the exotic, erotic Goth grrl thrashes beneath him amid blinding flashes of light, her silver amulet and nipple rings glittering as her naked light-white body jerks and bucks on the damp sex-flattened grass. Intermixed fluids gush from the sleek slickness of her loins and the deep bass boom of the music vibrates through their slapping flesh while enthusiastic shouts and screeching laughter pour across them from the populous outdoor party.
“Come in me!” The glorious massage of the feral grrl’s inner contractions almost draws the shaman’s seeds from his roots to burst into her hungry womb again. He struggles upstream against the primal urge to implant more of his eagerly swelling jism into the belly of the hot young woman, so that these unrepeatably intimate moments of sex-drenched loving bliss can stretch into eternity.
Ram’s inclined to make love with the beautiful girl far more slowly and gently than this fucking fusillade of primal percussive sex will allow, but the orgasmic teenage witch will have none of it. She wants to be fucked into a mindless frothing frenzy by a goat-footed hairy beast god, and the beautiful grrl milks her mate’s shaft with her precociously gifted loins while begging him to fill her womb again with his white hot cream.
He watches Angel’s full-lipped, silver-pierced, black-painted mouth spread wide as her eyes roll back into her head while he glides through her tight slippery flesh - utterly united in loving lust with the unfamiliar wild female who matches his every move and breath. The wish-fulfilment of orgasm struggles with Ram’s enlightened, self-interested will to be a fully aroused male animal for his lover as long as he can, riding her through the long bright night of their soul-met flesh-stretching union. The shaman recycles his seed and assuages his need by turning the wheel of his deep ancestral chi while Angel pushes and pulls her hips around the fulcrum of her desire.
Though Angel believes she has him under her evocative spell, Ram’yana can see and feel the strings pulling the teen’s own besotted consciousness hither and thither; he senses another will working through her from a distant remove. When he tries to track its trace his attention is drawn back to the orgasmic girl as she grips him tightly with all her limbs and sticks her studded tongue in his ear. His body knows precisely what she craves and gives it to her with mindless rhythmic grace.
It would be terribly easy to simply fuck this heaven-sent horny little female through an ongoing series of continuous orgasms, plunging in and out of her engorgingly desirable body with mindlessly rampant lusty strokes - now that the experienced shaman has a feel for her rhythms, wants and needs. He could play the girl like an instrument if he so desired, using her drugged, orgasmic, puppeteer-strung body to pleasure himself from a lofty remove and satisfy his conceit while she grunts and cries with ecstatic pleasure. The pagan god who moves through him as he moves through her angelic loins certainly wants to do just that - and wants to fill the nubile girl with evermore jets of creamy spunk …
He exults in the explosive heat of the beauteous wild waif and revels in the union of their pounding hearts, racing together between the warmly firm cushions of Angel’s firm titties as their metal-pierced softnesses slither apart and spread beneath his hairy chest. He glories in her astoundingly talented sexuality, her lust-filled loving femininity and her unrestrained eager response to his every move while they kiss and suck, moan and fuck. Ram’yana knows how rare such untrammelled feminine sexuality is in the self-blinding repressed cultures of the world of his birth, and revels in the flagrant abandon of Angel’s enthusiasm.
The surprisingly large number of women who don’t have the power to surrender themselves to ecstatic bliss is a reality the hippy shaman finds depressingly disconcerting. He’s learned not to approach the damaged majority of contemporary females, and knows the pointlessness of making love with women who carry themselves with an inner rigidity and who exist without a certain glittering spark in their eyes; women very unlike this gorgeous feral Angel. He much prefers the surface self-mutilation wrought on his newfound lover’s pierced flesh by her wild rebellious artistry, to the hideous hidden scars borne by so many inwardly crippled females.
A part of the shaman that he’s long denied wants to savour the bright masculine power he possesses and fulfil this horny young female’s most desperate primal needs though the long hours until dawn. Having found a perfect Tantric partner at last, he yearns to inspire her to the heights of telempathic bliss, to share in ultimate fusion while he feels Angel’s amazingly electrifying orgasms over and again. He watches the ecstasy brim from her eyes and hears it pour from her black ring-pierced lips, while twinned kundalini serpents rise in their intertwined bodies.
