Love the One
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 12
The young shaman throbs inside the vessel of the younger redhead’s tenderness, enjoying the unsurpassable sensation of cuddling up within the welcoming smooth warmth of the slender girl’s embrace. The besotted teens lay entwined as closely as possible in the early morning darkness, while rare moments of near-total silence prevail in the urban Centraxian squat.
The long haired hippy shaman doesn’t move inside the beautiful slumbering drunken pixie - and he doesn’t withdraw from her taut slickness while he strokes her gossamer hair and examines his motives; Mayhap there’s no difference between me and Arne… any horny young male could easily succumb to this temptation…
Prince Ram’yana restrains himself while he pulls a blanket over their nude interconnected bodies. Is this need for ultra-intimacy nothing more than insecurity – a craving we all have for a mother’s or another’s naked loving touch? He listens as the thoughts roll through him like unending surf, while he wraps his fingers round Crystal’s soft breast. Is this loving deep contact - my pulsing blood pounding as closely as possible to this lovely girl’s womb and heart - just a blind primate addiction designed to guarantee reproduction? Is this desperate need to fuck her sweet tight flesh just a primal self-serving reflex? I know it can be more…
The waif snuggles against him in the tenebrous night and Ram’s thought-stream winds along another course; This gorgeous female is definitely worth reproducing… The thought leads him to ideas about photographing the beautiful girl, and he wonders if Crystal will be willing to be immortalized in the nude – or even consent to being photographed while they make love. The Centraxian noble soon stops philosophising and prognosticating when the girl murmurs unintelligibly and wraps her arms around him; he snuggles up more deeply between her supine slender thighs when she adjusts her flesh and bones to accommodate his larger frame. Ram’yana cuddles the near-stranger’s slim little body in the darkness, stroking her curls and reveling in the unfamiliar embrace of the adorable sleeping girl; it’s been a very long and particularly memorable night.
Where’s the quilt? the exhausted young man wonders as his consciousness drifts and shifts. Crystal’s forehead nuzzles into his armpit and her leg rises higher up his thigh, to slip over his hip and lock around his midriff. And where on Earth is Racheal? His girlfriend has been absent for hours, and even as he lies in their bed with another young woman wrapped around his arousal, the prince nonetheless misses the familiar shapely texture, addictively arousing scent and true loving heart of his bewitching lover. He attempts an astral survey to divine a clue to her location, but a few minutes later the exhausted teenage shaman finds himself in another world altogether.
He awakes not long before dawn to a bleary slit-eyed glimpse of beautiful young Crystal returning to his bed. The rosiest bits of her freckly little body are barely concealed by a skimpy towel she holds firmly in place with a white-knuckled grip. Her skin is even paler than mine… The sound of a refilling toilet cistern is supplanted by a clamorous metallic clanging as garbos undertake their noisy rounds beneath the second storey window of the hippy squat.
“Feel like a joint?” The demurely smiling redhead presents Ram’yana with a skinny twisted doobie when she kneels beside him on the bed. He sits up and admires the wiggle of her angelic form, and his eyes wander to the arousing bounce of her firm young breasts beneath the thin towel, as Crystal shakes tangled curls of scarlet hair from her pale blue eyes in the swelling predawn gloaming. He comes fully awake as the glorious vision of nubile feminine loveliness lights the filterless number on a guttering candle; the barely visible flame survives in a pool of wax which fills an overflowing plate on the rug-covered floor.
The prince smiles at the sight of the shy young teenager’s determined grasp on the towel; she holds the rag tightly around her breasts and glances in his direction when the cloth threatens to slide down her titian skin. I’ve known you, lover, he almost tells her aloud. We have nothing to hide from each other.
The shy expression on the gorgeous younger girl’s alluring face and the swelling curves of her slim post-adolescent form inspire the teenage prince to take another tack as he lifts the blanket and exposes his nakedness to her. “Thine admirable sense of decorum notwithstanding, wouldst milady warm herself by my side?” When he sees the puzzled incomprehension on the redhead’s face Ram belatedly recalls that she’s unfamiliar with the jargon of the Centraxian court. “Come lie down beside me, honey lips.”
He wrestles with his ego, watching the fair young female peer at him through twinkling red-rimmed eyes. Is making love with her an honourable act? The chivalrous young man ponders the question and the girl nods her head and says, “Sure thing; when I get the joint burning prop’ly.” The shaman takes her comment as a sign of assent from the mysterious goddess who dwells in all females, and re-covers his tumescence with the scratchy blanket.
Crystal tongues shut the unraveling papers and seals the rent spliff’s seam with her sweet saliva. Can something so undeniably uplifting be dishonourable? Ram’yana asks himself as he watches the waif puff the unevenly burning reefer back to life. Unbelievably beautiful; translucently innocent, right on the cusp… and she’s so…addictive…
The young shaman knows from his time in the wild bush that a ripely sweet raspberry only offers itself at the moment you find it; some bright-eyed bird or bushy-tailed rodent will discover the sweet treat if you leave it hanging on the vine, and the ripe pink berry won’t be there tomorrow – or even five minutes hence – if you don’t take advantage of the offering. She seems so young… so naturally talented and eager… and Racheal wasn’t worried or upset – quite the opposite… When he remembers his witch-wife the shaman prince snaps out of his reverie. The lucid image of his absent beloved suddenly rivets Ram’s luxuriating mind. Where on Earth is she?
