Smuggled Desires
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 11
“Yas suh, if you see one o’ them comin’ toward you it’s time to take all sharp implements outta your pockets, bend over and place yo head firmly between yo knees - and then kiss yo ass goodbye!” Joe slaps his heavily muscled thigh with his uniform’s crisp cap as he places the reefer between his deep purple lips.
Infectious laughter erupts around the hall. The G.I. is enjoying his visit to the Centraxian squat and even though he’s the only Negro for miles he begins to relax into his natural speech pattern as he grows accustomed to the hippies’ generous hospitality. A young redhead hangs out with another girl on a thick hand-woven dayglow rug, sitting by his laced boots and looking up at him with her baby blues.
The freckled little teenager sips red wine and stares into his deep brown eyes while she hangs on his every word, weaving drunkenly as she giggles at his well-traveled joke. Joe glances her way every few moments, noting that the young hippy girl doesn’t seem to care that he’s looking at the nubile pair of pink pretty titties hanging right out of her crimson silk kimono.
The guys in the house seem pretty relaxed and mostly harmless to the experienced veteran. Most are teenagers and all have the white complexions of European colonisers and immigrants; they seem incredibly young and naïve to the returned serviceman, who regales them with slightly censored tales of his Indochinese experiences while they endeavour to entertain him with flattering displays of youthful eagerness, despite their obvious anti-war sentiments.
He never saw a gun when he produced the goods for their inspection, and Joe’s pretty sure that what he’s been told is correct; civilians in the cities of this wacky little country never seem to use handguns - not even drug dealers! The situation is so weird he could happily get used to it, if he wasn’t on his way back Stateside at last. Of course, any one of them could still be packing a blade – they seem fond of medieval armor and hunting bows – so he doesn’t intend to take his eyes off any of the drugged-out hippies until he’s far from their communal crash pad.
“So how do you want to do this?” The Negro’s deep tone has them looking at him now, and his grin almost becomes a sneer as he leans back and surveys the smoky scene. All these weirdo hippies - their leader Kay-whatsis and his whole tribe of longhairs, hangin’ on the sofas in this no-rent joint with walls knocked out between the rooms - and this fancy paint job covering up all the cracks. And that creepy sheep’s skull with the curly horns… and all those strange symbols...
His eyes carefully track the hippies’ hands and eyes while he takes it all in, but the G.I. can’t help but be distracted by the funky young women. The redhead who’s leaning against his chair seems a little young, but the other two honeys keep looking at him like they’ve never seen a Negro before. Joe wonders if they ever have; everyone he’s seen in Oz on this R & R visit at the cusp of the undeclared war’s prolonged end has been icy white, or tanned with a Mediterranean shade at most – and there are a few Orientals, like the lean musician tuning up a mandolin across the hall, who Joe vainly attempts to eyeball without showing his obvious suspicions; but he hasn’t seen a single local black person.
“Straight cash on the barrel.” The lanky bearded leader that looks like Count Dracula on coke slaps a crumpled wad of their dickey coloured funny money on the round table that’s been set before them in the long communal hall. The table is a wooden cable reel turned on its side, covered with a sequined Indian tablecloth, an assortment of junk and the splayed pile of bills. “It’s all there, but by all means count it to be sure,” says the tall hippie biker. “Count Marco already checked the tally thrice.”
Joe’s eyes flare and the fire burning within them takes a few moments to subside. Those crazy titles, joking like they was some kind of royal family or somethin’… “Sure thing.” He takes the cash and counts it quickly. You never knew when someone else was going to turn up in the confusingly arranged squat; people drifted in and out all the time. Not a great way to do business… but hey, the cash is all here. Joe enfolds the wad inside his hand and slips it into his pocket, relaxing back into his chair as Charmayne appears from the kitchen with a fresh bottle. “Any sign of my pal Jerry?” he asks the mustachioed biker. “He oughta be here by now.”
“If he turns up you’ll be the second to know,” Kha-Aan assures him.
“Hey, Joe,” a skinny barefoot longhaired guy dressed in a green velvet dressing gown asks him, “you don’t have any trouble getting it off? The ship, I mean.” Joe glares at the pallid youth’s glittering green eyes. ‘Getting it off’? At least he didn’t say ‘boat’. I wonder if he made that dumb mistake deliberately? The G.I. had told the chick called Freedom that his name was Joe and they’d all taken him at his word. He eyes the wooden walking stick the barefoot guy’s carrying – a wooden snake wrapped around a four foot long staff – but it seems pretty harmless, just like its bearer. “Nah.” He shakes his shorn head. “Easy as pie.”
“There’re thousands off soldiers and sailors coming off the wharf when they get leave, and they’re all carrying one of those humungous duffle bags on their shoulders,” the Cold Wanderer explains to the tribal shaman. “And how many get searched?” the Canadian asks the G.I.
“Maybe one in a thousand,” ‘Joe’ admits as he smiles. “Prob’ly less. You gotta be pretty unlucky or pretty stupid to get caught.” He grins at Charmayne, slowly becoming certain that she’s giving him the eye as she recrosses her long legs. “And they walk straight off the dock and up the hill to Kings Cross,” Wanderer laughs, “to all the hotel rooms and girls and strip joints and illegal casinos.”