There’s nothing finer in this life than being the most perfectly satisfying mate for this wondrous young woman. The affirmation springs into his tripping brain, an adamantly ardent jewel encrusting the forefront of his swimming mind. His long hair falls around her face as he flows through and around Angel’s body while she gasps and thrashes on the cool grassy ground. It’s so hard… so hard not to come in her again… but he knows the longer he lasts within the ecstasy-fuelled sensuality of the stoned, drunk, tripping dreadlocked grrl’s supersensitive vulva, the longer their incredibly inspiring and satisfying lovemaking will endure.
Experiencing such rare impassioned closeness after so much time spent alone in the forest, the bearded shaman hesitates to lift the girl to a vertical position and share the heights of Tantra with his newfound and untrained young beloved. He prefers to give her precisely what she wants – for now – and allow the unleashable power of Pan to ravish the frenzied girl in just the way she so wantonly desires.
The thought comes to him that he could easily withdraw his awareness from the totally arousing sensations of their hormone-pumping, alchemically reacting copulation, and think of something else entirely while his powerful body fucks her teenage brains out. He could simply become a proud unfeeling masculine instrument of Angel’s insatiable feminine lust, distracting himself from their endless bright union and focusing upon something else - or by turning inward and concentrating his recycling energy.
Yet he never wants to feel less when he’s making love with a beautiful partner; he’s not thought of another while making love with a woman since he was much younger, and has no need for such obtuse techniques now. Nothing could be finer than to feel everything this entrancingly perfect Tantric tripping partner has to share with him, as they rut in the grass betwixt the rainforest creek and the thunderous psychedelic doof.
Ram’yana wants more than just mind-blowing, come-spouting sex with this attractive and receptively intelligent young woman - fantastic as he now knows Angel’s athletic fucking to be, as he ploughs through her gut-wrenchingly talented loins. Distracting himself from her amazing grace with thoughts of anyone or anything else would be a furtive, futile and dishonourable course, exiling them both from the bright
A series of lurid images fills his mushroom-soaked awareness again, inflaming his desire and challenging his resolve. He sees his large bearded frame holding the smaller girl down, overwhelming and spreading her quivering elfin body immobile beneath him. His hands grasp her wrists and he kneels on her legs and spreads her thighs wide, pressing up into her belly. He sees himself impaling her with unrestrained brutal lunges of his long hard pole as she struggles and screams in the red dirt.
Ram’s taken aback by the violent vision coursing through his mind, while his body keeps moving in step with the guiding rhythms of the wild grrl’s breath and loins. Why am I … Can that be what she wants? It must be Pan… or something else… He rebels against the notion that his own mind could be responsible for these rapine visions. …and is she really so tiny?
The tripping hippy shaman treads psychedelic water while he attempts to understand his drug-altered, god-inhabited mind and continues to pleasure his intoxicating young lover. He remembers the Wiccan Goth’s invocation of the horny, goat-footed Horned One and feels the deity’s insatiable lust burning in his swollen loins. She’s invoked Pan before – but no - these images are a violent reality she’s known before, the seer sees, another man… an ungentle lover’s thoughts and deeds embedded in her flesh and aura – not my way or thoughts at all…
“Oh, man!” Angel cries as her eyes squeeze shut in excruciating bliss and his wide-open mind keeps absorbing memories from the panting girl’s sex-charged aura. They’re impressions left by another who’s moved through this beautiful cock-milking maiden… embedding his sick dreams in her flesh and soul whilst desperately trying to remain a hard-reaming man for this insatiable witch-girl… she makes him shoot his seeds into her belly while he holds her down…
Becoming ever more aware of the wild grrl’s enraptured sensations, embedded memories and lustrous desires, ever more immersed in her blinding, nerve-tingling feminine glory, coming closer to her true will and bright flaming heart – and not losing it, not coming inside the sweet young thing in a blazing rush of sticky foaming man-juice – is the ever more arousing, zenith-piercing trajectory Ram’s pounding heart follows as he dives into the ripe tight ecstatic fruit of Angel’s smooth hot quim. He’d still like to shift the limber girl to an upright position so their spines are erect, but the intoxicated teen is having too good a time on her back to interrupt their urgent fucking for pursuits of higher, deeper pleasures and intimacies.