“Funny,” Crystal says as she licks the joint again. “Not burning right.” Her eyes gleam as she stares down into the flickering candlelight, and her extraordinary red mantle flares in the faint amber glow. The redhead’s flawless splendour halts the images that assail the hung-over young man, and the entrancing vision of her girlish naïveté replaces the fleeting glimpses he perceives - unwonted images of his beloved blonde girlfriend in the arms of another man.
“Doubtless wasn’t mulled up completely,” Ram’yana comments absently. He continues tormenting himself with endless judgmental examinations of his methods and motivations while he admires Crystal’s fine young body. Am I really worried about Racheal, or simply jealous? Or is this just a tricksy displacement of my guilt? Am I making excuses for my actions by worrying about her, while screwing another girl in our bed? Ram’yana castigates himself with the scourge of his unrelenting self-consciousness, and at the same time berates himself for his self-examination, seeing it as a loathsome example of his wayward teenage egocentricity. Be here now, the teenage shaman intones in an inner affirmation. Yet… it feels like something’s somehow… not right…
“No, I mean the candle,” Crystal points down at the lopsided molten egg that’s flopping onto one side, about to spill its waxen yolk onto the cracked Wedgwood platter between her tiny bare feet. “S’not burning right.” Ram’yana draws his mind back to his messy bedchamber in the Centraxian stronghold, glancing at the defective candle in bemused recollection of its origins. “That’s normal; we have about ten thousand of them in the shed. Almost all of them burn down one side, just like that one. Some won’t light at all.”
“Really?” Crystal squeaks between puffs, holding her breath. “How come – and why d’you keep them then?”
“It’s a long story. They’re made of almost pure styrene and we’re slowly melting them down to add to other wax; we make candles to sell at the markets and at festivals, like those ones over there…” Ram indicates a waxen replica of a Gemini space capsule, a bunch of imperfect hemispheres and a series of spiraling coloured cones, standing amidst Racheal’s pottery experiments on a cluttered sideboard. He doesn’t want to ask the question that burns behind his flapping tongue, but it slips out as he stares at Crystal with an intently burning emerald stare; “Do you have any idea where Racheal might be?”
The girl doesn’t appear to be the slightest bit worried by Ram’s mention of his girlfriend - neither concerned about the Lady Racheal’s absence nor fearful of her jealous wrath. “Well, she isn’t with Arne, that’s f’sure - I just got this from his stash. Wow.” She stares at the blanket that’s tenting over Ram’s lap. “No wonder I…” She passes her newly met lover the smoldering joint. “Um...” A corner of her smooth pink mouth curls and a crescent dimples her cheek as she smiles and frowns at once. “Am I too small? Am I… unusual?” Crystal looks right into the young prince’s soul through the viridian-rimmed windows of his pupils, and he sees a deep disquiet mirrored in her sky blue eyes and in the divine scrimshaw writ upon her crinkling forehead.
“Oh Chriss…” He can’t quite bring himself to call the girl by the pet name Arne uses for his new girlfriend. “…Sweet honey,” he says instead, “you’re unusual all right; you’re perfect!” Ram answers her question with a serious level gaze that floats above his ready smile. He cups her lightly furred pudenda in his palm, caressing her sex with a reverent tenderness. “Babies can come out of here. I’m certainly not as big as one of those.” He inhales slowly and deeply before passing the smoke back to her. “You just need some more practice…”
Crystal flashes twin rows of even white teeth and flicks wayward flame-coloured hair from her glittering stoned eyes. “Maybe – but there sure haven’t been no babies coming out of here…” She pushes her moist cleft into his palm and sucks on the last third of the spliff so deeply that it burns all the way down to her pink-nailed fingertips. She stubs out the roach in the waxy plate and drops it into the empty bourbon flask. “Can we do it again? D’you have to go anywhere today?” Her slim fingers slide onto the blanket and glide up the length of his leg, and she grasps his erection with a sudden springing lunge of her hand.
“Mmm… er…” The horny young prince slowly remembers what day it is. “I have to take a class at the Culture Palace tonight, but I’m free until then – at least, until Racheal turns up.” Crystal’s only reaction to Ram’s repeated mention of his girlfriend’s name is the tightening of her grasp, as she reaches forth and pumps him with both hot little hands wrapped round the rough blanket.
For the first time since they’d started living together a few moons earlier, Ram’yana has no idea of his Lady’s whereabouts. He doesn’t want to believe that his trysting with the diminutive redhead has been the trigger for her sudden disappearance; Arne’s crude use of Racheal’s unconscious body seems a more likely explanation, but even that provocation somehow seems an implausible cause for her current absence. Something about the situation feels wrong; nothing quite fits into Ram’s holistic perception of events and circumstances. He attempts to dispel his tenacious disquiet and concentrates on Crystal’s eager intimacies and hypnotically nubile charms.