“Not me,” says G.I. Joe. “Stupid place to hang out - M.P.s everywhere, running’ th’ show…” His eyes flicker to his knees before returning to Charmayne’s tight polo neck sweater. “Runnin’ round like rats; the whole place is sewn up real tight. Nah, ah got somethin’ else lined up. Besides, a man’s gotta keep hisself somewhat clean so as to be able to appreciate the finer things in life. Clean and fit.” He stretches in the chair, displaying his broad chest and bulging arms as he places his hands behind his head.
Charmayne refills Joe’s crystal flute with sparkling wine while the little redhead leans back and extends her bare white legs on the rug, stretching her painted toenails toward the open fire. “Wow.” Crystal puts one of her miniature hands on the soldier’s boot and he bestows one of his dazzling wide smiles upon the adulatory young hippy. Joe’s thoughts are transparent to the green-eyed prince; Ram’yana is still half entranced and drifting within the afterglow of the little orgy he so recently participated in – until the teenagers couples’ ecstatic exertions had come to a breathless end with the Lady Racheal’s slide into unconsciousness.
Ram’yana watches emotions roil behind the veiled eyes of the cautious American; as the tribal shaman automatically tunes into the stranger to divine his nature, an impression of the man’s thoughts become discernible as translucent whisperings on the margins of Ram’s mind. She’s stoned for sure. Totally ripped, by the look of her. And she’d sure be too young to be drinking back in the States… Joe looks straight into Crystal’s lolling mouth as the girl yawns; he stares at her pointy little tongue as it extends toward him. So fuckin’ pink I wanna dive right in there… “How long are you here for?” the girl asks as her hand squeezes his boot.
“Another coupla days, then it’s back to the States! Whoo-ee!” he slaps his thigh with his cap and remembers to button the flap of his pocket. He’s already half drunk on white wine and the local version of Kentucky bourbon that his hosts have plied him with so generously.
“Let’s sample some more, huh?” Arne passes the bong to the Lord Kha-Aan and makes his request with eager teenage impatience. Kha-Aan smiles with off-hand indulgence. “By all means, young warrior. It’s your turn to roll.”
Arne Stook produces an ornately carved teak pipe. “Mind if I pack the chillum instead?” Prince Ram’yana is a little discomforted to see his prized Garuda Bird tail feather appear from Arne’s pocket, but he recovers quickly. “Allow me,” he suggests with a stern look at the younger Centraxian. Arne hands the pipe to his mentor and tribal sponsor with a guilty grin and begins to assemble cigarette papers, preparing the makings of an oversized joint.
“Where’s Racheal?” the Canadian Cold Wanderer asks the young shaman prince. Kha-Aan takes up his refrain. “Indeed, young magician – whither be thy bride-to-be?” Ram’yana puts the banter to rest; “Asleep upstairs.” Arne, Crystal and Ram’yana had left the tribal High Priestess sleeping soundly in the magical lovers’ capacious bed. The four teens had been wound around each other’s slippery bodies, basking in a shared afterglow when Li Po knocked on the door to tell them the American G.I. had arrived. The Lady Racheal was dead to the world, so they covered her sated dreaming nudity with the rumpled rainbow quilt, threw on robes and clothes and hurried downstairs; the dealer was only one day late and they were in a hurry to meet him and join the party.
The serviceman spreads his cornucopia of mind-altering substances on the round table in the provincial poor man’s Camelot; he arranges different grades of south-east Asian weed, three types of hash - including a couple of hand-rubbed Tibetan temple balls and a hunk of relatively fresh oily Afghani – into separate piles. He places a sealed plastic bag of orange windowpanes in the midst of the resinous cornucopia, and the Sandoz quality LSD–infused gelatin wafers glow like precious sacramental gems amidst the organic bouquet of well traveled international offerings.
Kha-Aan has previously arranged this private transaction with the heavily built Negro, and Ram’yana prefers not to consider what else his lord has earlier purchased from the man. He decides to sample the temple ball first, before the Vietnamese heads overwhelm his nearly exhausted senses.
“So where are you staying, Joe?” Charmayne asks as she sips the sweet ersatz local champagne. The tight polo-neck sweater wrapped tightly around her bra-less boobs stretches around the student’s slim feline body as she turns around in front of the fireplace and introduces herself for a second time; “I’m Charmayne, by the way.” She walks across and leans over the soldier as he reclines in the deep lounge chair; Char takes his huge hand in hers, shaking it with a challengingly firm grip.
The young woman’s brown-gold hair frizzes out and cascades down around her shoulders, hiding her face so that only Joe can see the tip of her tongue slide through the young woman’s pink painted lips; only Joe sees the provocative wink of her light brown eye. He leans forward and rises to his feet, still shaking her hand. Crystal’s fingers suddenly find something other than Joe’s boot to hold onto and the little redhead caresses Arne’s muscular calf instead.