Angel pulls her man closer and nibbles his earlobe, pressing her breasts and belly tight against his hairy musculature while her bum rocks and rolls in the soft earth. “Oh, man, oh man,” she gasps between humming moans, her voice quavering with the fresh vivid ache of life’s most urgent strivings. Ram slows his pace in response to the tempo of her rocking hips and deepening breaths. “Ohh! Oh lover, uhh, yeah, uhuh uhuhhuhh… Oohh!” Her vibrant cries penetrate the repetitive music while echoing aftershocks move through his heart and mind. “You c’n really feel me… you really want me…”
The girl’s emotionally charged words immobilise the magician’s auric psychometry and incessant psychedelic philosophising, and a golden amber wave spreads outward from his chest, emanating from the core of warm empathy smouldering within his solar plexus. His overwhelming desire for this wise, beautiful feminine being slowly transforms into a much deeper feeling that pervades his entirety, igniting his awareness to more fully appreciate the loving conjunction of their cuddling, interpenetrating souls.
He’s intimately aware that the intensely sensitive girl is feeling the same spreading glow of all-encompassing undifferentiated love, as her body anneals itself to his and she moans sweet endearments into his ear. Angel presses her self as closely around him as she can, muttering entreaties and encouragements while the lovers melt and meld together in a sticky sweltering ball of bliss and their hearts begin to glow in an unnameable deep resonance.
Though the hippy and the feral are almost complete strangers, the eternal primal harmony between man and women unites them in a warm, rosy flow that transcends their animated animal fucking. The lovers approach a state of simultaneous molten oneness that intensifies into an intimacy far deeper and more intense than the strivings of their close-pressed flesh - squeezed passionately together, closer and closer, while their souls fuse and sparkle beneath the falling stars and unfixed firmament.
The shaman feels a frisson of unease enter Angel’s bright lithe lightness as their intimacy grows and deepens. The dreadlocked Goth moves against their interlocking rhythm, swimming against the swell of the loving spell that enfolds them. She nips and tongues his bearded throat. “Mmm, oh man,” she moans, “Oh, uh… mm… uh… what’s your, uhh, name again? Uh, mmm… don’ tell me… I’ll remember...”
She falls back onto the ground and the shaman bends to suck her pierced nipple between his lips; her sharpened nails dig into his buttocks, unmistakeably inciting him to make another home run and carry her over the brink of another naked screaming fit of blinding orgasmic fucking. “Pan…” she moans, “mm… oh Pan…”
“Angel…” The feral witch falls back moaning to writhe on the leaf-strewn grass as Ram’yana continues to caress her body and begins to drive his hypersensitised shaft into her tightly gripping rings of silk-sheathed muscle. “Ogod,” she cries, “ogodofuckogod… mmm, yeah, like that, godfuck, you know jus’… urgghh…” He pauses halfway to her navel when the grrl groans and swoons while her eyelids flutter. “Oh, ohh, stop, ohhh… sorry, uh, gotta stop f’r a minute… uhh… really out of it… jus’… stay there…”
The feral teen rocks her hips backward until only his pythonic head remains embedded within her, as she buries her face in his thick mane and hugs his neck in her slim arms. Then she falls back onto the soft cool earth, rolling her pelvis with tiny rotating motions to work his glans slowly around the inside of her clitoris. A phosphorescent pod of miniature electric blue dolphins rises from the ground, leaps over their intertwined limbs and disappears into the earth.
Stray projector beams light up Angel’s metal-featured face and silver breast jewellery while she pants up at him with wide open mouth, eyes and thighs, trying to focus on his rainbow-lit, hair-shrouded features. Her beringed bosom heaves as she gasps for breath. “Oh, god, I’m so… mm, oh fuck, what a trip… what a fuck, oh yeah, mmm, fuck me, hippy man, keep going…”
“Oh aye, Goddess… Oh Angel, sweet lover – thy command is my wish.” He reaches past the feral grrl’s dreads to pass her the bottle of spring water that lolls against the folds of his quilt. “Here - drink this.” The hippy vibrates as he hovers above the Goth’s silver-circleted heaving breasts. He watches her glittering ring-pierced black lips guzzle the life-giving liquid crystal, fresh from the nourishing nipple of Mother Earth. The school-aged teen stares into his eyes and clenches herself around him as she drains the last drop. The soles of her slim feet press into his chest as she lets the bottle fall into the grass. “Sweet honey… horny Angel…”
The tripping shaman prince underlines his words with his plunging rod and rotates his hips as her incipient words slur into elated mumblings. She raises her knees up beside her cheeks and places the soles of her diminutive feet against his pounding ribcage. The insatiable girl moans and sighs through her drugged and drunken orgasmic haze; “Oh yeah… like mmmpp…” she says as his tongue slithers around in her mouth and his soft beard envelopes her face. The shaman drops his full weight onto her rough soles and bounces on the athletic lithe teenager’s springy legs, spreading her wider with each deeply penetrating plunge. “Uhh… uhhh…. mmm… oh, fuck, oh Angel… oh girl, wild honey, wild woman, what… oh, what a mphhh…”
He pins her to the ground, embedded all the way to his fuzzy balls inside Angel’s straining young membranes - exulting in the deep, loud, primeval moan his thrust elicits from the svelte young woman as she falls into her dreads with arms akimbo. “Oh, goddess, what a female thou art...” He glides to a slower rhythm, sawing in and out of the girl’s limber musculature as her quivering legs hold his chest in the air and her flailing arms flop onto the ground while his balls mash against her cheeks.