The timing’s not the best, he thinks while Crystal’s luscious mouth descends toward his lips. Unbeknownst to the young priestess, the triune groupings of the tribal council have met in her absence to decide the timing of a ritual she must of needs attend. The Lord Kha-Aan, Prince Ram’yana and the emotionally armored tribal general known as the Cold Wanderer, along with the Lady Fifi L’Amoure, Princess Stardew and the poetess T’Ruth – the primary yang and yin tri-aans of the Court of Centraxis – have decided at moot to hold her formal initiation into the tribe of the Centrax on the following night. Now the Lady Racheal has gone without forewarning or explanation, suddenly disappearing from the communal squat without telling her lover or her other compatriots anything at all.
The entire tribe had been sworn to secrecy and the primary tri-aans had so far managed to keep the occasion a surprise. Everyone was supremely glad to be able to take advantage of the American G.I.’s timely visit to the stronghold, and had stocked up on Joe’s welcome cornucopia of drugs for the subsequent post-ritual party. Ram’s overactive mind searches for a clue to Racheal’s whereabouts and his stomach churns at his lover’s unprecedented absence, even as beautiful young Crystal climbs up onto the bed and slips beneath the blankets. Even while he scans for any possibilities that may account for his Lady Racheal’s disappearance, his heart races at the pure naked contact of the younger girl’s firmly gripping caress.
“Groovy!” The stoned, drunk and sleep-deprived flower child spies a half-smoked joint on the bedstead and attempts to relight it with the candle; as she leans down to the fitful flame the tiny towel falls away from her body and slides onto the bed. Ram’yana reaches out and places his hand on her amazingly smooth slender back, stroking the bumps of her curving spine as she puffs the smoke to life. Crystal’s heartbeat is surprisingly rapid, pounding against his palm from within the miniature perfection of her arching ribcage.
The alluring young redhead weaves and struggles against a wave of dizziness that almost overcomes her, and she pulls herself upright with a hand that grips Ram’s young manhood like a living lifeline. The badly rolled joint sears all the way down one side and falls apart in her lips, and hot ash cascades onto her breasts and falls into the bedding. “Don’t worry,” Crystal reassures him, ignoring the smoldering pile on the blanket as she dabs at an ember on her tender aureole. “She probably’s just at her mum’s or somethin’. I hope she isn’t upset or anythin’… What’s a ‘Culture Palace’? Did y’say y’had to go to a class?”
Ram’yana sweeps the ash from the bed and takes the roach from her lips. “The Stanley Palmer Culture Palace – it’s an arts and youth centre in an old ex-church down the hill. I teach darkroom techniques there tonight – just for a couple of hours. On Saturday afternoons I teach a filmmaking class and on Sunday I run the Future Shock Show from the pulpit in the theatre,” the young prince brags to the impressionable girl. “But we’re on holidays soon. You should come along – you might like it. We have new acts every week.”
“I know I’d like to see the dark room if you’re going there tonight,” Crystal grins, butting out the remnants of the roach. “How come you can teach when you’re so young?”
“Because it pays S.F.A.,” Ram laughs. “And the people who run the place know me – they know I can do it.”
“So it’s not ‘what you know, but who y’know’, huh?” The slim freckled redhead lies down beside him and renews her intimate exploration of her new lover’s horniness, altering the course of his boasting; “There aren’t many people who’ll do all that for a pittance – and I like to do it, or there’d be no point. Oh, honey…” He kisses the sweet girl as she caps his crown with her silken palm, and continues speaking when she releases his mouth and begins sucking on his nipple.
“All the people who work there are unique – real individuals - and almost everyone who goes there is bizarre, or at least interesting; the Culture Palace has an open door policy.” He sees he’s losing the girl’s attention as she concentrates all her interest on his swollen sex, his fuzzy testicles and his smooth chest. Ram’s defensively rambling discourse winds down as he strokes the girl’s orange-mantled head in the reflected glow of dawn. “We don’t turn anyone away… we give everyone a go…”
“Groovy,” she says around his nipple. “I like the sound of that; I should’ve known. I bet you’ve given lots of girls a go in yer dark room classes.” Crystal smirks up at him as her hand roams the slim length of his virtually hairless torso. “What’s a dark room, anyway?”
“You need to shut out all outside light when you develop negatives and prints.” Crystal lowers her head and looks up in puzzlement with her ear pressed against his navel, and her hair flows around his erection and arouses him even more. “Photos,” he explains as he shivers in ecstasy. The first wave of early morning traffic almost drowns out her next question as she kisses his slim belly. “What kinda photos d’you take?”
Ram’s left brow arches gamely. “What kind do you have in mind?”