“Ah’m very pleased to meet you, Charmayne. Oh, hey, I wonder if you can tell a soldier on R & R what he can find to do around this here town?” Ram’yana watches Joe’s querulous expression betray a faint self-conscious embarrassment, when the American realises that the pretty uni student sees he can think of no better line. Charmayne’s sweet minty breath washes over Joe’s face and her firm grip challenges him with a suggestive pulsing clench, as if she were giving him a fraternity’s secret handshake – or an intimation of a more intimate caress. It’s been so goddam long – near on four weeks – and she still ain’t lettin’ go my hand. “I was thinking’ maybe you could show me around,” he adds with a smile that blots out all evidence of his inner discomfiture.
“I’ll have to do that thing.” As she continues shaking his hand Charmayne’s braless pear-shaped boobies jiggle beneath her reciprocating smile and Joe tries to keep his eyes on the student’s face as her grin widens provocatively.
Ram’yana lights up the hand-carved Hindu chillum, holding it vertically to contain the makings as he intones an invocation; “Bom bom bole, Bom Shiva, Bom Shakti!” The shaman ignites the pipe’s conical mouth with a sulfurous red-headed match. His cheeks puff out as he bellows the fragrant hash and head mix into a crackling blaze. “He looks like Casey Jones,” Joe laughs. His voice booms while strips of cloth citations waggle on his freshly laundered uniform.
Charmayne begins singing in a surprisingly beautiful contralto that soars across the Pink Floyd pouring through the ceiling-mounted speakers; “A tootin’ and a rollin’…”
“Hey, sister, you get that here? On TV?”
“…Casey Jones, you never can forget, when you hear the tootin’ of the whistle…”
“That’s Casey at the throttle of the Cannonball Express!” The trans-global sitcom watchers finish the verse in a harmonious duet and the hall erupts in applause and cheering. “Fine voice!” Kha-Aan cries as he nods his appreciation and lifts his long goblet for a refill.
The poet Vostra leans forward with cup in hand, a snide expression appearing on his pasty face as Charmayne reaches for the sparkling wine and accedes to their lord’s wish. “Can you do ‘The Addams Family’?” Vostra asks. She sloshes some bubbly into their crystals with absentminded insouciance while she returns Joe’s beaming smile.
“So you get all that crapola from back home here too – but jus’ in black and white?” The G.I. asks his question with widening eyes and arching brows while the student refills his flute. “Sure, Joe,” she says while she leans down and places the empty bottle on the floor with a wiggle of her hips. “This is the fifty-first state, haven’t you heard? Almost everything in Oz is from America now.”
“Aye,” the shaman prince agrees from within a cloud of Tibetan resin. “Mother England sold us to Uncle Sam in 1968, for debts she could never otherwise repay. It was a good deal for the U.S.”
“Don’t hog the chillum,” Kha-Aan reminds the young magician, deflecting the topic off course in deference to their guest. “Sorry.” Ram’yana frowns and passes the pipe to Li Po. The oriental youth is keeping a low profile; he’s hardly uttered a word all night, aware that the soldier is freshly arrived from the blood-soaked jungles of Asia. The Negro avoids his Asiatic eyes when he speaks with the other Centraxians. “Hey,” he asks Charmayne, “don’t you people ever lock your doors? I jus’ walked right on in.” She sits on the wide arm of the oversized chair and Joe sinks back into his seat, still holding her hand.
“No,” she laughs, “not here, anyway. There’s nothing to worry about here, Joe. You’re on R & R and the nearest war is thousands of miles away. The nearest jungle is hundreds of miles away…”
“Besides,” interjects Arne, “there’s no key.”
“You got jungles here? I thought all you had was lots of desert, beaches, sheep…” he tactfully refrains from finishing the sentence that’s on the tip of the broad tongue moistening his dark lips; an’ dead black people.
“We have plenty of jungle and forests and woodlands, too.” Charmayne fills his glass with foaming beer, tilting the brown bottle with her free hand while she tickles his palm with her long red nails. “Even snow…”
“And kangaroos. You the only place that got kangaroos, outside the zoo.” Joe nods toward a pair of hunting bows hanging on the wall by the chimney. “You guys ever shoot any kangaroos?”
When the peers of the Court finally begin to nod off one by one, their liege declares that the night’s gone very well and collects his booty, before he departs the fading party with an alacrity that’s unusual for the lanky lord. As the Centraxians – who very rarely say no to another round – begin passing up joints and refills, Ram’yana slowly collects himself from the fireside and decides it’s time to join the Lady Racheal in their love-warmed bed. The tribal group trip – and Racheal’s formal initiation into the tribe - has been put off until the day after the morrow, when everyone will be fresh enough to be ready to enter the threshold of another realm.
Ram’yana wraps his robe around his slim pale frame and climbs to his bare feet, retrieving his serpent staff from the umbrella stand in the corner by the fireplace. He makes his farewells to his surviving inebriated contemporaries whilst Charmayne and the American visitor continue their attempts to drink and smoke each other under the makeshift round table. The teenage shaman picks his way through the field of reclining, seated and supine bodies littering the floor of the Centraxian longhall, more than ready to climb into his Lady’s receptive embrace.