“Mmm... mmm…” she moans. “ More water…” She fumbles for the empty bottle and finds the Strega instead, downing the last few fingers of the favourite tipple of the
Angel shakes her head within its pillowing nest of serpents while she regains her breath. A length of vine has entwined itself through her dreads and a string of tiny leaves trails down between her heaving conical breasts, glowing in the light of the fully risen moon. The bearded long-haired hippy savours the timeless moment, caressing her throat, breasts and belly with his freed hands while the feral grrl flexes around the crown of his shaft and holds him above her with her knees pressed into the dirt. So beautiful... so good to be her man, even for a night. He stares into Angel’s gorgeous face, impressing her features in his memory as her perfect body heaves and pants beneath him, supine in his shadow.
He can see the lovely feral grrl is almost completely exhausted and almost thoroughly satisfied – yet her feet slide down his ribs to push against his bony hips and lift him up out of her tight, smooth, come-sodden slickness. She allows her lover’s mass to press his plummeting cock all the way into her insatiable young womanhood before lifting his cock from her sucking embrace, against and again.
Projections play across Ram’s suspended pale-skinned body, gleaming colours coruscating across his perspiration-slicked skin as the shaman is blinded by the light. He caresses the almost invisible feline form pressed beneath and around his illuminated flesh with gentle touches while he strokes her dizzy mind with words of love. “Oh, sweet Goddess… sweet Angel… oh, lover, mm…” The teen flops back onto the ground while he massages her breasts. “…We don’t have to move; we can just lie inside each other like this… mm, woman… make love like this… until you’re ready…”
“Fuck that”, the dreaded grrl avers, slipping her ankles up through his hair to wrap around his neck. “I was born ready.” The words cause his mind to snap into instant reverie again; he’s heard the phrase before, on the lips of a certain half-Aboriginal girl…
Ram’yana shakes the luminous conflicting image of the dark-freckled redhead from the past out of his mind - along with the ever-present reality of the designer blonde making noisy love a few paces from their nest. He doesn’t want to think of another girl while he’s making love with Angel – and particularly not of Nell, not here, scant yards from where they first truly met, at another Mardi Grass party. Angel pulls his full weight down into and onto her petite body, her sharpened nails digging into his buttocks as her skinny ankles grasp his neck. Not now, he commands himself, not here, not with her…. Make love with this heaven-sent Angel… be here now!
It isn’t difficult – here and now is a fantastically satisfying place to be. Enduring ball-tightening flesh-sheathed bliss within this wonderful, adorable, alluring young grrl - withstanding the growing greedy need to pick her up by her loins and come creaming inside her again and again - is the realisation of his most fervent hopes and longing dreams. Blurred indigo images reflect from his skin to bathe Angel in a fey bluish gloaming while the shaman enters the eternal zone he always finds himself within, when making love with a true-hearted beloved.
The shaman spreads his body full-length atop the adorable little teenager and she reciprocates, pressing her silver-tipped breasts and belly, her creamy, dirt-caked buns, slick fiery loins and the soft undersides of her stretching legs into his flesh, until their hearts beat together through their bony cages while they kiss and cuddle and fuck on the cool damp earth.