“D’you have a camera here?” A furtive smile steals across the teenage beauty’s scale model features while the prince inclines his brow. “Of course.” The inveterate photographer points to the back of the closed door, where a black-cased 35 millimetre single lens reflex hangs beside an old Standard Eight film camera, beside a pair of parallax-challenged binoculars.
A psychedelic image of Jimi Hendrix beams down at the teens from a massive poster beside the door which covers a hole in the painted plaster wall. The poster is pasted alongside an Aubrey Beardsley-inspired Art Nouveau print of a black garbed pallid-skinned poet, who stares wistfully at a white skull mounted on a pole in a dingy nineteenth century European street.
“Groovy.” Crystal’s tongue laps at his belly button as she twists to eye the equipment. “Well – are you goin’ to take some pitchers of me or what?” The young magician stares at the girl’s engaging profile and sees that she’s serious. “I’d love to. Right now?” Her lower lip whitens between the perfect row of her pearlescent upper teeth while Ram’yana considers the options; “There’s not enough light yet - and a flash would make you look bad – it washes out all the colour and depth, and you have plenty of both. Maybe in a couple of hours… or if we went outside…”
“Don’t you have any lights? Arne said you do the lights for lots of bands.”
“Well – that’s true, but I only have daylight film and there aren’t any blue gels or filters here. The lights would turn your perfect skin a dirty orange - even worse than flashbulbs.” He begins to wonder whether it would be wise to photograph this inviting semi-stranger at all, whilst he still knows virtually nothing about her – including her age, the young prince cautions his eager self.
Yet the different angles and imaginative situations he could arrange around the perfection of her pert little body leads the incessant photographer into a creative and erotic reverie - until Crystal lifts the blanket and her warm breath precedes the hot lips that enwrap his naked manhood in a thoroughly mind-blowing caress. “Ah… mmm… ohh…” Ram’yana mumbles and gasps as he watches the extraordinarily beautiful girl’s smooth pink lips stretch around his engorgement, while her limber tongue takes his breath away. His photographer’s eye stares at the vision of nubile perfection; “Uh… we could use the flash…”
“Unreal!” she exclaims, coming up for air. “I need to warm up a little first.” She snuggles closer and warps her wee silky self around his down-covered length, nibbling on his nipple, throat and shoulder as she rocks her damp furry heat against his prominent hipbone. Where’s the quilt? the prince wonders again before he gives up on the foolish idea of covering the beautiful girl’s luminous white skin. “I’ll keep you hot,” Crystal breathes seductively. Her comment interrupts Ram’s cascading cogitation and his wandering mind is rapidly overwhelmed by nerve-searing sensations. The inexperienced young ex-stranger wraps her succulent little mouth around the prince’s rearing teenage manhood and vibrates his tender membranes with a low lively moan.
She comes up for another breath and starts licking his shaft with long gliding laps that flow from the base of his balls to the summit of his mushrooming crown, and the delectable memory of his beautiful bride’s wide-open mouth and lapping tongue envelops the prince along with the lividly radiant ecstasy of the girl’s softly wet embrace. He recalls the burned-in image of his Lady Racheal’s face warping around his crown, and stretching to accommodate his length as she swallows him all the way into her throat; she uses her talented hands only rarely, usually preferring to make him come – or more fully ready for her subsequent pleasure - with her beautiful oracular mouth and clenching throat muscles alone. Where’s is she?
The teenage shaman renews the circle of protection he’s earlier erected around his absent lover with a concentrated effort of focused visualisation. His heart flip-flops when he thinks of her - She’s going to be late for her own initiation - before the young man abandons himself to the wondrous pleasures of his ineradicable young lust, and becomes completely absorbed in Crystal’s exuberant sucking and the surprisingly talented ministrations of her limber tongue and wandering hands.
The Lady Racheal can’t recall ever having enjoyed soaking in a bath as much, while she sloughs the residue of the last unforgettable day’s sexual strivings from her tenderised nooks and recovering crannies. The intoxicated priestess had sighed with relief when Kha-Aan led her to this perfumed chamber and her secretive liege lord had explained that the room was merely a pleasurable way-station in their unexpected late night adventure.
The teenage divinatrix has never seen a sunken black marble bath in her cloistered young life, and the enormous chamber that serves as a bathroom - gold trimmed fittings and fixtures, encompassing mirrors and expanses of grey-flecked black marble around the central feature of the deep circular stone cistern - is as extraordinary as the huge sunken tub itself. A white dome shines down on the artistic young witch as she stretches her sex-slaked nakedness and luxuriates on a submerged stone bench in the mirror lined lozenge-shaped chamber, replete with fluted marble columns and beveled Art Deco designs.
As the already drunken Centraxian priestess reclines in warm sudsy water and slides her bum against the slippery polished stone, she sips the strange flaming purple cocktail through a curly glass straw. Her cavalier liege had produced a tray holding two tall drinks and set them aflame with his silver lighter while she’d stood barefoot before him, her nakedness wrapped in the quilt she’d made years earlier, in another life.
The mustachioed lord had toasted her impending Initiation and eyed her with a lascivious gleam in his inscrutable dark eyes before unexpectedly leaving her to bathe alone. Racheal had been preparing to drop the rainbow quilt from her naked body, and had more than half expected her lanky hirsute lord to join her in the huge tub - but Kha-Aan strode off into the bowels of the unfamiliar mansion and left her quite alone in the opulent bathroom.
I never knew he mixed in such circles… The young witch ponders her situation in a dazed state of puzzlement, and her estimation of the tribal leader rises markedly as she caresses her skin with soft silky suds. She ruminates on her lord’s reasons for bringing her here in the dead of night – Blindfolded, of all things, and without giving me time to dress… And how can we hold my Initiation tonight - after the party? As she scrubs her skin with a large sea sponge the Lady Racheal slowly comes to the obvious conclusion that the Court of the Centrax must have opted to surprise their new High Priestess with a totally unexpected and utterly appropriate ritual setting.
She knows it’s more than likely that the tribe has chosen to conduct her formal Centraxian induction ritual at a surreptitiously arranged time and a suitably decorous location without her prior knowledge; such subterfuge is common in magical circles. But I’m so tired… Racheal stops sipping the dark-spirited cocktail and holds the half emptied glass above her head as she submerges her entire body beneath a layer of floating bubbles.
The Lady Racheal had been exhausted when she’d returned to semi-wakefulness, to discover she was being carried in her long haired lord’s arms. Her nakedness had been discretely wrapped in her rainbow quilt when the tall cavalier had ported her through the Centraxian squat and out into the lamp-lit semidarkness of the
The inebriated teenager had been engaged in impassioned orgiastic revelry for many glorious hours before she passed out in her bedchamber alongside her loving prince and their shameless young friends. She’d found it difficult to stay awake when Kha-Aan had half-carried her through the ruined landscape of the adjacent abandoned building site. He’d set her on her bare feet and guided her through the communal vegetable garden and archery training field to the rear of the block, where Lord Moonwatcher’s car was waiting in the unlit back lane.
After only a few hours of sleep - or probably even less, judging by how slowly her body and mind are reacting to the circumstances of her unexpected adventure - the Lady Racheal feels lethargically languid and her eyelids slip shut as she reclines, floating in slumberous semi-submerged bliss while her inflating breaths make her breasts bob up and down through the bubbly waterline. As the last of the alcohol burns its way down into her belly the priestess places the empty glass on the jet black marble rim of the tub; she hears voices reverberating distantly from somewhere within the rambling wood-paneled stone structure, but can’t make out any words. The shape of the bathroom amplifies all sounds within the tiled chamber and Racheal listens to the magnified roar of her deep inhalation as she rolls over in the tub. Her submersion extinguishes the burbling voices, which return more loudly when her body bobs back to the surface.
She listens through amplified drippings and splashes, but the words remain indistinct as they echo through the corridors of the manse, and the young priestess’s woozy mind provides a series of interpretations of the tripartite conversation that her consciousness instantly recants; ‘Hoodoo tinky’s ready?’ “High say-so.” “Ur erupt – This race is heady.” Racheal smoothes her hair from her shuttered eyes and attempts to centre her drifting self. So out of it…
As the sounds of conversation approach the bath chamber the girl drifts through a warm pink womb of pleasant sensations, immersed in the overpoweringly enjoyable memories so recently impressed on the pale smooth palimpsest of her skin and within the secret spaces of her swollen pink membranes. “…enough to come on by now?” she hears a man say more distinctly, and a confident muffled female voice replies; “The hour is upon us. It’ll suffice.”
The talk ceases when footsteps enter the chamber, and Racheal realises how exhausted she is when she rolls over again in the depths of the circular bath, and attempts to open her eyelids as she resurfaces. The recessed lights seem inordinately bright and she gains a fractional glimpse of a trio of figures rearing above the large round bath before she covers her squinting blinking eyes with a slim wet wrist. The sex-slaked and thoroughly stoned young Wiccan is well past caring about her exposed nudity, but she finds it difficult to marshal her thoughts. Her puzzlement takes on an edge of trepidation when the priestess realises she doesn’t even know where she is – let alone have a clue as to which of her Centraxian compatriots these shadowy strangers may be.
“Lady Racheal…” Kha-Aan’s voice transforms her rising unease into an unexpected thrill of excitement, and dispels most of her lingering worries. The Lord’s baritone rumble and his use of her courtly honourific inform the girl that her liege is in role, and expects the same of his pre-initiate tribal High Priestess. “…art thou ready?” Long masculine fingers entwine with hers as they gently but firmly lift her slippery hand away from her sealed eyelids.