Arne has already taken
As the prince reaches the foot of the stairs he sees that Lords Moonwatcher and Son-Aan confer with Count Marco and the other tribal die-hards in the kitchen, where sounds of women’s laughter peal over Li Po’s guitar. The smell of cheesy bakes and sweet tarts swells from the oven and fills the room, almost diverting Ram’yana as he passes the entryway of the chamber, where the party is still in full swing. He only hesitates a moment; the allure of the munchies scarce compares with his Lady Racheal’s lavish enticements, and the young magician climbs the stairs to their bedchamber three at a time.
When he enters the darkened room the scent of sex is still rich and ripe, mingling with the odours of incense and other stale smokes. Ram places his staff behind the door, doffs his robe and slips across the chamber to the large low bed, his eyes swiftly adjusting to the dimly reflected nightglow of the city. He’s surprised to find the bed empty; the mattress is covered only by a bare sheet, and Racheal’s coloured quilt seems to be missing. Ram’yana decides his bride to be has probably used the bedding as a robe and taken it to the bathroom.
Despite the lingering warmth of the summery night a chill passes through the young shaman prince as he stands at the foot of the bed; he lifts a thick tartan blanket from the back of a wooden chair and covers himself with it, lying on the bed to await his lover’s return. The sheet and pillow are still warm and Racheal’s unmistakably creamy beeswax-like scent suffuses the young man’s senses. His mind drifts within clouds of smoke as faint alarm bells begin ringing in the recesses of his mind.
Ram’yana finds it impossible to relax as the minutes tick by; he stares at the ceiling until colours swarm across the plain plaster plane that hovers above his swimming gaze. Before he realises it the shaman is carefully creeping into a castle whose outer wing resembles a sumptuous mansion with many bedrooms. He moves barefoot through the carpeted corridors in complete silence, alert to the distant sounds of approaching guards as he hugs a long cape around his body to avoid its flapping susurrus and to forestall anything catching in its folds.
His hypersensitised hackles rise when he hears a familiar voice emanating from a carven paneled door; when it swings open at his touch Ram is surprised to find Arne and Racheal screaming at one another in a strange brown building of crumbling mortised brickwork. The loud yelling causes drifts of mortar to sheet down from above and Ram’yana dodges the subsequent cascade of falling bricks with improbably uncanny grace.
His Lady’s eyes flash when he leaps from the debris and she reaches out to him when their gazes meet, but Ram’s way is blocked; Racheal stands on the far side of a yawing abyss, revealed by a maze of shattered flooring. Arne Stook is nowhere to be seen and the shaman peers down into the pit in hope of spying a way across, or of sighting the younger teenager. Racheal’s hand somehow reaches across the chasm and her feather-light touch miraculously bridges the gap to touch his chest; her soft warm fingers begin to trace a tentative line down the centre of his trunk toward his belly button.
His Lady’s feminine index finger dips into the well of his navel and the priestess slows its descent when Ram gasps. His witch-wife stands balanced on a slender cracked joist that barely supports her lithe weight, a broken bridge which fails to span the deep rent in the earth. Another flurry of falling fragments peppers the floor of the brick-lined chamber, whose delineaments are unadorned save for blackened metal gratings and cages; the place grows to resemble a dungeon as its roofing gives way, and the prince stretches forward to reach his beloved. Racheal points toward his brow and calls through the falling chaos of the shattering chasm, crying out something that sounds like “I rope your dome mind.”
The surfeit of substances flowing through Ram’s bloodstream cause the shaman’s vision to throb with a dark infra-red beat as he keeps his Lady’s quaking image centred in his vision; the beam beneath her bare pink feet is cracking into shards and a wash of ragged light flares up at her from below, making her slender body glow within the translucency of a white lace dress.
The sleeping prince rouses and rises onto his elbows, then falls back amid the pillows when he realises where he is. He strains to hear his beloved more clearly and gasps again when her fingers slip down to twist in his pubic hair and tickle the base of his waking tumescence. Ram’s eyes blear open to warm opaque night, and a mouth that isn’t quite Racheal’s whispers into his ear; “I hope y’don’t mind.”
Teetering on the cusp of two worlds, only one part of the teenage shaman responds to the sweet-smelling female; he’s too busy concentrating on building a circle of light around his besieged lover, a circle he completes just as his grasp on the dream image loosens. So vivid, he thinks as he rises through the surfaces of the world, so real… “Ram,” the voice whispers as warm little fingers glide upward with a deliciously encircling grasp, to cup the cap of his rapidly lengthening manhood. “Are you awake?”
He keeps his eyes closed and lies supine on the bed, unsure of how to respond when he realises he’s awake – and notices that the feminine hands caressing him aren’t his beloved Racheal’s. Frizzy hair brushes his cheek and a sweet smoky rush of feminine breath blows in a narrow stream that wanders around his face while the girl’s small hand attempts to girdle his girth. The stream of air ends with the tentative contact of a pair of lips that drift against his in the darkness; a naked breast cushions the girl’s descent against his right bicep and a toenail rasps gently as her foot digs into the soft flesh behind his knee.
Her tongue squeezes its way between Ram’s lips to slide along the level margin of his upper teeth as he comes fully awake, and he reaches for the girl lying beside him in his bed. His vision swims around twin gleams that stare directly into his eyes and her familiar scent – washed clean of the fluids that caked her skin following their afternoon and evening of blissful sexploration – betrays the stranger’s identity.
Their kiss becomes more passionate and her tiny hand begins to rise and fall, squeezing and relaxing in crude semblance of the far more delicate and sensuous love-making of his Lady, which the teenage prince craves with near-desperate urgency. Her body is far smaller and skinnier than Racheal’s, yet the generously fleshy mounds of the teen’s fresh young breasts are improbably large for her elfin frame.
Ram reaches around the girl to fondle her soft bum, which rears up to his touch as she squats above him on the mattress. Arne’s new girlfriend leans down onto her side and stretches a slim leg across his thighs to open her penultimate self to his further exploration. “Crystal…” he whispers when an intake of breath slows her kiss, “Fancy meeting you here again.”
“Do you come here often?” the girl whispers with gleeful feigned seductiveness. She gasps when Ram’s finger dips into the rim of her tight tropical seam for an unexpected instant; he swirls his fingertip through the damp orange fuzz that surrounds her tiny clitoris and gently kisses her throat.
“Whenever I can.” His repeated forays between her furry labia propel the girl into motion, and the insistence with which Crystal pulls him toward her as she twists to roll under him tells the young man all he needs to know. She renders further foreplay irrelevant when she steers his cock to their common goal with determinedly gentle hands. Impossibly soft firm thighs embrace Ram’s hips and slide up around his waist, and slender legs wrap round his frame to enfold him as completely as they can, when Crystal pulls their bodies more closely together in the electrified darkness.
Ram’s smooth chest brushes against her hot hard nipples as he resists Crystal’s insistent hold and suspends his weight above the small young teen, looming over the wide-eyed nymph as she holds him in position with her heels digging into his ribcage. The phosphorescent glow of her pale skin lights Ram’s way as his sight caresses her nakedness, enflaming her with the ardour of his glance. The teenage shaman has envisaged this moment since he first laid eyes on the beautiful little redhead. Don’t want to hurt her. So small… so young. So tight.
Youthful lust sweeps all thought aside when the hard maleness of Ram’s arousal lodges against the barely experienced girl’s irresistible heat. Volcanic inner fire radiates from her splitting cleft and Crystal’s tongue writhes into his mouth as he allows his weight to sink his sensitive manhood into the straining gates of her blazing inner furnace.
The redheaded girl sighs while her hips swing upward, and her hands and heels are imbued with the strength of her passion when she forces him past her inner labia and into her almost impenetrable tightness. Her hips buck upward and her thighs open outward to take the Lady Racheal’s young man inside her straining girlhood.
Ram’yana bursts through the rite of passage into his new lover’s elastic entryway and glories in the feel of the willing waif’s impossible grasp as he rears above her. Tight rings of enflamed membranes and silken muscle grip and knead his large cock more tightly than any woman or girl the teenage prince has previously known. He watches the glistening pits of Crystal’s barely perceivable eyes as her mouth opens into a black crescent, and her opalescent teeth shine in the near dark like glistening pearls seen through submerged oceanic deeps.
Her silken quim enfolds him so snugly that the young shaman is unwilling to enter the younger girl completely - but the teen’s demanding little body craves more than his first few inches, and her pelvis bucks around him with impassioned forcefulness. “Fuck me,” Crystal insists, staring into the young man as he crooks his elbows behind her knees and spreads her thighs apart. “Fuck me with that big ramrod.”
So he does. The prince abandons restraint and allows his much greater mass to bear down on the girl, forcing his cock into her addictively fresh flesh while she squeals and moans with delightful candour.
When he and Arne had taken turns inside this sweet young thing’s hungry embrace through the earlier evening it was impossible for either to cram the full length of his engorgement into her taut sheath. The teenage prince was certain the younger girl had come when Racheal and Arne kissed and caressed her entire body, while they watched him make love with the red-haired pixie; Crystal had moaned and screamed and cried out “Oh God!” over and over, and he’d felt the unmistakable electric jolt pour through her flesh and into his exploding nervous system when her eyes rolled back into their sockets.
Yet know, as he enters her again, the prince wonders about that earlier moment of prideful certainty; she may not have reached the heights of bliss after all. Crystal may have been screaming with the unexpected helpless pleasure of making love with two men and another girl, in what was doubtlessly the first time the young teen - and the Lady Racheal – had experienced such shared intimacies. At their priestess’s insistence, both young men had hastily withdrawn from the young redhead before coming inside Crystal’s slim belly - after the first time Arne had shot his creamy seed into the young girl’s wide-open womb against Racheal’s obvious wish and definitive command.
Was that her first time? Is this her first night? The prince asks himself the same questions again and is amazed at the way they arouse him, impelling him to pick Crystal up and spread her buttocks with his hands as he lifts her flexible near-weightless miniature body around his erection. If she comes now – will it be her first time? He climbs up into the taut tender channel of her love and does what the girl asks - fucks her with deep repetitive thrusts of his impressive ramrod until an extraordinarily loud screech breaks from her lips, and he instantly stops reaming the tight little teen.
Ram’yana hovers more than halfway into Crystal’s teeny body with his hips poised on the brink of another deep dive toward the gloriously wet stretching heat that exudes from her molten core. “Don’t stop!” she gasps in hurried reassurance as her hands grip his hips, pulling him down into her, “Keep doing me like that! Like that!” The prince hesitates; his hands are wrapped around a delicate flower, a fragile-feeling girl not long out of childhood’s pigtails and bows. Crystal’s soft smooth skin feels delectably delicate in his masculine grasp and her sinuous body is athletically trim, with no excess fat sheathing her sleek musculature.
Ram hangs suspended in excruciatingly pleasurable wonder for an extending eternity, while he savours the sensation of the elfin girl’s loins writhing around him. He memorises the unforgettable feel and half-sight of this beautiful new Sister - this adolescent angel offering herself up to him on the altar of his bed; his bed and Racheal’s. He plunges inside the barely yielding walls of the redhead’s steaming furnace and his mouth and tongue fly to meet hers in a lengthening clinch, until Crystal’s mouth breaks free when she gasps for breath.
He plunges deeper and she pulls his full weight onto her, into her, pinning herself to the mattress with his hardness. The sticky wet hair around her clamping vulva and the ripeness of her pink-tipped breasts pressing against him are amazingly arousing to the young magician, inflaming him to move with a slowly accelerating tempo. The way she wants him with a desperate determination and his own egotistical need to see and feel her come in his arms entice the prince to fuck the younger girl a little more roughly than he intends - which proves to be precisely what the redhead pixie wants.
She tells him so when his pace slackens and he begins to move through her with more sensitive gliding motions. “More. Do it! More! Fuck me! Fuck me with all of you!” So he does. Ram’yana pulls her slender hips up around his swollen pride, immobilising her while he bears down until the girl really can’t take any more - and she screams and he screams with her, when Crystal squeezes his rigid flesh so tightly it veritably hurts.
“Oh, God! Ohhh! That’s it! OHHH! Yeah, fuck me fuck me ohhh fuck me fuck fuck oh, Ram oh, fuck fuck YESS OHHH!” The prince feels he should ask if he can come inside her, but now is not the moment - and he thinks he can hold back for her a little longer, and have more time to relish the girl’s reactions as she loses it completely.
“Oh FUCK!!” The young man sees and hears and feels the searing plasma and transfiguring epiphany of her climax - the electric quivering that increases and fuses until she screams in a way he hasn’t heard before, a long, screaming moan that rises in pitch while she bites into his shoulder and claws at his back. Crystal’s fingers dig into his buttocks and her vice-like vagina convulses with the rest of her tiny body, driving him over the edge as the passionate elf pulls him into her orgasm. “Can I come in you?” he gasps.
“Oh dear god yes! Oh please dear God oh fuck yes!” So he does.
When Ram’yana swims back to the surface of things Crystal has passed out beneath him with his semi-hard cock still embedded in her sticky heat. He shifts his weight from her perspiration-slicked breasts, rolls the girl onto her side and wiggles close beside her, lifting her dangling leg to a position where his hip bone won’t cut off her circulation. He remains lodged inside her tightness, and the sensationally fresh feel of Crystal’s tender heat enfolding his softening shaft makes the teenage prince harden within her once more.
One of his hairy thighs slips up between her slender legs, wedging her smooth thighs further apart. The young shaman reaches up to light a candle, leaning as far as he dares without slipping entirely out of the girl’s slippery tautness, so he can lay unmoving inside her and watch her beautiful freckled face while she sleeps.
As Ram’yana lies down and presses his ribs against her breasts, his cock slides up inside her and the girl’s lithe body stretches against him as she suckles on his throat. Crystal moans a long drawn-out cry and he thinks – ardently hopes – that she’s waking; but the girl drifts back to the other side of this life with a last tight pulsing clench of her surprisingly strong vulva, as her arm drapes across his neck and her lips slip down his chest and press against his nipple.
The Prince remembers picking the small girl up and pinning her to the wall, much earlier in the long eventful night - recalls how light she was and how innocently willing as he held her silky derriere in the palms of his hands and kissed her lovely mouth, her long slim throat and perfect freckled breasts. She was so teeny it was hard to lean down far enough to kiss her nipples and suck them while he nailed her to the wall; when she raised her breasts in her clawing fingers and pressed her hard nipples to his lips in needy offering the maneuver became barely possible.
Ram had turned to one side when he saw the strange expression appear on her face, following her gaze to see bold young Arne Stook pounding in and out of Racheal’s gold-rimmed fuck-flushed pink vagina. Her narrow ankles were propped over his shoulders and her pale supine body was crushed beneath his overly masculine bulk as he fucked her on cushions strewn on the rug beside their low bed. Arne was squeezing the priestess’ breasts with his thick hands, his bough-like arms crooked around her legs to hold her in position – and Ram’yana recalled that his bride-to-be had passed out an hour before - and he was certain she was still unconscious.
The prince realised that the impudent teenager must have been masturbating into the sleeping body of Ram’s Lady for quite some time, getting his rocks off and feeling her up while he looked down at her beauteous sleeping face and lapped at her lips with his mouth and tongue - as he was doing when Ram’yana espied him.
He understood that the streetwise youngster had been disappointed when his High Priestess had passed out before he’d finally had a chance to bed her, but the sight of him using her utterly vulnerable naked body while she lay in a drugged, drunken and unconscious stupor was… distasteful. It’s not jealousy, Ram assured himself, freezing half-way into
When
“Better stop, bro,” Ram had advised, turning to face Arne with the young redhead still firmly attached to his engorgement. “And I think
As a result of that rude interruption to their earlier lovemaking, Ram hadn’t jetted his seed into
He’d watched with deep unease bordering on disgust as the heavily muscled young martial artist unwrapped the Lady Racheal’s tender body from his sweaty skin and his long thick member had pulled from her sleeping loins with a loud sucking sound. Arne had been so horny to taste another young pussy he’d dropped Racheal’s gorgeous nakedness onto the cushions amid the debris-laden floor and leered at
“Hey, Rache wouldn’t mind,” was all Arne had said, shaking his tangled blonde mane dismissively before he climbed to his feet. He walked over to the lovers and lifted
He held her hot sticky cleft to his mouth with one arm encircling her narrow waist and the other guiding her head inexorably to his upcurved uncircumcised pole, still glistening with Racheal’s lubricious juices. The girl had wrapped her nubile thighs around his head and moaned with expressive appreciation before her mouth was filled and her joyous cries were stifled by Arne’s slick shaft.
Ram’yana had tried not to watch after Crystal’s lips had been stretched so wide he thought they’d tear, when the teen tried to encompass Arne’s thick jutting pillar – but the scene was unforgettably livid, and Crystal wasn’t struggling to resist the big boy, but attempting to work her loins more closely around his thick plunging tongue.
Her red coils had tangled around Arne’s thick fingers as he held her mouth around his rocking groin, and he fucked the girl’s face without restraint or letup until he’d thoroughly satisfied himself. The muscular martial artist worked his cock around inside the helpless girl’s bulging cheeks and into her distending throat while she gagged, sucked, groaned - and fucked his tongue with her pussy.
When firmly masculine hands lift her sleeping nakedness beneath the padded quilt and she rises from the hard carpeted floorboards in his loving arms, the priestess moans and writhes toward her mate through her drugged and drunken torpor. The bedchamber’s window is covered with thick velvet curtains and her mind spins in the darkness as he lifts her into an uncertainly swaying sitting position on the low unmade bed and the quilt trails from her smooth skin to fall onto the floor.
He fondles her breasts with one hand while he steadies her with the other. As she listens to his stentorian breathing it gradually dawns of the Lady Racheal that her lover seems somehow… different. What… what’s wrong with him? Or… She slowly recalls the day’s amazing surprises as long-fingered dry hands slide along her sex-slaked young body. At first she remembers the indescribably overwhelming feeling of two hard young men thrusting into her at once while they pressed her between their smooth bodies - and then a maelstrom of images and sensations flows through her resuscitating consciousness… My first real experience of another man… and another girl… and the things we all did together!
Is it Ramses or… Arne? Racheal wonders, when she realises the hands slipping between her sticky thighs and caressing her tender breasts are too large and roughened to be
“Relax, milady,” a voice whispers, and the priestess can’t decide which of the men is speaking to her through her drunken funk as she relaxes into the comforting masculine strength of his arms. He smells of cannabis, patchouli, whiskey and wine and she doesn’t really care which of her two young lovers he may be. That he addresses her in the Centraxian argot is reassurance enough, dissolving the concerns nagging at the foggy screen of the Lady Racheal’s drowsy awareness.
The intoxicants she’s imbibed and the events of the day have left her in a warmly glowing fuzzy ball of wide open acceptance and sensual surrender to the whispering voice and wandering hands. “Be not afraid…” She’s so relaxed that when a veil of soft cloth slides down over her hair and covers her eyes she’s hardly even surprised.
“Come with me… we’re going for a short walk,” the vaguely familiar but still unidentifiable voice breathes into her stoned head as she’s lifted to her feet. From a distant remove, Racheal feels large gentle hands lifting her slender body with an easy strength, and fingers slip between her thighs as he carries her through the open threshold of her bedchamber and down the short flight of stairs beyond. Her feet are sticking out of the quilt and a cool breeze wafts across her bare soles and slender toes as two of the wandering fingers slide up into her wetness and she gasps and writhes in his arms with stoned delight.
Her abductor pauses on what she surmises to be the small landing by the nearest bathroom, and a strand of her long hair catches on the raw brick of the primitive exit that’s been smashed through the wall into the next unlit building of the rabbit-warren squat. Festive sounds flow through holes between the interlocked buildings and the blindfolded priestess can tell a party’s taking place – probably in the longhall of the Centraxian stronghold. “Uhh, um,” Racheal mumbles as she’s carried down the stairs feet first, “where are… uh… Ooh!”
“Shh,” her abductor whispers as his fingers drive into her, right up to his knuckles - and as Racheal opens herself to him she suddenly has an indefinite inkling that neither of her teenage lovers (who’ve been sharing her young body all day) is carrying her naked body through the buildings. She freezes in his arms and shakes her head until the cloth dislodges from one eye. “It’s all right milady,” the man whispers as they pass through the lower hall of the conjoined second building, “’Tis thy Lord, carrying thee to thine well deserved reward.”
“Ramses?” she whispers, not knowing why she whispers the name of her beloved, even as she realises it isn’t he who carries her in his arms and fingers her so mercilessly. She gazes up into the familiar older man’s winking eye as they pass through the shadowy exit to a rubble-strewn vacant lot, and his mustachioed face is bathed in the perpetual twilight of the
“’Tis a surprise.” He winks as he whispers his message and carries her through the rubble of the vacant lot with his fingers moving inside her come-drenched loins. A horn blares in the distance and the faint surf of post-midnight traffic rolls through the concrete chasms in the warmth of the overcast night. Her fears are thoroughly and instantly dispelled, now that the half-conscious teenager knows who her abductor is; but curiosity still swims through her befuddled brain, commingled with her squirming lust - and arousing a different concern entirely.
“Uh… thy back,” the Lady Racheal whispers. She knows the cavalier’s many falls onto hard ground and ill-met rocks have taken their toll during the course of his long riding career, and she’s surprised by his unexpected show of strength. “I c’n walk – but where dost milord take me?”
The long-haired nobleman pauses to tip her bare toes down to the gravel path and pulls the slipping ring of black cloth all the way from her head. His fingers slip from her and slide up the crack of her bum to fondle her cheeks beneath the quilt, before Kha-Aan half-carries the stumbling drunken girl to the open rear gate of the debris-covered abandoned demolition site, with both hands firmly gripping her curvaceous hips.
The priestess sees a vehicle glinting in the shadowy laneway and recognises the trim British sedan as Lord Moonwatcher’s. “A s’prise indeed,” the young priestess slurs as her pleasantly familiar abductor smoothes tangles from her long blonde hair and leads her through the vine-covered gateway. “Didst thou bring clothing fit for thy High Priestess?”
“We’ll not be going far,” he assures her as he opens the passenger door and ushers her onto the leathern upholstery, “and ’tis a warm night. Thy doona is more than enough clothing for the nonce. Here – wear this.” Her presumptuous liege passes the cloth hood to her and closes the door. He strides around to the driver’s side while the Lady Racheal stares at a lone streetlight which burns at the end of the dark laneway, where it meets the angular junction of two other little narrow streets; a narrow fork in the road.
Two cats are rolling around in the pallid phosphorescent light and her attention centres on their antics until the car has rolled beyond sight of their playful courtship. She fingers the smooth material of the hood as she attempts to focus on the passing buildings, but her mind is so cluttered and the priestess feels so woozy that she soon slides down in her seat, attempting to keep her eyes open in her drugged exhaustion.
The journey is indeed short, and Racheal pays little attention as her driver negotiates empty lanes and narrow back ways. The stoned young witch tries to focus on the whirling grain of the walnut dashboard without much success, and as she leans forward the quilt slides from her shoulder. Her mind reels with a dizzying rush of carsickness just as the vehicle rolls to a halt in an undistinguished dark lane.
“We’ve arrived, milady.” The Cavalier unbuckles the girl – she never noticed when he’d strapped her into the seatbelt – and helps her to her feet on a narrow, dimly lit footpath. “Where are we?” the teenage priestess murmurs as she slowly comes to her sozzled senses, beginning to grow annoyed at being carted around through the night like a rug-wrapped piece of meat.
Her arms are trapped inside the slipping quilt and she can’t cover herself without first shrugging the material off her nude come-smeared body. She stands barefoot in dimly reflected streetlights, shivering on the cold flagstones outside a tall door with an overhanging awning that shields the stoop from the elements. Her lord’s unexpected reply shocks the young Lady Racheal partway out of her semi-slumberous state.
“At the place of thy Initiation,” he says with a glint in his eye. The Lord Kha-Aan leads the way to the double-door entryway of the two storey house, and his smile broadens when the quilt slips down to Racheal’s knees as she ascends the first step in the streetlight’s pallid gloaming. “Ye won’t be needing that,” he reassures her as she pulls the makeshift cloak back up over her shoulders; he drags a metal device that extends from the wall beside the grilled doors. “We have a better robe and role for thee within…”
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
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
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 11 – Smuggled Desires
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 12 – Love the One
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