Angel works her studded tongue around inside his mouth and her fingers part her stunning silver-shot hairless seam to encompass the last inches of her shaman’s long staff. She slips and slides her studded labial lips around his swollen girth with nimble fingers until he pulls almost all the way out of her, balancing on his toes – and there the lovers hover, poised on the brimming lip of primal mystery as they kiss and fondle, suckle and sigh.
Angel glances at the couple making love in the grass and bracken nearby - whose erotically charged presence Ram’s almost completely forgotten while encased in the blinding bubble of their loving lust. His gaze follow his lover’s and he sees the other girl is watching them with rapt attention while she continues bouncing up and down atop her mate. A burst of strobelight reveals their orgiastic scene in a blast of utterly naked public exposure for a few moments, while they fuck and buck jerkily in the machine gun flicker of brilliant white light.
Phosphorescent, psychedelically fracturing afterimages of the blonde’s frozen shape linger when Ram’yana looks down at the profile of his gorgeous lover – her orgasmic open-eyed wonder superimposed over the intoxicating dark-dreaded young imp, as she contracts around his shaft with insatiable and irresistibly inspiring strength and cuntrol. When Angel turns to face him her kiss is tender and sweet, her touch so loving and awe-inspiringly gentle and familiar that he feels as though they’ve been lovers for years.
Their lips can’t quite seal around the hard intrusive metal penetrating her black-painted mouth, but when he exhales into the grrl’s sweet tasting interior she draws his breath deeply into her lungs, holds it for a moment and then returns it to him admixed with her own. A natural, the shaman marvels as shadowy darkness enfolds them once more. They lie locked and fused at lips and loins, breathing each other’s souls as Ram allows his weight to slowly sink his throbbing erection back into her virgin-tight quim, millimetre by glorious millimetre.
When the young woman is ready for more she lets him know without equivocation; her soft, smooth thighs spread wide against his belly and waist and her heels bear down on his back as she wraps her limbs all the way around his athletic frame. The feral Angel lovingly lubes him with their sticky fluids while her slender body vibrates and steams with a liquid fever of eternal, quivering teenaged arousal – and the overlapping incitements of speedy ecstasy, mind-expanding psilocybin and high-potency alcohol and ganga burning their way through the girl’s pumping veins and exploding nerves.
The thought that eventually haunts all young immortals returns to the shaman’s mind as he parts the pink sea of the beautiful little teen’s willing flesh; She’s young enough to be my daughter – even younger than my daughter…. He drives all thought of his beautiful distant progeny from his mind with a desperate lunge that dispels her image and makes his newfound lover moan as she draws him all the way into her entrancing charms. He slides up into Angel’s belly and the young glittering Goth kisses him tenderly while her smooth limbs wrap around him completely. Only her, he tells himself, desperately focusing all his senses upon this smooth-shaven young girl’s loving form, riding the waves of her needs and whims with singular one-pointed focus; only this wonderful heaven-sent Angel…
Reality shimmers and the blackness of the young Goth’s lipstick spreads to cover her beautiful face, throat, shoulders and breasts. Angel’s features warp in his twisting sight, overlaid with a dark-skinned version of her slender white wildness; his mate is lying in fine white sand on a beach near a shore lapped by softly rolling low waves, at the edge of a brightly sunlit desert that recedes into an uncertain distance of white haze. Her sharp cheekbones and high forehead glisten with beads of perspiration in the stark sunlit brilliance and her dreads are thick jet black tubes caked with flaking grey clay.
As she smiles up at him with a blinding white grin he sees the girl is missing a lower tooth - and that her metal facial jewellery has been supplanted by whorls and lines of faint circular cicatrices that outline the dark ridges of her face. Her fingers tangle in his long hair as she works him more deeply into her slim belly with pneumatic thrusts of her hips.
The scene is completely vivid, overlain and interpenetrating the dark nightscape and glistening white-skinned feral grrl making love with him beneath the bright half moon. The women are one and the same, incarnate flowers of feminine carnality separated by millennia of time, somehow joined in this moment by their passionate coital melding with the psilocybin-strung shaman. A strange pungent scent suffuses the day-lit scene, an odour of citrus admixed with myrrh.
His arms are dusky muscular columns rooted in the sand by his mate’s smiling face and she moans as he moves through her skinny body with powerful, confident thrusts that completely fill her furry loins. He watches the shifting expressions on her faces and finally notices the faint lines around the black woman’s brown eyes and purpling mouth, the crinkling crow’s feet and smile lines that outline her pleasure as she moans and pulls him closer. The feline female he’s making love with is a mature Negro woman and a young teenage Celt, both and one, all at the same time – and he’s in love with them both at once, the same immortal beloved wrapped lovingly around his ever-renewing body.
“I love you,” the women say in Angel’s young voice. “Always love you... always have.” A shiver rushes up Ram’s spine and his body hair rises from the sex-warm surfaces of his skin. “We were bred for this… bred for each other… Ramoshe…” she breathes in an ancient version of the magician’s name that calls to the immortal living through him; “My Ramoshe…” The shaman prince hasn’t heard these syllables coming from a lover’s lips in this life; he freezes inside the fey female creature, who continues rocking and rolling and squeezing herself around his rigidity.
“Oh, Ramoshe…” the witchy feral girl murmurs into his heart. The way she pronounces his name brings the vision of the strange black woman swelling to the fore, speaking through the young dreadlocked teen’s black-tinted lips. He spins inside a dizzying fugue of sensations and images, existing in two places and moving with two women at the same moment, making love with both of them in a weird conjunction of illusory time. Both of them - the older, ritually scarred black woman with the missing tooth and the teenage feral Goth, her body crammed full of metallic piercings - are the same immortal woman, making love with him on eternity’s shore beneath the same enduring lover’s moon. Have we been lovers before? The tripping shaman wonders superfluously. Is that why we’re so good together - why it feels like we were made to make love with each other?
Ram’yana says nothing, priming Angel’s responsive young flesh on the cool grassy earth while his intoxicated mind races betwixt the ages. She isn’t a Goorie dubay or gullumbine, he concludes, not from here... He tries to fit the black woman’s comely presence into his memories and wonders if their eternal lovemaking took place here in a parallel past in the ancient occupied Land of Oz. Not if she’s calling that name… He desperately draws himself back to the wondrous present, wanting to think only of the beautiful young woman who’s opening herself to him completely, as Angel’s hot panting breath washes across his face.
“Love…” she sighs, “oh man, don’t stop, come with me, don’t let me go…” The shaman struggles to rein in his wandering thoughts by opening himself to every sense and sensation, to stay in their conjoined moment in the here and now – embedded hard and fast inside this loving young feral grrl on the dark, cool paddock beneath the glowing moon - while the bright sunlit beach and sultry heat swell in his vision and warm his long bones. The grinning black woman enfolds him inside all her limbs and their teeth knock together in the fury of their passion.
“Ohh,” she sighs, “you’re with me, really with me…” and the image of the dark woman shimmers away, melting before the stark naked vivid beauty of wild young Angel, stroking his hair and crying in his long arms while they mate beneath the harvest moon. Even if it is her – us – in another life, soul-met love’s the best reason to be here now with her, he tells himself as he soothes the shuddering girl. She rocks around him and smothers him with kisses, her tears smearing against his cheeks and thick moustache as she cries his name. “Ramoshe!” she cries, “I rem’mber, I rem’mber…” the young feral witch mumbles through her salty teardrops.
The rhythmic rotation of her hips slows as a puzzled expression flits across her sweat-slick brow and bleary eyes, twisting her eyebrow ring inside a flashing ray of purple light. “Um… uh… are you hypnotising me?” she asks, her small hands pressing up against his furry chest as she sniffles and strokes his skin with her sharp black fingernails.
“Oh, sweet heaven-sent Angel - are we hypnotising each other?” he asks, wiping the tears from her cheeks and eyes with his lips and tongue.
“For a minute… she says, “you were someone else – someone I knew… know…”
“You know me now,” the bearded shaman affirms. His words trigger another flood of tears from the young feral, but this time her body jiggles around him in a giggling fit. Angel twists her fingers into his mane and pulls his face to hers. She kisses him with open-eyed teary joy, laughing into his mouth as she draws him down into her belly with her small feet digging into his back. After a few minutes of slow rocking and thrusting the hypersexual grrl is riding the swell of another orgasm.
A meteorite illuminates her glowing beringed face and her metal-pierced breasts, overwhelming the electrified projections. It burns itself to plasma, splitting the seam of heaven like a cosmic zooming spermatozoon on ecstatic speed as it catches alight in the vast egg of the Earth Mother.
A True Story
Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to by those who still get away with stealing the wealth and knowledge of the Earth (and everywhere else) for themselves – are you?
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