As the Centraxian noble leans down and shades her from the blinding light, the Lady Racheal blinks up at his mustachioed hook-nosed face. A provocative response blurs from her slurring lips as she summons a spontaneous if cliché reply from the depths of her drifting consciousness; “Ready, willin’ an’ able, m’lord...” Even before her answer is followed by a cheeky query, Kha-Aan’s charmingly roguish smile pierces her slipping mask of aloof disdain. She smiles up at him with quirkily crooked lips and asks, “…Shall we do it here?” Racheal surprises herself with her flagrantly lewd spontaneous suggestion, but when her eyes swim into a semblance of focus she’s unsurprised to see that the theatrically-minded cavalier is garbed in a full-length and generously hooded black robe. His companions seem to be dressed in identical cloaks but their presence is barely discernible in the periphery of her bleary vision, merely signaled by morphing black blobs. The teenage priestess leans forward and her mouth forms an ‘o’ when Kha-Aan’s other arm slips around her naked back and his broad hand cups her tender breast.
His familiar embrace is neither surprising nor unwelcome; an uncertain attraction has sizzled between them both since first they met, less than a handful of moons hence. “Mayhap later, milady,” he replies. The inebriated teen allows the older man to lift her to her feet and lolls in his hands as he steadies her with a firm grip on her slippery curvaceous hips. When Racheal leans against him and sighs, her emboldened liege-lord palpates the soft slipperiness of her full breast and hardening nipple while his other hand roams her belly and descends into her sudsy pubes. She sways dizzily, teetering on the blink of fainting in his arms as she rocks in his grasp; water streams from her lank blonde tresses and drips down her pale body into the foaming black hole of the tub. So damn out of it…
Painfully brilliant light makes her eyes squeeze shut again, and when Kha-Aan’s companions wrap Racheal’s wet soapy body in an enormous white towel and wrap another around her sopping hair, she absent-mindedly reflects that she’s still unable to identify them. They’re female, she decides when their curvaceous bodies and soft protrusions bump against hers. As she realises a blindfold is being tied around her tightly clenched eyes again, the Lady Racheal’s tottering world begins to spin and her knees unexpectedly slip out from under her.
“
“What’s this mean?”
“The central eye; the Sun; the centre of the cyclone at the central axis...” He places his hands on young waif’s slim warm hips, staring down into the her curious regard while her fingers caress his hexagonal tattoo. “Oh. Do y’all have them?”
“Most of the initiated Centraxians. Some of the tatts are in less visible places.” He strokes the young teen’s fully budded breasts and caresses her inner thighs with gentle flowing motions, and she leans her blaze of hair onto his angular shoulder. “If I join the commune do I have t’get one too?”
“Only if you want to. And we’re not actually a commune – we’re a tribe.” Ram’s fingers dip into her curly bright pubes and he strokes her trim labia with a feather-light touch. “Oh!” she gasps. “Mm… what’s the difference?”
“Not much that you’d notice,” Ram’yana admits. “We live in the days of future past.”
“So that’s why everyone’s called ‘Lord’ this and ‘Lady’ that – an’ why they call you a prince, then. What’s that make Racheal - yer princess?” The mention of his Lady’s name refreshes Ram’s distracted concern;
“D’you have rituals an’ all?” she asks through soft pecks of her inviting pink lips as his hands resume wandering her miniature length. “Is there some initiation or somethin’?”
“We do and there is…”
“Maybe,” she says, pulling away to see Ram’s face more clearly as he attempts to gauge the level of the young teen’s undeniable inebriation. “I don’ know if I’m ready t’show everything about me to everyone. But I’d like y’to take some pitchers of me, if y’wanna. Is it light enough yet?” Ram’yana shrugs off his hesitance and decides to seize the daylight, realising that this is a rare opportunity to capture a ripe raspberry on film; he compromises with his better judgment in the presence of unrepeatable serendipity. “Soon. But there’s one condition – I have to keep your face out of any nude shots. We’ll take others of your beautiful face as well, naturally – but not at the same time.”
“Okay,” Crystal agrees with bright glee. “Should I put on some makeup?”
“No way. You’re perfect as you are.” She gleams at the compliment. “Besides, that gunk’s toxic. You might want to remove your lipstick, or touch it up – it’s a little smeared…”
“I knew y’d be large,” she says for no apparent reason. Crystal turns toward an art deco mirror and runs a fingertip around the rim of her lips. Someone turns the shower on in the adjacent bathroom, and at the same moment a kettle begins to scream in the downstairs kitchen. “You saw everything I had when you first came into the bedroom,” he reminds her with a laugh. “Racheal made sure of that.” His Lady’s name causes a returning tinge of… guilt? Ram ponders. No… worry, he diagnoses. She’s probably asleep in another room; but whose? Worry and jealousy, the prince decides while the girl demurs. “No,” Crystal insists with a smile as she fishes for Racheal’s lipstick among a pile of cosmetics and theatrical makeup on the priestess’s dresser. “I saw you before, downstairs - but y’didn’t notice me.”
“I find that hard to believe. Not noticing you, I mean.” Ram’yana steps toward the sozzled girl, and as his hands linger at her loins she parts her thighs in eagerly receptive acceptance. Music begins to play downstairs and the sounds reverberate from the wall outside their window to fill the bedchamber with rock and roll. When Ram realises which song is playing he wonders who’s chosen this specific musical message to play, at this particular moment.
‘When you're down, and confused
And you don't remember who you been talking to
Concentration slips away
Because your baby is so far away’
“I saw yer hands first, so I looked at y’feet an’ ears.” Crystal continues her explanation as she looks up into his eyes. “Then I could tell f’sure.” She pushes him back toward the bed with a gentle bump and turns to face the mirror, relining her lips with a glossy scarlet coat. When she’s satisfied with her paintwork Crystal drops the lipstick into a pile of laundry and pushes her new lover down onto the mattress, leaping onto the bed with an irresistible expression of brazen expectation.
‘Well there's a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with’
She leans up and bends forward to climb onto Ram’s lap, nibbling his earlobe and tangling her fingers in his long chestnut locks. The glide of the young waif’s silken soft thighs stroking his hips and sides is a sensational electric charge that totally rigidifies his already swollen erection. “All you guys have long hair here,” she booms into his ear. “It’s real groovy – I love the feel of it ticklin’ my bod, y’know? An’ yours is so long I kept my boobs warm with it when y’was sleepin’. It felt cool man, wow. Kept me real warm - an’ I like yer smell…”
‘Don't be angry, don't be sad
When you sit down and think about
All those good times that we've had
There's a girl, right next to you
and she's just waiting for something to do’
Crystal bubbles with gleeful mirth, showing no sign of being tired after their athletic marathon of lusty teenage lovemaking. She continues stroking and licking Ram’s body as she settles herself more deeply into his lap. As her smoothly soft inner thighs glide firmly along his sides, her warm slick slit rubs against his enduring teenage readiness, sliding back and forth, up and down. Ram’yana tries not to moan too loudly when the girl reaches between her thighs to rub his hardness into her moistened cleft; he purrs as she completes her oration through her gasps. “Uhh… I really dig long hair… ohh… on guys… ahh… an’ girls…”
‘Well there's a rose in the fisted glove
And the eagle flies with the dove
And if you can't be with the one you love
Love the one you're with
Love the one you're with…’
“Mmm,” he purrs. “Oh pussycat…” Crystal’s moist carnal caress grows hotter and wetter with every lubricious glide and Ram’yana fingers the girl’s brightly furred lips as they slide tautly around his summit. “Hair’s the sheath of consciousness – ah, that’s so good,” he declares, and they kiss for a while before the young hippy continues his ill-timed declaration. “Long hair raises your sensitivity… mm, honey…” He kisses her throat and tongues her ear. “It’s a surrounding headset of tens of thousands of psychic antennae… all your hair…” Ram’s fingers glide though her crowing glory and catch in clotted snags as his other hand slips through her curly pubic hair and he dandles her clitoris. “And it shields you, too… ah… mm… not just from the sun, but from many more, uh, subtle things.”
The tribal shaman vainly hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s talking down to the girl, coming on like some pedantic teacher. Why am I talking at all? “In most cultures heads are shaved when a person becomes a slave or a recluse, or a monk,” his mouth is saying. “Hippies let their freak flags fly.”
‘Turn your heartache right into joy
She's a girl and you're a boy
Get it together and make it nice
You ain't gonna need no more advice’
Crystal’s hot little hand holds his crown poised within the taut ring of her slippery entrance. “An’ so y’teach film an’ stuff and do shows and lights? What else d’y’do with all yer time?” Crystal proves she can talk and ride cock at the same time, so Ram’yana keeps speaking as she edges onto him and her stiffening nipples burn spirals around his hairless chest.
“Whatever I feel like...” he begins. The agile girl swivels her hips around him, spiraling first one way and then the other, literally screwing him into her as she gasps with unguarded delight. “Oh, that’s so good…” The slim young girl makes the prince feel like a protectively cautious big brother – in some ways – and he hates the sound of his own boastful voice even as it drones on in deepening mellifluous tones, while she attempts to fully engage his attention in the bright, ripely splendid reality of Her; “…Uh… I play music, write… oh honey… paint, teach mmm… do lights for bands and shows, make films, uhhuh… act, bushwalk, listen to spirits, ride the timestreams mmm… do Tarot and palm readings and draw natal charts… ahh, oh, Chriss… Ohh, Crystal… I’m a projection… ohh… a part-time projectionist at the Filmmaker’s Co-op and the Palace and Opera House… mm…”
Crystal presses down onto and around the loquacious young man, showing him she knows what he is. The talkative teenager finally shuts up and kisses the horny younger girl’s shoulder and neck, and Crystal reveals her long pale throat to his questing lips when she throws her head back and moans in time with the music that flows through the squat. Ram’s rarely made love with females who are younger and substantially smaller than himself - even his Lady Racheal is six months his senior – and only a couple of his lovers have been as limber and tiny as Crystal. As she slowly impales herself upon his blood-engorged young manhood and her incredibly tight vulva presses down around his rearing rod, the prince is glad and relieved to be silenced by the supposedly innocent red-haired pixie’s skillfully riveting lovemaking.
After a timeless furious ride of frantic screaming passion and an eternity of slowly gliding moaning fusion, Crystal stops writhing in the lucky young man’s lap and her body subsides against him. Her slight limbs remain wrapped right around his trunk while her cheek presses against his chest; she groans and purrs from the core of her tiny body and the vibrations caress her lover’s cock within her slim belly. “D’yer mind if we jus’… stay like this?” she whispers. “I didn’t think making love was so… I dunno, not violent but… active.”
“Please, love, yes… please...” Ram’yana is unutterably glad to wrap his arms around the girl’s trembling body as her tongue slithers around his lips. Her slim wrists drape around his neck as her lips press against his, and her rising breast warms beneath his armpit as he exhales into her lungs. When she pulls away and leans her forehead against his chest he finds himself whispering into her ear. “This is making love - this rapture of feeling you, sublime and gorgeous... glowing… Let’s stay like this… please…” Words become less than superfluous as the newly met young lovers sink into each other’s eyes, mouths and loins, and their breath passes from one to the other in an autonomic soul-sharing cycle.
The memory of the first time he made love returns to Ram’yana with sudden clarity; he remembers the spellbound young boy on his sixteenth birthday, amazed and astounded as he finally began to learn the mysteries of womanhood whilst immersed in the astounding throes of his first acid trip. He relives the night his nervous system leapt from his body when he lay on his back, feeling Fifi’s enchanting long legs wrapped around his young body as she stripped him naked on the low bed. He can still feel the incandescent place where they were joined as she ground him into the mattress, while a crowd of trippers partied on around them; he still feels the fierce heat within her core, calling to him as she settled down around his fierce rampant erection.
The hunger of their magnetically attracted flesh was consummated for the inexperienced boy when he felt Fifi’s liquid heat surrounding his virgin cock, and she’d lain down upon him and pressed her soft bare flesh against his while they kissed amidst a psychedelic phantasmagoria of fluorescing multiplanar geometries. The ecstatically stunned lad was completely enfolded in the older woman’s being, unable to divine where Fifi began and he himself ended, and the sensation was better than he’d believed possible or been capable of imagining.
For an infinite momentous moment they’d been one being - soul and flesh united in consummate bliss – and then she’d started moving, rocking and lifting her hips and thrusting down around him as she rode her young mount toward the volcanic summit of her divinely inspired orgasm.
It was such a surprise - a total shock to the unprepared tripping boy. Fifi’s lusty movements seemed to sully the transcendent experience somehow; that type of lovemaking wasn’t what his body intrinsically and inexplicably remembered from some largely forgotten incarnated past. Nonetheless, the boy had no complaints as he was broken in by the older hippy witch-woman – she was all of twenty-one - while she rode him to a frenzied mutual climax in the crowded party room at Renondal’s soiree.
Fifi had screamed loudly as she exploded into a wild climax in the comfortable corner of the psychedelically lit and artistically decorated houseful of trippers - who were pairing and pashing off all around their sweaty exposed bodies. The buxom young woman had sung his praises with loudly appreciative cries while she’d swung her body around and pulled him on top of her; she’d shrieked alarmingly as she dug her heels into his flanks and guided his immature rigidity around the amazing unknown territory of her delectable vagina.
The scene and sensations had been ineradicably impressed in Ram’s random access memory during the incomparable peak of his first acid trip - an Orange Barrel tab that Renondal and Li Po had surprised him with when he’d arrived at the party. His loving friends had presented him with the unheralded package as their eyes glittered in conspiratorially tripping glee; the reddish pill was contained within a bow-tied gift-wrapped Italian matchbox that had been carefully padded with purple silk. “Let it dissolve under your tongue,” Renondal had advised, and his friends watched while the transubstantive substance was subsumed within Ram’s virgin bloodstream; their birthday gift had only been surpassed by the one bestowed upon him by the infamous cabaret performer known as Fifi L’Amoure.
Now, as his own innocence returns to him while he reclines on his bed, enfolded in the open bud of the young girl who rides astride him, Ram’yana knows how Crystal feels. He feels what she feels; when he returns to the present he’s no longer inside his newfound lover; he is her, and she is him and the breeze blows through them as them. All the sounds around them blend into a buzzing symphony of commingling love, while the youngsters dissolve into each other’s blissfully consummated flight from aloneness.
Their union is stronger than any trip’s benison and more gentle and interpenetrating than anything Ram’s known – save for the life-fulfilling loving trysts with his priestess paramour that oft last from dusk ‘til dawn. This time the thought of his Lady Racheal doesn’t prompt the young man to worry where she might have disappeared to - he’s totally gone himself, flying away into the beyond with a tiny wise fey creature who gives her all to him, as she ferries him to unexpected planes of ecstasy.
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Lyrics – Love the One You’re With by Bob Seger
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 Part 11 - Smuggled Desires
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 12 - Love the One
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 13 - Open Secrets
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/
http://www.geocities.com/r_ayana
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment! Thanks for reading this far…
The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana