Wild Widow’s Son
Sex & Drugs & Rock ‘n’ Roll 7
The Flower Children cast aside the hate-freighted, guilt-weighted veils that had hidden the wondrous rites of sex and sensuality. They had no need for the Western world’s grim industrial age of endless wars and solemn misplaced duties. The new generation sprang from the loins of legions of damaged young universal soldiers, who had suddenly been reunited with a generation of lonely left-behind women. The babies boomed and many of them grew wild and wooly in the new clear nuclear dawn of the New Aeon.
Women had been forced out of the eternal round of homemaking humdrum when the rites of war sucked the well-indoctrinated patriotic males into a maelstrom of swirling metal death. Wives and girls were encouraged to partake in meaningful work for the first time in generations. When Johnny came marching home again the women were expected to yell “Hurrah!”, forget their newfound freedom and independence and hand their jobs and businesses over to brothers, sons and husbands.
The Suffragettes of their mothers’ generation had won important victories in the ongoing battle between the sexes – the most primal schism of all in the human psyche, responsible for all the other illusory dualities and dichotomies that hold Humanity in a dire hypnotised malaise. Now a great revolution was turning the world toward unprecedented paths as hot wars turned into tepid money-making enterprises and charismatic leaders began to ask “Why not?” instead of “Why?” The struggle between men and women became the front line of global change, and entrenched inequities began to be subjected to public scrutiny – along with domineering and violent behaviour in private bedrooms.
The world had been torn to pieces by war for so long that the simple ancient verities and life’s most precious gifts had been largely forgotten in the rush for mean survival. Everyone was thrown into the deep end of the broad reproductive pool, expected to fend for themselves with little or no training in the fundaments of life.
Unschooled in the ways and arts of love and loving, nuclear age monogamists built their shattered and split nuclear families into new skirmish lines in the classic classist struggle of rich versus poor, man versus woman, us versus them. Some knew there had to be a better way to have a good life and plunged out of the mainstream to explore alternatives to the painful nuclear half-life - but most simply got on with the business of work, reproduction, consumption and death.
The flower children sprouting in the torn-up global garden bed looked around and wondered how their parents had managed to screw everything up so royally. They couldn’t understand why humans continued their pointless wars, or why the split between the sexes was considered a normal feature of human existence. When their wannabe warrior fathers and battered tranquilised mothers saluted rags and strutted around playing primate dominance games that were obviously destroying the planet, many of their kids decided to slip through the net of lies and propaganda that had swayed their more easily programmed parents.
The hippies discarded the trappings and wrappings of monogamy and marriage and went straight for the heart, core and loins of life and love. They closed their ears to uptight scared ‘religious’ masters, and their uninhabited mistresses of self-repressed denial – priests and captive virgins who had concealed the greatest natural gifts and pleasures of Humankind beneath their white-collared black cloaks of superstition and terror.
Ancestors that lived in perpetual fear of a violent sky fairy who watched and judged their every move had been terrified at the notion of opening Pandora’s Box; they jammed the lid tight on the Scarlet Woman’s treasure chest and tried to ensure the unforgettable taste of her ‘cup of fornication’ didn’t spill into the open mouths, loins and minds of their children. The old guard knew that if repressed sexuality was unleashed, their tragic old order would shatter and things would never be the same again – but they didn’t realise this was precisely what their hell-bent world required to heal itself, to knit a sex-split schizophrenic species back together in a flowering fusion of love and loving.
The beat generation moved to a new rhythm and rhyme and those who followed in their bongo-playing poetic footsteps dared to throw off the dusty shrouds that their predecessors had cast across a gleaming heritage of hidden treasures. The primordial beat turned to a symphony of spirited sexualised music that rippled through the entire world, carrying messages of revolutionary change riding on it foaming psychedelic crest.
An uncontrollable horde of baby-boomer children entered puberty - and exited the abusive and violent homes of their warrior-ape parents at the first possible opportunity. They could see through the lies and self-blinding falsehoods that bound their families in sticky tangling webs of parochial bullshit. They could easily see that the power-hungry monomaniac emperors had no clothes, and soon gave up trying to convince their parents that the fabric of their enslaved lives was meaningless, ugly and self-destructive.
The flower children came to distrust everything their parents stood for or believed in and turned their backs on a world that was all too ready to destroy itself in a theatrical display of carefully designed radioactive flames and biological horrors. Some found like-minded friends and partners and formed rebellious groups of change agents and gangs of communal fellow travelers, who shared everything they had in gaily painted derelict urban ghettoes and faraway rural acreages.
Perhaps one in a hundred managed to escape the suburban nuclear nightmare and find a place in the sun; the rest of the baby boomers continued with business as usual in their freshly painted dark Satanic mills. Most of them chased imaginary numbers around picket-fenced rat runs, while they decried and denounced their free-spirited and more aware escapee contemporaries. They called them ‘dropouts’, ‘commie scum’, ‘pinkos’ ‘bums’ and ‘trash’ while elbowing each other aside in their dash for a trough of poisonous synthetically flavoured offal. In response, the new psychedelic leadership urged kids to ‘turn on, tune in and drop out’ of the world-destroying civilization their parents had bequeathed upon them.
New alternatives were explored by wide-eyed open minded kids, who were called ignorant and naïve by the intolerant bosses and taskmasters of the inhuman urban hives. And right on cue, just as a new wave of consciousness prepared to wash clean the detritus of centuries, a miraculous legal substance derived from a widespread rye fungus appeared in the dayglow-painted streets, shared houses and communes.
Timothy Leary and other psycho-medical researchers - who had been experimenting with a ‘hallucinogen’ that had remained unexplored since its discovery in 1948 - came to understand that an extraordinary key to changing human nature itself lay within their grasp; but they weren’t the only ones. Intelligence agencies regularly dosed their own unwitting citizens with a mind-blowing array of concoctions in a multidisciplinary attempt to achieve total mind control of ‘the masses’. The MKUltra program and other lesser-known CIA mind control experiments were denied at the time, and it wasn’t until a generation later that a small number of government-sponsored crimes became common knowledge.
When Leary and his partner Richard Alpert were alerted to a CIA plan to lace public water supplies with megadoses of LSD in a series of experiments on their own unprepared populations, the controversial but well-regarded and legally approved researchers helped spread the mind-altering, soul-changing substance to an eagerly awaiting generation. They placed the key to enlightenment, indoctrination, freedom or madness into everyone’s hands and armies of converts began to spread the Word. Cosmic blotting paper wafers became the new Body of God and many seekers followed the newly mapped route to universal transformation.
It wasn’t long before LSD was banned for public consumption, but by then the psychedelic genie was well and truly out of its test tube and flowing through the bloodstreams and mindscapes of millions. Acid changed the world in a multitude of ways too obvious and arcane to enumerate - a lens that brightened and focused the inner light of knowledge to shine through the veils of ignorance and burn away the falsehoods of millennia. Acid opened peoples’ eyes to the hidden reality shining all around them and melted away all their preconceptions.
A multitude of self-deluding egotists struggled on the beaches in the light of a new dawn as their illusions drowned beneath unceasing waves of psychedelic self-examination. Acid exposed and washed away the comforting along with the terrifying, and many retreated to the safety of known terrors in the glare of its unrelenting spotlight – but some successfully underwent a neo-amphibian transition and developed totally new ways of living and of understanding the living world. The key to a good trip was an open compassionate mind-set and a healthy natural setting – but most people lived (and tripped out) within toxic urban miasmas of violence, hate and oppression.
It was hardly surprising that many had ‘bad trips’ – they were living a bad trip all the time, and the hideous truth was inescapable under the lens of LSD. When many complained of stomach pains or aches in various parts of their bodies as their first trip came on – often imagining they’d been poisoned - they were merely becoming aware of the constant numbed pain they’d been putting their long-suffering and long ignored bodies through for years. But when the pure substance from the Sandoz laboratories was declared illegal, many shonky operators manufactured all kinds of crap and palmed it off as genuine LSD; some even sold strychnine – which did cause stomach cramps, along with the hallucinogenic death-trip it produced – to unsuspecting barefoot teenagers.
Many trippers were unable to break free from their fearful cocoons, already too twisted by the internal damage implanted in them by their superstitious parents and a regimented society to spread their wings and fly. Some simply flew too high and their wings burned in the brilliance of premature enlightenment; they fell into the qliphothic nether-realms of their fears and nightmares and some never reached the surface of ‘normal’ consciousness again.
There were many casualties who failed to make the transition from caterpillar to butterfly, festering in the psych-wards and halfway houses of the psychedelic revolution. Yet many were perfectly sane; they were locked up because they didn’t fit in with their self-blinded cultures, or because they were too vocal in their denunciations and protests. Lobotomies and electric shocks to the brain ensured these malcontents and rebels went quietly into the gloom.
Despite a ubiquitous and ancient human heritage of regular shamanic and tribal use of ‘hallucinatory’ plants and fungi, the total repression of all mind-altering consciousness tools - and of Humanity’s psychic supersenses - meant that very few seekers had access to the wisdom and nostrums of previous psychedelic voyagers, hidden mystery schools and invisible colleges.
For some, LSD became precisely the instrument of mental delusion that the intelligence agencies had hoped - but these clandestine groups found its effects too unpredictable and uncontrollable for use in their ongoing repression and direction of society. A real LSD trip opened peoples’ eyes to far more than limited hominid languages could even begin to describe.
Acid blew all your preconceptions away and burnt new neural pathways through the tangled thicket of your inbred misconceptions. Sometimes it illuminated your delusions so garishly that you became fixated on them for a time - until you worked your way through the scar tissue of your illusions and healed the psychic damage and fixations you couldn’t previously see.
In most cases acid achieved the opposite of what control freaks hoped for and continue to claim; despite and because of its ability to re-imprint and reprogram the brain and mind, LSD made it virtually impossible to successfully lie to yourself for long - that’s one of the reasons why it came to be said that “you can’t fool the children of the revolution.” Truth exploded within their opened eyes and minds, and once unleashed it couldn’t be contained.
The vanguard of the flower children opened themselves to everything their parents had warned them against; in their teenage rebellion against the Big Lie of military-industrial insectoid civilization they decided that everything society stood for was simply a series of more little lies. They’d been told that cannabis would send them mad or kill them - by violent killer-ape alcoholics who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit their genitals off and sucked out their souls. They were told they could get lethal venereal diseases from toilet seats or from kissing, that animals didn’t feel pain and that an ex-intelligent agent called Oswald had single-handedly shot President Kennedy from three different angles.
They’d witnessed the endless lies of Nixon and his millions of supporters, seen Cambodia bombed with more munitions than were used by all sides in World War Two (including the atomic blasts in Japan) during only twelve days over Christmas, in an undeclared war that the president denied was happening. They were told that DDT and X-rays were harmless, that a little extra radiation was good for them and that there’d be pie in the sky when they died – but only if they repressed all their natural urges while they were alive. They were told that women didn’t experience orgasms and that it was mandatory to keep your legs firmly crossed until you were married. Nudity was illegal, immoral and evil.
They were told they were born in sin and error, inherently cursed and evil before they were even conceived. They were brainwashed into believing that a torture victim was an inspirational role model and that self-sacrifice and denial were the only possible routes to salvation. They were ordered to drink symbols of human blood and eat effigies of human flesh, fed to them by black-garbed pedophiles in ruinously gilded graven temples each and every week - if they wanted to sing in a Heavenly Choir for ever an ever.
Heaven was seemingly reserved for certain members of particular families, castes and races, automatons who would obey their leaders without question. All the rest were doomed to eternal terror and torment at the hands of the faithful, and were considered the unworthy prey of fearsome bands of murderous ‘angels’. If they didn’t obey the arbitrary dictates of psychopathic mass murderers, there was Another Place waiting for the rebel and maladjusted malefactors who couldn’t be scrunched into the universally binding and blinding mould. They were told that when they died they might have a chance for a much better life when they were dead – if they were good little galley slaves who didn’t rock the boat to get a glimpse of the infinite blue sky that shines equally on us all.
The flower children were solemnly told that an unseen fairy stole their teeth from under their pillows and that a big fat man squeezed into their houses through a narrow chimney once a year. They were told it was perfectly permissible – even heroically noble - to murder someone if they wore different regimented clothing or cowered beneath a differently designed coloured rag.
They were informed that the living world was an unending source of materials that would never run dry, and that all other creatures on the planet were unnecessary embellishments that were there only to be used to satisfy the endless cravings of the only noble animal in creation - Humanity. On the other hand, they were told that telepathy and psychic abilities didn’t exist, and they were merely automatic chemical robots with humorous self-deluded notions of free will.
How could anything these primitive morons told their children possibly be correct? Yet all but a vanishing few believed almost every lying, conniving word they were told, embracing density instead of destiny with a passion born of blind desperation and fear. Meanwhile, the vanishing few all but vanished from the scene, disappearing into an alternative paradigm to move in separate incongruent circles of their own.
Wide-eyed girls and boys burst from the confining iron maidens that imprisoned their utterly enmeshed and blinded parents. Previous generations feared the social stigma of ‘falling pregnant out of holy wedlock’ – a superstitiously loaded term for a normal and natural condition. Bonds, chains, fetters and welded locks had become the ‘natural order’ of the monarchic feudal ages. Repressed and repressive dolts maintained the truly traumatic, economically mandatory fiction of ‘bastards’ versus ‘legitimate’ children. It was a hidebound society constructed to hound, persecute and exile ‘unfortunate’ unwed mothers and their innocent children - to preserve the status quo of breadwinning wage slaves and their housebound, subservient little women.
People were trained to fear having the ‘wrong sort’ of people enter their family and render their bloodline immune to the autocratic control of patriarchs and matriarchs, drones and hive queens. It was an overtly racist and sexist culture that was still not far removed from those of previous generations, when outright slavery and psychosexual bondage flourished on a global scale.
The wisest or most cunning among the fundamentally damaged populations of the world realised that the harsh feudal caste system and industrial slavery of their fossilised hierarchical society couldn’t long survive - if natural, spontaneous sexuality was released from bondage and women regained control over their own lives. Most people had been taught to view sex as evil and dirty and were told that women didn’t actually enjoy it at all, but had to simply endure the degradation for the sake of the species.
It shouldn’t be surprising that so many believed the lies and lost sight of the obvious and timeless inner wisdom of their own bodies, hearts and minds; the human world runs on deeply rutted tracks of hypnosis and superstition, after all. Women were encouraged to lie back and think of
Until the recent introduction of trustworthy contraceptives and proven medical treatments for venereal diseases, the very idea of free love was something totally abhorred within most ‘civilized’ societies. The world’s caste- and class-split hierarchical civilisations were based upon the stable, economically dependable foundations of matrimony - and the patronising systems of patrimony that the mirage of marriage made possible. Unwed mothers and their ‘bastard’ children were stigmatised and shunned, while all young men were expected to go out and ‘sow their wild oats’ before settling into the fetters of unending work (or military service) and nuclear family fatherhood.
Everyone knew the prescribed universal formula without admitting it to themselves – ‘Work, Consume, Reproduce, Die.’ That was the unvoiced mantra most people lived by, in the bad old days before the deconstructionist Enlightenment of the New Aeon. The narrow horizons of most people’s utterly constrained lives made them easy prey for charlatans who peddled promises and threats to a superstitious and terrified Humanity – which was spiritually blinded, unaware of the atrophied, unexplored powers available to everyone.
The collective mind suffered from a stunned amnesia after an unremembered planetary blow to the head, and humans were unaware of their own immortality and true origins despite all the subtle and obvious clues to the truth. The few mystery schools that had painstakingly preserved Humanity’s hidden history remained occulted from general view - most were forcibly repressed into hiding, while some maintained the edifice of lies from the summit of the human pyramid, keeping the truth within their own small circle of control freak initiates.
Almost all countries were tribal, ancestor-worshipping neo-feudal dictatorships fuelled by nepotism and corruption, so suspicious of each other that very few citizens realised the arbitrary nature of the traditions, customs and habits of their particular imaginary nation. Almost all were entrenched patriarchies and most were sexually repressive, ensuring that the patriarchs owned their women’s wombs and controlled the unending flow of fruits they provided.
It took guts to climb out of the cesspit of repressed sexuality and unrepressed violence that resulted from this unholy shlemozzel. It took a bold inquiring mind and adventurous heart, extraordinary courage and a brave, innocent denial of all the blind prejudices accepted as ‘normality’ by everyone around you. It took passion and vision, hope, dreams and imagination. In other words, it took irrepressible curiosity and youth to change the world – a great, grand wave of uncontrollable young people that boomed into being in the massive postwar tide of death-denying baby making that swept the Western World.
The expanding population was an embarrassment of riches and the old order had no idea what to do with all these brave new people – short of the usual, well-rehearsed final military solution for unwanted generations of young men. Giving them weapons and setting them upon each other was no longer a viable option; a large war could too easily spiral out of control and any uncontrollable war could potentially envelop its true perpetrators in radioactive death along with everyone else.
Old men clinging to power and control could no longer easily sweep the field of competitive youngsters, and have an impoverished fresh generation of nubile, bored and desperate young women all to themselves. The weapon-making death mongers had to make do with the endless expensive replacement of nuclear stockpiles, small regional conflicts and ongoing police actions to keep the profits flowing in and keep their armies trained for murder - and to keep populations entrained to a war-time make-do mentality, while the wealth of the world was squandered to feed the obese greed of a handful of obscene old men and women.
When the sexual genie poured from the spinning bottle of the hippy era, control began to slip from their fossilised fingers. The girls got the boys for a change, just as the pill went on the market and the baby boomers reached their teens - and inevitable, wonderful, glorious, orgasmic chaos ensued in the sexual revolution that swept the fortuitously irreligious Western World. The fun continued to grow for a generation, until the lies and propaganda of self-serving straight-jacketed arseholes convinced people that they could die from having sex once again.
It was all a terrible hoax perpetrated on a world of flowering innocents. The only way you can get AIDS is through contaminated blood contact or anal sex; the ‘syndrome’ doesn’t spread at all from vaginal sex - yet you wouldn’t have much chance of knowing the truth amid the all-powerful scare campaigns bandied about by masturbating media, arse-licking lab workers and groin-sniffing governments. *
The Big Lie worked where the little ones had failed, just as Hellfire and Brimstone had been pressed into service to deter earlier fearful misled primitive primates from all the best that life had to offer them. The amazing flower of the sexual revolution was trampled underfoot by a wailing herd of fear-struck human cattle, heading back to the ‘safety’ of monogamy and its attendant baggage of wage slavery and mindless, pointless reproduction - and all the repressed terrors and consequences of Humanity’s painfully horny unrequited past.
Most everyone still fell in love and paired off, and the majority still married – but an increasing number of curious people questioned and rebelled against the whole crazy paradigm of virgin marriage, lifelong monogamy, and the legally binding fiction of life contracts that ended in expensive messy divorce and ongoing penury.
Solemnised with hoary oaths and all but signed in blood, the official mirage of marriage constrained your entire future to a promise of utter calamity - if either partner ever strayed from the straightjacketed narrow path prescribed by mind-raping child-molesting priests, sexually harassing corporate front-men legislators and wig-wearing fetish-fucking judges.
Divide and conquer had long been the method of the pyramid building rulers of the ubiquitous imperial caste system; ‘divide’ and ‘devil’ spring from the same linguistic roots. The world was divided into captive markets built on the nuclear family ‘union of man and wife’ – which was designed to keep factories pumping out disposable crap and to provide a source of controlled and disposable labour, baby-breeders or soldiers.
The nature of the human product depended on the apparently random all-powerful dictates of an unpredictable economic climate – whose every facet was actually perpetually manipulated by a handful of wizened little men hiding behind large fireproof curtains in the wings of deeply buried bomb shelters.
Almost everyone fell back into the sticky web of false monogamy when the grim reaping spectral flag of AIDS was waved in their faces. Even during the preceding era of flowering free love, the vast majority had never questioned the dominant paradigm, stood up to be counted or joined the front lines of the sexual revolution. For most, the hippy era was merely a series of fads - peer-reviewed fashion, eyecatching op-art, great popular music and easily adopted slang.
Almost all the brainwashed brutes and sensitive brutalised victims of the Old Order huddled behind the pickets of the traditions, establishments and institutions they still maintained, unchanged since the days of their ancestors. Almost everyone looked down their noses at the Bohemians, beatniks, hippies, yippies, surfers and all the other tribes of truly independent free-thinkers who lived on or beyond the threadbare fringe.
Only a relatively small section of society ever refused to wear the necktie shackles and shiny dead shoes that the straights required for entry into the hallowed halls of blind careering mediocrity – but those few changed the world forever. They eagerly learned the lessons that their parents and grandparents had assiduously avoided, and as a reward they were blessed with other brave, loving, uninhibited souls to share their astounding, enlightening, sensual and meandering journey with. Birds of a feather flock together and when the predator’s away, the children can play.
Changing the dominant paradigm is difficult and demanding work, but it’s a task someone always has to do – and many, many unknown someones conspired in a quiet revolution of ideas and lifestyles, to remake their world closer to their heart’s desire. They created an alternative society that still survives between the cracks in today’s shifting zeitgeist, to be rediscovered by any passionate true seeker.
It’s a world that remains invisible to the boxed-in horde of clock-punching busy termites, who wouldn’t dare dream of
The multidimensional tribe of Centraxis incarnated into the world once again, to emerge on the shore of the eternal sea in the middle of the free-loving festive boom times that followed the Summer of Love, and the good times just kept coming and coming.
In the days before the puppetmasters terrified a befuddled world with the sleight-of-hand statistical tricks of AIDS the Centraxians were a band of free nobles, stepping up to surf the new waves rolling over the feudal farce of the Second Millennium. They shared everything in abundantly free lives of artistically demanding ease, tripping the light fantastic through a glorious garden world of unheralded possibilities and regularly questioned assumptions.
Regaining their immortal memories was an indispensable first step to true self-knowledge and freedom, and when the lords and ladies of the neo-tribal court discovered who they were and could be - using time-tested techniques and mind-opening drugs and rituals - the tribe of Centraxis became an invincibly indivisible nation.
“E
“Er,” Arne mutters, looking from one girl to the other and trying to gauge the wild emotional winds blowing through them all, “this is
Arne’s face twists with his transparently naked thoughts. Raunchy visions and bold ideas begin to spring into his forebrain as he witnesses the lovers’ uninhibited coupling beneath the draping cloak of their rainbow quilt. He’s always wanted you, Ram’yana affirms inwardly while his pale-skinned panting Lady glides up and down upon his reclining body. …and he wants you now… The thought reverberates around their Tantrically charged intermingling auras as the magician and witch ride the tigers of their passions. The lovers hold onto the scintillating state of their telepathic unity as best they can while their younger teen visitors stare at them in open-mouthed wonder.
The priestess rises and falls in the cross-legged shaman’s lap and the concealing covers shift in her hand to partially reveal their conjoined nakedness to their unexpected visitors. Arne locks the huge square fingers of his free hand around
Ram stares into
“You know the Maoists,” Arne explains with a leer, smiling down into Racheal’s fluttering blue eyes as the teenage priestess glides up and down in self-absorbed concentration. “Um… they’re always causing crap, just like the Trots - pushed everyone else into the cops as usual.” His arm completely encompasses
The priestess continues riding her prince with slow seductive rocking motions as they both nod their greetings to the younger girl. Racheal’s willful exhibitionism is almost unprecedented, but the shackles of her inhibitions have been relentlessly disassembled by her recent experiences in the shared tribal squat. Now, the priestess decides as she writhes and rides, now I’m ready - and she knows her adventurous prince is more than willing to share their bed with others, now that he’s sighted the stunned and stunning young redhead. Damn, she’s beautiful!
Arne leads the slightly reluctant diminutive street waif to a velvet beanbag which slouches beside the low bed, while the older teenagers make flagrant, fragrant love in front of their guests. The lad settles his muscled bulk into the rustling bag and tugs the speechless girl down beside him; she doesn’t know where to rest her bright blue eyes, and scans the room’s intriguing collection of objects while Arne stares at Racheal’s bouncing breasts. “Umm… I’ve got a joint here,” he says, obviously unsure whether to further interrupt his host and hostess with a smoke, or simply enjoy the show or.... He decides to test the waters and locks eyes with Ram’yana. “Do you have any matches?”
“Oh,” Racheal sighs, “he’s already met his match.” Ram’yana kisses her neck through long sheets of wavy blonde hair while caressing her slim belly. “On the floor - the Redheads,” he tells Arne while he rears up inside his uninhibited young bride. Then he realises what he’s said; Hope he doesn’t think I mean
Ram’yana keeps his eyes on her entrancing flushed face while he pleasures himself and his beloved witch-bride; he exults in the way the younger girl’s gaze keeps darting to the fold in the blankets where the juncture of their loins is revealed, and flashes away toward Arne’s impressive anatomy. Gorgeous, he muses, absolutely perfect, while he squeezes the Lady Racheal’s firm breasts between his fingers. Arne licks his lips and lights the twisted filterless joint with a pungent-smelling red-headed match, sucking deeply on the loosely rolled spliff to keep it alight.
“Picture yourself on a boat on a river,
with tangerine trees and marmalade skies…’
“Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers that grow so incredibly high…”
While the young pilgrim protester’s head becomes wreathed in smoke the prince regards Arne’s attractive new girlfriend. The smooth naked exposure of
“Uh… it’s okay if I stay? In the squat, I mean?” Crystal’s unexpectedly full voice quavers as her gaze flashes to Ram’s face and returns to his sex-slicked engorgement. He watches her eyes widen and roll up and down in time with Racheal’s athletic display. The startled girl’s gaze rises from the starkly challenging view of their moist membrane-stretched union, to search the Centraxian Lady’s enigmatic features for sign of assent or denial. Sensitive, too…, Ram’yana concludes as psychedelic music washes over the sounds of slapping flesh and Racheal’s sighs. Wise girl.
“Climb in the back with your head in the clouds and you’re gone…”
The Centraxian prince isn’t being patronising toward the younger teen; he’s certain Arne hopes to induct the young redhead into the tribe, and Ram’s well accustomed to assessing potential candidates – although usually from a slightly less exposed vantage. “Of course,” the Lady Racheal smiles magnanimously. “Welcome to the Realm of Centraxis.” A tentative smile lifts the corners of
For answer, the Centraxian High Priestess leans forward and drops the multicoloured quilt that’s gripped in her hand. She stretches upward astride her young prince and raises her arms, extending her fingers to let the cover slide down her thighs and completely expose her soft underbelly and blond-pelted lips - stretched wetly around the hardness of her young man’s impressive erection. The priestess proudly shows
So young… look at that skin… Racheal stares through thick smoke at the younger girl as she sweeps the quilt all the way off the bed and lets it fall upon
“Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she’s gone…
Lucy in the sky with diamonds…”
“L.S.D.” Arne laughs. “Lucy in the sky with diamonds!”
When Racheal’s hips have risen well above Ram’s lap she grins in empathic sisterly recognition at the lustre of surprised and aroused appreciation shining in
Making his move at last…. Racheal feels a flush of overwhelming arousal as she watches the younger girl’s delightfully surprised reaction to the boy’s unexpectedly enthusiastic gropings. She’s so fucking beautiful… The priestess wonders whether the thought is hers alone, or also a glimmering of the young men’s horny appreciation. Either way, the pagan priestess decides not to let this wondrous opportunity slip through her impassioned grasp. Why not? The question echoes around the chamber and resonates through them all as the Lady Racheal swings her pelvis forward and presents herself to her audience with an unprecedentedly wanton lasciviousness.
Ram’yana holds onto his rocking, rolling mate by her feverishly hot breasts as he kisses his way up her long spine. “Ohh!” she cries. Goddess… so hot... I’m on fire! The Lady Racheal willfully decides to overcome the last vestiges of her misplaced suburban propriety; she caresses Crystal’s knee while she displays her fur-lined sex and its precious prize to the delectable stranger and her astonished fellow Centraxian, whose muscular young body she’s guiltily admired – and secretly imagined moving with hers - so many times.
I want to watch him mount her… see big Arne fuck her, press those muscles down on top of her naked little body… I want to see that big hard cock… Racheal fantasises the scene as her eyes flash from Arne’s bulging crotch to the stubby hands working their way inside
The teenage tribal priestess is only very rarely turned on by other women or girls, and despite the fact she shares almost every secret and guilty fantasy with her prince she’s rarely admitted such feelings to her lover. Yet now - as she rides toward an orgasm that rumbles through her body from the core of her being, trapped in a nerve-tingling hormonal riptide of searing pleasure - this tiny elf is inexpressibly, tantalisingly, incredibly arousingly different. Racheal watches the blatant need appearing within
It’s not just Crystal’s skinny yet alluringly curvaceous little body that attracts her, as it so obviously arouses the young men – the Lady Racheal’s attuned supersenses inform her that Crystal’s bright will is quicksilver melded to gold; that the gorgeous redhead is a blossoming young natural witch. She can see the younger teen is just beginning to awaken from the lies of the world - still sloughing off fears of hellfire, guilt, pregnancy and social retribution, but nonetheless freshly ripe and ready for just about anything.
“Here,” Arne says, pulling the joint from
The oracular priestess kisses Arne’s blunt finger around the joint while she watches his tongue slide between the trembling girl’s lips. They’re both so beautiful… She finds she can easily see right into Crystal – appropriate name, she realises – sees the adventurous girl’s self conscious post-adolescent ego magnifying barely perceptible disharmonies, picking at fading psychic scars that are insignificant beside her undeniable assets. Racheal can almost feel the girl quivering on the knife edge of surrender and flight, and she senses the moment when
As she suckles on Arne’s finger and stretches her loins around her mate, the Lady Racheal watches the younger girl quiver on the intersecting borders of lust, love, terror, shame and irrepressible hope. She’s almost like me, the priestess decides while her hand ventures along the girl’s soft warm skin, rising up
Almost all… The lovers groan as they return their audience’s mesmerised stare through fluttering eyelids. …the way. “Mmm…” they purr as one. “Oh, ohh… Arne, uh,
She watches his tongue fill Crystal’s mouth and can taste and feel him as his eyes bore into hers, crackling with cold fire. “Feel, ohh!” she moans, “Uhhmm, oh yes, oh yes, mm… feel free… mm…” Ram’yana takes the diminishing joint from her hand and puffs it back to life as his mate leans forward to press on with her exploration of the other girl’s wee body.
“Wow,” Arne says as his palm drops to
Racheal jiggles and moans astride her young man as her paint-stained fingers jostle into the yawning leg of
She’s unconcerned whether her prince is still attuned to her frankly naked thoughts. The incredible juxtaposition of utterly arousing sights and sensations releases the priestess from the last of her inhibitions and her eyes squeeze shut as the Kundalini serpent rises up the erect column of her spine. Racheal opens her joyously tearful eyes and the serpent subsides a little; she watches
Racheal’s fingers brush against warm soft fuzz and a hair’s breadth of slick nubile flesh for an electrifying instant of ultra-feminine contact. Ram’yana lifts her up and drops her around his cock, moving faster and faster, harder and deeper - unutterably aroused by the sight of his inexperienced young bride touching and fondling another girl. He’s determined not to come inside his bouncing mate, adamantly resolute to remain as big and hard as he can, for as long as he can.
He hopes and intends to be ready to share another fresh experience with his new bride, if the stars are so aligned; but first he wants to make his witch-woman come and come again in the sight of the younger couple. He’s so turned on he forgets to be embarrassed by his narcissistic wish to be lusted over by the tiny redhead - for his prowess to impress the arousingly unfamiliar beauty being fondled by his wanton mate and his masculine young friend.
“Oh, ohh yes ohh yesoyess!” Racheal cries as the bolt of energy rears up inside her exploding being, bursting beyond the familiar swelling bulk of her lover’s superheated serpentine flesh. “Oh, ohh, coming, coming! Come with me!” - and then all thought dissolves in the sensation of big hot hard hairy maleness, filling her up and up, over and again, until she screams and screams and the world turns white and a column of fire shoots upward, taking her blazing mind with it.
As the pyromaniac orgasm flashes through Racheal’s screaming loins in a wildfire swathe - through her clitoris, belly and quivering breasts, trembling thighs and screaming tongue, and bursting from her crown - rainbows flare through her exploding nervous system while she screams and fucks and holds onto the other girl’s thigh with a tightly grasping hand.
“I have to admit it’s getting better
Better since you’ve been mine
Getting so much better all the time”
While Racheal screams and writhes around his supremely sensitive erection, Ram’yana keeps his eyes on
The Lady Racheal closes her eyes and slips onto a heightened plateau of absorbed ecstasy as the vivid tactile reality of the other girl’s soft, furry vagina fills her imaginative mind. She finds herself watching her body screaming and coming while her prince fucks her with a gleeful intensity that shows no sign of slowing. The redhead gasps and quivers at her touch, and transfers her woozy gaze to the long-haired prince - who watches her intently, touching his lady-love’s nipples with open palms while his witch-wife rises and falls around his glistening well-oiled pole. Racheal’s finger slides up
Racheal’s tendons and muscles stand out beneath her flushed skin as the teenage priestess hoists herself high with legs spread wide. She uses her lover’s thrusts to propel her fingertip around
Ram’yana is thoroughly encased within Racheal’s tight quim for only the second time, after scores of sweaty climactic encounters with his gorgeous witch-wife; the first time she’d screamed in pain and he’d quickly withdrawn a couple of inches and kissed her back to bliss. The glorious sensation of his young bride working herself completely around his cock at last is unbelievably arousing. He groans as he meets the younger girl’s gaze through slitted eyes, seeing her react to the questing touches of Racheal’s feminine caresses, wrapped up within the tight grip of Arne’s massive hand.
The young giant squeezes the nude flesh popping from
Arne grins and wraps a limb completely around his girl’s waist, ferrying her all the way onto his lap in a single effortless sweep of his branch-thick arm. He pulls his hand from her pants to take the remnants of the joint, clenching it between his chipped teeth. Arne begins squeezing
The sight of Arne’s precociously oversized frame manhandling the elfin girl drives Racheal into a frenzied exhibit of wild wordless moaning and fucking, while Ram’yana holds her upright around his erection and helps her rise and fall, lifting her up around his slick pillar and pulling her all the way down into his groin. Neither can take their eyes from
How old is she? The priestess and shaman both ponder the niggling question again, their conspiring, magnetically charged thoughts still subtly attuned. No point asking, they decide as one and re-immerse themselves in the blindingly arousing irresistible reality of their insatiable fucking while they watch
Racheal watches a lascivious glister appear in Arne’s arctic blue eyes as his hand strokes
Is she asking him to stop – or to be gentle? Racheal wonders. Ram’yana feels her contract around his girth when they both espy
“I used to be cruel to my woman,
I beat her and kept her from things that she loved
Man I was mean and I’m changing my scene
And I’m doing the best that I can”
The sheer masculine strength of Arne’s firm, coarse touch exploring
It’s obvious from her expression that the young runaway can hardly believe the scene playing out before her; two naked young hippies fucking right in front of her eyes, unashamed as two wild innocent animals – or wild mating members of some uninhibited native tribe. “God,” she whispers to Arne. “That’s how I want to be, wish I was… just like her…” Emboldened by his girl’s comment, Arne spreads his meaty hand to cover both her breasts - and dislodges them completely from their elasticised confinement.
Against her tiny body Arne looks so… fucking male, Racheal notes with undisguised lust. So scarily, solidly male, so immense beside her – he looks too big for the pretty little thing… almost too big for me… She watches
Racheal’s attention is diverted as Ram’yana grasps her waist in his firm strong hands - long index fingers stretched right around her slim middle to almost touch at her navel – and commences to ram his astoundingly beautiful eager bride up and down around his thrusting pole, making Racheal’s eyes roll back into her head as she gasps and groans.
Arne’s fingers slide into the open mouth of Crystal’s short denims as she leans back and kisses him – but their eyes remain swiveled on Racheal’s pink inner lips, elastically taut around her man’s long thick shaft. The younger teens stare at the Lady Racheal’s amazingly responsive blonde-fringed pussy; Arne can tell how tight and how talented his tribal High Priestess is from the way she grips her male; the Lady Racheal’s inner labia hold onto Ram’s cock so tightly that they slide down out of her perfect furry vulva each time he lifts the slender girl, his wrists digging in beneath her ribcage and proudly rearing breasts. Arne watches Racheal turn inside out as she gasps and moans - and it’s obvious to the ecstatic priestess that he’s imagining those same tender lips wrapped around his painfully swollen cock.
Crystal watches the hippy slam the older girl down forcefully – all the way up into her, she sees, and almost all the way back out again, over and over – and Racheal screams with primal grace, her unseeing eyes popping open and squeezing shut as her spittle-drenched tongue sticks crazily from her wide-stretched mouth. Arne manhandles the flushed little redhead with both his huge hands, slipping his fingers into her blazing cleft while they both watch the screaming priestess writhe and grind around her young prince.
“God!”
Without further preamble, Arne drags his new little friend’s tube top all the way up above both her erectly jutting boobs and reaches all the way into her breezy shorts with his other hand, swirling his blunt fingers around the edges of her tiny pussy. Ram’yana watches the younger teen flounder at the point of no return, with her top wrapped around her neck and Arne’s fingers fondling her pubic fringe - until she relaxes into his overpowering arms.
“Oh God,” C
A true story
- R.A.
- images - author's
- Lyrics from Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles
See Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 2 -Free World
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 3 -Stretching the Envelope
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 4 - Home to Roost
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 5 - Could It Be Any Body?
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 6 - Free Lovers
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 7 - Wild Widow's Son
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 8 - Womanimals
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 9 - Incautious Wishes
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 10 - Freedom of Choice
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Psychedelic Water Part 1 – Fractal Rainbow
http://centraxis.blogspot.com/
http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana