Round Peg, Square Hole
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
“Unfortunate news,” Prince Ram’yana announces as he places the heavy handpiece of the dialup phone back on its black bakelite cradle. When they hear his dour tone the Lady Racheal, Arne Stook and Marco the adventurer look up from the Tarot reading that Ram’s lady is currently engaged in interpreting.
They’re seated on batik-covered mattresses in the prince’s large lounge room, passing bongs around the Golden Dawn-inspired Rider deck, which is laid out before the High Priestess on a swathe of black silk. All display expressions of empathic concern at the teenage shaman’s worried features and their eyes widen at his next sentence. “That was about my probation officer.”
“Your what?” Marco asks, dumfounded. Ram’yana inspects his lady-love’s Celtic Cross layout as the words spill from his lips. “She’s finally caught up with me – now, when there are only a couple of moons remaining before I’m off the hook. My original officer retired and the paperwork somehow slipped through a convenient crack in reality over most of last year, but now she’s finally on my case.”
“What a crock!” Marco exclaims. The likeable rogue absently shuffles the remaining cards and the prince’s gaze falls upon the man’s Significator; Arcanum XVIII – The Moon. Ruled by
Ram refuses a cone when the long haired blonde martial artist inclines the smoky tube in his direction. “Well,” he muses, “as far as she was aware I was supposedly living with my parents all this time. Now she insists I have to see her – and find a job.” Racheal’s aquamarine eyes snap open and she and Marco stare at her beau for an elongating moment before they both burst into gales of outrageously amused laughter. “At least it’ll be easier to cover the rent,” Racheal gasps while Arne’s guffaws join their laughter. “When do you have to see her?”
“She’ll be at my father’s place tomorrow,” Ram’yana replies. He returns Racheal’s blinking gaze with a faintly amused countenance as he sits in half lotus, joining his compatriots on the floor level seating. “Does milady wish to accompany me and stay there o’ernight?” The barefoot High Priestess mirrors his posture and sits in half lotus while she contemplates his question, and the moments drag on; the teenage lovers have rarely visited Ram’s family home since his mother passed away a few months earlier. “She won’t be there until midday,” he assures his witchy mate, encouraging her with a wide grin.
Ram’yana occasionally regrets his lack of contact with the fragmented remnants of his family; despite his independent life and apparently unconcerned demeanour he misses his younger brother and surviving grandparents, and his occasional conversations with his father have become more bearable since his mother’ death. Now that his father’s hitherto intractable personality has undergone a sudden and total overhaul in the aftermath of his grief, communication across their historic divide has been strangely easier for both of them.
Aside from a single aunt who lives in a Pentecostalist community in the mountains and a handful of distant cousins who aren’t directly related to him by blood ties, all the other branches of both his parents’ family trees have been completely lopped off and burned away, and have faded into windblown ashes and dust in the churning maelstrom of time. All the genetic inheritance of his ancient paternal and maternal lines are focused solely through Ram’yana and his younger brother, and the ancestors jostle for expression in the young men’s souls; they both endure a subtle yet immense pressure to continue their family lines.
The inner twinge of guilt which the young prince feels at the procrastination of his familial contact is mirrored in his Lady Racheal’s expression of self-berating consternation; his witch-wife has virtually abandoned all contact with her own relatives since joining the tribe of Centraxis, and he watches her features firm in sudden resolve as she takes the deck from Marco.
“Very well,” she says with forced enthusiasm. “As long as there are no objections if I split after breakfast - and leave thee to deal with the heavier details, my love. Thou wilt fare better if I leave thee alone with thine probationer – she’s female, after all, and doubtless susceptible to thy charms.” She returns to her Tarot card reading with an absent-mindedly imperious wave of her hand, and the shaman unfolds his legs and rises to his feet as Arne stifles a remnant giggle.
Ram’yana paces the hallway, sifting through the warren of his mind in search of an unseen exit from this unfortunate cul-de-sac, which channels his actions down a predetermined course in an otherwise infinite royal maze of limitless options. He pauses in the entry to the kitchen - wherein the Cold Wanderer and the Lady Alcyone are reading bootleg black and white copies of Slow Death Comics and The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers – and his blood brother raises an eyebrow and puts down his illustrated tome. “Game of go?”
“Why not?” Ram’yana joins the sometime lovers at the round cast iron table and Wanderer clears the pile of imported comics to reveal a square wooden playing board. The prince turns the slab over while the tribal logician retrieves the black and white Go pieces from a shelf beneath the table, and Lady Alcyone glances up from The Legion of Charlies. “A full game?” she asks, brandishing the comical paean to the mass murderers Charles Manson and Lieutenant Calley. “If you’re that serious, I’ll play the winner.”
“Come back in a couple of hours,” the Cold Wanderer advisers the strong-willed bikie as he holds his clenched fists above the board. “We’ve both been practicing and this may take some time.” The prince nods toward the Centraxian logician’s left hand, which snaps open to reveal a white ceramic disk. “And Ram’s worked his handicap down to zilch. My move.” He places the black piece that was concealed within his right hand onto one of the primary command points, located at four intersections that control each corner of the board’s rectilinear delineaments.
The pale wooden plank is inscribed with a square comprised of nineteen black lines crossing another nineteen in a simple grid; the pieces can be placed on any of the resulting three hundred and sixty one intersections. The game has barely begun when the High Priestess’s divinatory reading is completed, and the tribe members grow restless; Marco and Arne prepare coffee and joints in the kitchen while the Lady Racheal unpacks a bundle of art supplies that have been stored in the hallway since their recent move to the harbourside apartment.
As Ram’yana watches his lover check her equipment and repack it for transport to her new abode, he reflects on the fact that all his peers and companions - save only for his sagacious Lady Racheal - believe he’s a year older than his true age, and are unaware that he was busted when he was still a juvenile under local law. While some suspect the truth, he’s managed to keep them uncertain enough for his true age to remain unrevealed. It hardly matters now, he thinks. I’m a minor no longer – but still beholden to the terms of my bond… for a few more weeks….
Marco informs Alcyone and Wanderer of the prince’s straightened situation and the bearded logician is so shocked by the news that he misses a critical ko – a stylised riposte that enshrines one of the few rules in the ineffably subtle game - and a series of serpentine black formations disappear from the board one by one. Wanderer’s pieces are gradually surrounded by an expanding pattern of white ceramic disks in an inescapable cascade of moves, while he struggles to contain the inevitable damage. “So yer still on a bond after all, eh?” he asks through a wincing grimace.
“His word is his bond,” Racheal interjects from the hallway. She turns from her art supplies to face the players and stands framed in the doorway with her hands on her hips as she adds another quotation. “And the world is not enough.” When no reply is forthcoming, the divinatrix steps from the frame and strides away down the hall with haughty disdain. In a few moments the record player crackles to life, and the Lady Racheal’s unseen hand nudges the volume upward as the music of a local Oz classic fills the suite of rooms.
‘Most people I know think that I’m crazy and
I know at times I act a little hazy but
If that’s my way and you should know it then
In every way help me to show it…’
“Looks like the outcome’s a forgone conclusion,” Alcyone says with a smirk. “Be not so quick to judge in matters of intricate subtlety,” the Cold Wanderer replies as he considers his next move.
‘For most of my life I lived a delusion yes
Material gain has caused me confusion but
Slowly in time I learned that my place is to
Tell all that I meet the glory that God is….’
“Time for another song!” The godless Canadian anarchist yells into the hall as he takes back a corner of the board with a single move. The ancient game progresses and the tally of captured spaces and pieces swings back and forth, while the rest of the Centraxians end the lengthy hours of the stoned summer afternoon in the loungeroom. They while away the time making explosive pyrotechnic smoke charges from gunpowder and sulphur on the lounge room’s waxed wooden floorboards; Arne and Marco are only too glad to help increase Ram’s supply of relatively harmless lightshow effects and enjoy experimenting with mixes of barium, powdered iron and other elements to add blindingly bright colours to the psychedelic gigs in the Culture Palace.
Obtaining colourful additives like magnesium powder and strontium nitrate present no difficulty, but now that a gun license is required to purchase gunpowder Ram’s stocks of pyrotechnic charges are rapidly diminishing. He’s only been old enough to request a license to keep firearms for a short while, and has lost the one that he’d acquired under the name of a friendly older compatriot, during his hurried move to the new flat. Along with most of the rest of the tribe of Centraxis, the young prince abjures the very notion of handling such dishonourable long-range weaponry and loathes the idea of acquiring another license in his own name.
The Centraxians cease their various activities and repair to the glass-lined balcony for their customary sunset ritual; they stare into the western sky as the pollution-tinted glory of the solar orb descends through layers of mauve, orange, carmine and violet, its radiance reflected into their eyes from the gently lapping deep viridian waters of the
“That’s one big hydrogen bomb,” Arne announces when they’ve all returned to their individual bodies. “Can I play the winner?” he asks when the electric globe has sunk below the skyline; in these bygone Cold War days near the end of the Old Millennium, people actually believe that the Sun is a nuclear fusion reactor – they have no conception of its true nature as a bubble of plasma, an arcing globe linked in a vast circuit to other stars by as yet undetected conduits of transdimensional patterns of energy. “I’m ready for the big board.”
Serried ranks of streetlights begin winking across the shadowy bays and inlets as an electrified glowing mantle covers the urbanised hills. The glittering beads spread across the undulating landform in rectilinear lines of light in extension. “Ye’ll have to ask Alcyone – and Ram,” Wanderer informs the lad as they return to the half-filled Go board. “I probably can’t come back from this position.”
“Does that mean ye pass?” the prince asks in a wry tone.
“No fear,” Wanderer replies. “And ye shalt not pass, neither.” If both players decline to move in subsequent turns, the game is formally ended. The logician knows that it’s unwise to surrender; one’s opponent can drop the ball at a critical juncture, and that sometimes miracles can occur in an ostensibly lost game – but only if both players stay the course. The Centraxians are gradually learning the finer nuances of the ancient art of Go, which is gradually eclipsing Chess and a plethora of slow, intricately measured tactical war games as their ideal idle intellectual idyll of choice.
The convoluted match manages to distract Ram’yana from thoughts of his impending encounter with his father and probation officer for nigh on two hours. When the Cold Wanderer finally bows to the inevitable the Lady Alcyone accedes to Arne’s request to use the full-scale playing board, instead of the nine by nine training field on the pale wooden plank’s obverse side. Marco and Racheal produce a sumptuous feast, working around the players and readers in the spacious kitchen as the next match proceeds. They manage to produce a splendid four course vegetarian meal from a scarcely supplied larder and everyone repairs to the living room to enjoy the repast.
When the clock chimes nine, the prince collects his necessities into a large bag and the priestess takes his arm when the tribespeople are finally assembled for their journey across the water. Wanderer begins a new game with Alcyone; they remain huddled over the board and make their farewells without glancing up from the spare geometric formation of their match. The rest of the troupe traipses down to the wharf at the bottom of the steeply sloping hill and stands on the rocking tethered deck of the floating dock.
High cumulus clouds scud across the vault of the sky, lit from beneath by the myriad bright pinpoints of the luminous glowmesh which festoons the rolling harbourside hills of the slumberous city. The nightscape is outlined in a fey glamour which limns the world in a purplish mercuric aura and the Centraxians stare at the blinking lights crisscrossing the dark waters in stately gliding arcs as vessels ply the deep abyss. They mill around on the dock for a handful of minutes until their boat comes in, and the young nobles leap onto the rocking deck before the crew has a chance to roll the gangplank onto the wharf.
The Centraxians ride on the open bow deck as the wooden ferry jaunts merrily from the northern bank of the night-shrouded, sea-flooded river valley to the brightly lit, squared-off and anachronistically titled Circular Quay on the opposite shore. The trip is exhilarating yet brief, and too many other passengers are present on the rear and foredecks to consider lighting up a joint. Racheal and Ram’yana cuddle on a long wooden seat while their peers discuss plans for the coming summer solstice celebrations - less than a single moon away in time and slated to be held hundreds of leagues distant in space, in the Rainbow Region of the subtropical north.
They ride across the jostling wake of a speeding hydrofoil and plough through white-capped wavelets as they ply their way between the recently completed Opera House - a dimly illumined expanse of ghostly white demi-spherical curves on their left - and a familiar symmetrical spiderweb of coal-dark metal on their right. The iconic grey rainbow arch of the coat hanger bridge is a barely perceivable mass looming against the backdrop of the cloud-shrouded firmament as the rolling vessel surges around an unlit rowboat and heads toward the quay.
The Centraxians stride from the sturdy wooden vessel as it glides up to the wharf, oblivious to the obvious opprobrium of the uniformed crew. They step across the gap above the turbulent roiling waters and stroll away before the ferry is tied to the bollards, while the rest of the passengers stand behind gangplanks which are still securely shipped and squint in suspicion at the brazen band of departing hippies.
Less than an hour later the barefoot lovers stroll hand in hand through the streetscapes of Ram’s childhood. Arne and Marco had been about to depart for the Centraxian Compound afoot when the Lady Racheal hailed a taxi, and ensured the young men were dropped off at the door of the block-wide fortified squat before continuing to their own destination.
The magical couple had alighted from the cab at the top of a long hill, which rolled down to a flat tree-lined expanse of reclaimed land. They strode hand in hand as they altered course to pay homage to a giant magnolia magnificata, which the prince fondly recalled staring up into from the fastness of his pram as a baby; his grandmother had taken him to the magnificent tree almost every day until he was eighteen months old, and he still dreams of the fragrant amber flowers that accompanied his first experience of warm weather in his fresh new infant body.
The gnarled old tree is covered with huge yellow blossoms, and now stands ensconced within the grounds of the live venue known as the Bondi Lifesaver - and Ram’yana barely restrains himself from entering the cozy gig in the converted shell of an erstwhile suburban house when he hears Cold Chisel’s unmistakable riffs and the living, screaming voice of Jimmy Barnes pouring from the open double doorway.
The young lovers cross the road and stroll between the swings and roundabouts of a small park in which Ram’yana played as an infant. They ride the huge wooden razzle dazzle for a few minutes in the darkened oasis of the parkland, before striding down the slope toward the place where an underground stream still flows beneath the built-up scab of suburbia – a hidden buried waterway over which Ram’s family home had been erected after the turn of the century.
They make their way to the ochre-red ceramic house where his father and brother reside and Racheal squeezes her lover’s hand when they pause outside the gate to the Federation-era home. The building’s distinctively curved bull-nose roof shades the stone flagged front verandah, which is barely visible behind the wild garden bequeathed to the family by Ram’s recently departed mother. The plants have been left to run riot in memoriam to her prodigious green thumb, and the house is being slowly but surely concealed behind a screen of rampant growth after months of neglect.
“Gross,” the Lady Racheal announces. She points to the brass numbers screwed to a verandah post when she senses Ram’s confusion at her monosyllabic pronouncement; “One forty four,” she says with a smile as she leans against her young man and shivers in the sultry night. “A gross.” Her arm winds around Ram’s slender midriff. “I’m cold,” she declares as she nestles beneath his arm. “This place is always cold,” the prince assures her. “It’s a reclaimed swamp; this little slope we’re standing on is floating above a creek that flowed into a bog just down there, less than a century ago.”
“Feels like we’re still above a bog,” she replies. “A very cold bog…” Ram’yana leads his suddenly reluctant spouse through the gate, enticing her to follow him along the short tiled walk and up the marble steps which lead to the stone verandah. When he rings the doorbell mounted into the hardwood paneled door there’s no reply from within, and it soon becomes obvious that his father and brother are absent.
The teenage shaman fishes through his capacious shoulder bag and produces a tooled leather key holder which he made years earlier, and a time-weathered brass key slips into his fingers in the lightless shadows. When the door creaks open Ram’yana leads his lover into the darkened hallway and reaches for the drawstring which hangs from the ornate plaster ceiling, and he’s surprised to find the cord isn’t in its customary position.
The interior is even colder than the entryway. When they step over the threshold a chill wave shivers up the length of Ram’s spine and Racheal grips his hand more tightly as the proceed into cluttered darkness. They stop at the other end of the hall and he reaches for another archaic cord - which proves to be hanging from the plaster ceiling in its usual location - and the glass shell of an Archimedean solid bursts into momentarily blinding light overhead.
Ram’yana scans the piled heaps of accumulating debris in the living room as Racheal lifts a heavy leather-bound tome from a low table; she examines its title page while he walks to the upright piano that stands before a boarded up fireplace, between a huge cabinet television and a tall wooden bookshelf. “This place is getting messy again,” Ram observes, and as he fingers the piano’s walnut grain a sense of grief assails the musical magician. “And the piano’s dead as a doornail. Mice,” he explains.
“This is Josephus,” the Lady Racheal announces in a surprised eureka moment. “The only actual historical document from the first century that mentions a guy called Jesus…” She surveys the randomly assembled piles of books and general clutter as her bare toes reflexively flex against the gritty carpet. Her aquamarine eyes meet those of a green-skinned oriental woman who stares down from a wooden frame mounted over an expanse of fleur-de-lis patterned wallpaper. “That’s right,” Ram agrees as he opens the keyboard’s curving cover. “He basically says ‘There was a sorcerer called Jesus’; that’s about all – look it up. Josephus was a collaborator who changed sides to avoid death at the hands of the Romans…”
“I’ve read it before,” the priestess declares, and reaches for a piece of paper which lies on top of the cluttered coffee table in the middle of the book-lined parlour. “But not in the original. Here’s a note… Well,” she amends, “it may be a note – or an illegible scrawl…”
“He should have been a doctor.” The shaman smiles as he takes the slip of paper and deciphers his father’s chicken-scratch writing. “English isn’t his first language – it’s his seventh. There’s been a change of plan.”
Racheal plants herself in a large swayback leather chair and deposits her large traveling bag on the matching lounge. “I’m to see the probation officer in her office in a couple of days,” Ram informs her. “She wasn’t aware my mother had died, and when she found out she decided not to grill me here after all…”
“Makes perfect sense to a beurocratic mind, I’m sure.” Racheal smiles as she opens a packet of cigarettes. “Any ashtrays?” Ram’yana closes the piano. “Genius hasn’t smoked for years, but there’s probably one from the old shop in the dining room.” Racheal opens another book and scans the first page for a moment before she realises she’s attempting to decipher Cyrillic script. “Is that really his name?”
“One of them. It’s pronounced with a ‘g’ as in ‘growl’.” Ram’yana explores the darker recesses of the sprawling house. “They’re both out for the night – for a few more hours anyway.” He calls from the next room while Racheal lights her king size filter tip. “Another Party meeting?” she surmises.
“That’s right.” Ram’yana emerges with a huge blue glass ashtray in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. “And Paulus is away at my grandparents’ place – he’s about to go to a camp in the mountains outside
“One of those subversive training camps?” the priestess smiles as she leafs through an old copy of Time magazine from the days of the ignominious ‘fall’ of
“Better let it breathe – it’s a little fresh.” Ram’yana places the bottle on the paper-strewn table and returns to the dining room to rummage for some glasses. Racheal smiles at his double entendre while he answers more forthrightly. “Only fourteen, my darling…”
“Old enough. How old wert thou when the time was ripe?”
“Fourteen,” the prince admits as he returns with a pair of champagne flutes. “But I didn’t really strike it lucky for another year or two…” Racheal fills the crystal glasses with sloshes of Rosé. “Ye don’t strike me as a slow learner,” she chides him with a seductive glimmer in her eye.
“’T’wasn’t for lack of trying,” he assures her. “No doubt,” Racheal observes while she hands him a glass and holds her own aloft. “To new experiences – and thy new job!” She watches Ram’s features curdle while the reality of his situation sinks his confident mien as rapidly as a lead zeppelin descending from the stratosphere. When they clink glasses he quickly downs the wine in a single draught and Racheal mimics his voracity before refilling the empty flutes. She pats the broad arm of her throne-like chair and Ram’yana plunks himself down beside her.
The witch-girl squeezes his thigh before reaching up and pulling his face down to press her forehead to his. “Where are we going to sleep?” The swiftness of Ram’s reply makes it obvious that he’s already given the subject consideration. “In my old room. Why – art thou tired, my love?”
“No,” Racheal replies while she strokes his inner thigh, “but I’m ready to go to bed – and I need to warm up.” His Lady’s words aren’t merely a backhanded endearment or an excuse to get him abed - even at the approach of midsummer the house of Ram’s father remains as frigid as an icebox. “Do any of the fireplaces work?”
“Only one – but there’s no wood, and it’s probably dangerous. Come, love; I’ll keep thee warm, and I’ve some etchings to show thee.” Ram’yana keeps an ancient pact with his younger self when he leads his beloved into the bedroom he inhabited for much of his childhood. He’d sworn an oath to himself when still a pubescent young teen; a promise that one day his bed would feel the imprint of a beautiful girl’s naked body while they made love in the man-made cavern of his immature dreams. “Etchings?” Racheal asks.
“Paintings, actually.” Most of Ram’s childhood possessions are still hoarded in walnut-grained cupboards and shelves within the high-ceilinged bedchamber, and he blushes as his bride peruses his adolescent collections of painstakingly assembled and painted flying machines, hanging just above their heads from translucent fishing lines. Dogfighting Zeros and Spitfires duel amongst
“Cute,” Racheal declares as she pulls her young man toward her and kisses him with a languid tongue-swirling kiss before swiveling from his grasp. She turns toward a series of waxen shapes on the dusty dresser, clustered beneath a hand-painted psychedelic poster. “Best retrieve the wine and turn out the lights,” she decides. “Didst thou make candles when thou wert a little boy, too?”
“Indeed, little girl; candles and incense were mandatory accoutrements for a precociously curious young magician. I made them on the stove.”
“Must’ve thrilled thy mother.” Racheal changes the subject swiftly, indicating a handful of paintings stuck to the plaster walls. “These are yours?” Before he can reply she raises the bottle. “Firewater?” Her lover accedes to her request, and when he returns with the half full bottle the room is bathed in candlelight and his lithe witch-bride has already slipped beneath the blankets on the narrow single bed.
“There’s room for two,” she announces as she sweeps back the covers to reveal her intoxicatingly attractive form; save for her studded collar the gorgeous teen is completely nude, and she strokes her belly and breasts as she smiles up at her lover. “But only if ye want to be on top – or on bottom, my love.” She swivels her derriere around and wriggles her flanks at him.
The thin sheaths of Ram’s summer clothing slide to the carpeted floor within seconds and the witch-girl twists around to face him as he climbs into her unspeakably smooth and thoroughly addictive embrace. Her limbs fly around his flexing musculature as he holds his weight above her alluring body and Racheal pulls him down toward her, fighting the resistance of his strength with desperate tugs of her heels and hands. When he slowly closes the electric spark gap and their skins finally touch and slide together she sighs and nuzzles against his throat.
“Is this what ye dreamed of when lying here through the long lonely nights?” The winsome girl murmurs her seductive question as she reaches down and moves him into position. “Is this what ye always wanted, my love?” It’s obvious to the teenage shaman that his ardent young priestess is ready to bypass all foreplay; the confines of the narrow bed render more adventurous lovemaking unnecessarily difficult, and Racheal’s maidenhead is already feverishly moist and hot as she presses him against her smoldering furnace.
The willful young priestess enfolds him within all four of her long pale limbs and moans with delight as she draws his horny young readiness down into the flaming ring of her urgently clinging heat. Racheal’s thighs slide around his ribcage and her bare heels thrust down into his buttocks as she impels him to plunge his hard lance ever more deeply into her radiant loins. She strains against Ram’s final vestiges of restraint, and rocks her hips upward to impale herself beneath the utterly arousing confirmation of her young man’s desire for her. The captive prince releases his passions and dives through the blazing circlet of his beloved’s taunting tautness as she moans with delight and urges him on and in.
The mesh-sprung bed creaks and shakes as the prince plows through his moaning Lady-love and satisfies the pent up yearnings of his far younger pubescent self - an immature dreamer who emerges from a neglected corner of his cranium that’s remained unexamined since his escape from home and school. The imaginative cravings of Ram’s pubescent self return to fill his mind with outdated flagrant images as the teenage shaman glides into the thoroughly familiar sheath of his lovely young woman - and as the tribal shaman enters the priestess’s succulent welcoming temple on his creaky childhood bed the childish sprite lurking within urges him on, goading him toward a genuine climactic denouement of frenzied mindless animal fucking.
Ram’yana recognises the high-pitched youthful voice clamouring to be heard within the menagerie of his inner selves, suddenly recalling the vivid needs and livid visions of his younger persona, back in the bygone days of his first wet dreams. The more experienced young shaman ignores the primal cry for nerve-searing consummation - that would have him spurt a frothing lather inside the receptive girl in mere minutes or less - and caresses his bride with tender strokes of his gently sliding fingers and indomitably gliding rigidity.
He reams his Lady with lovingly attentive absorption, slowly bringing her to a fever pitch of near consummation as she bucks beneath and around the largesse of his largeness. Finally, when she hovers gasping on the brink, he grasps his wayward bride by her straining flanks and clenching cheeks, and draws her tightly clamping loins all the way up the length of his white-hot sceptre until he butts against the doors of her womb. His Lady Racheal gasps, and shrieks, and bathes him in warm fluids while her teeth sink into his shoulder; her feet press down on his flanks and her nails rake his hips as she forces him all the way up inside her, holding on with life and death urgency until her screams subside to panting cries and mews.
When the customary crashing waves of Racheal’s first orgasm of the night have subsided into a tidal rush of blown-away abandoned heat, she holds her taut belly and soft breasts close to her mate’s smooth torso, grasping him tightly while he climbs up and swivels around to kneel beside the bed. She grasps his shoulders and pulls herself up around him, scaling his frame and wrapping her limbs around his trunk as he kneels on the floor beside boxes of slot cars and stacks of board games. The priestess moves for them both, caressing her mate with her entire body as they resume their long night of ardent lovemaking.
Ram’s hands enfold her buttocks as Racheal presses her smooth firm body against him, drawing the intimate elasticity of her loving loins up around his rigid pillar of pulsating flesh and blood. Her membranous musculature squeezes completely around him when their curling pubes mingle in a sweaty tangle, and their tongues writhe together within the damp conjoined caverns of their mouths while the priestess grinds her clitoris against his pubic bone. The tempo of her breath increases with the rapidity of her self-impalement and Ram’yana begins to plough through her belly in time with her coital dance.
In moments the magically trained young lovers ride inside each other’s bodies in an oft-achieved fusion-fugue of him within her within him, an infinite regression of melding minds and fluid protoplasm as they feel what each other is experiencing. Ram’yana knows what it is to be a female filled to overflowing by a male’s rampant cock, holding onto the secure rigid warmth of a man who loves you, pleasuring yourself with his pleasure.
Racheal knows the blessed benison of a woman’s loving loins wrapped round the aroused sceptre of a male’s passion; she rides within her mount and feels the wondrous sensation of softly firm breasts pressing against masculine hardness when their sweat-slaked skins meet and press closer. She feels hard feminine nipples sliding athwart the pounding pulse of her racing heart as his young strong body presses closer, synchronised with the pounding pulse in her heaving womb as the need for completion reaches the point of no return. She feels the seminal seed beginning to boil in the overflowing cauldrons of his roots, and a rush of electricity races up her spine as she knows what it is to be a man coming inside a woman who loves him and fucks him with all her heart.
The prince slips back into his body when he feels the insuppressible geyser swelling in them both, while his Lady bucks against him with a frantic rhythm that signals her next climax, gasping his name with a frenzied repetitiveness – a spell which declares his separateness and expels him back into his own form; “Ramses oh Ramses ohh Ramses ohh…” The feline girl’s coiling muscles grasp him with all the strength of her orgasmic passion and he flies back into her plasm when her loins begin to wring forth a streaming spume of creamy fluid, clenching and laving his shaft while her womb opens for his burgeoning seed. He feels the hot jism spurting into his womb and feels the indescribable explosions that spread from her-his belly and erupt through his-her exploding nervous system - before his mouth opens and he utters her name; “Racheal,” he groans, “love…”
“Oh yess…” she gasps, and the teenagers come together in a dizzying rush, igniting into a love-charged nirvana of sexual fusion. They become the beloved while locked together at loins and lips, brows and eyes, bellies and breasts - bodies and souls laid utterly bare, bravely innocent and anciently wise in the blazing glare of instantaneous, momentary, eternal conjoined Enlightenment.
Gasping for air between screams and kisses, Racheal pulls her young mate down with her as she falls back onto the bed, holding on with her legs and loins still clamped tightly around him in a wonderfully inescapable embrace as she cries out his name. The sudden shift transports Ramses all the way back into the ecstatic climax of his sperm-jetting body and the young shaman squeezes his witch-wife’s blushingly hot lust-swollen breasts while she screams loudly enough to wake the next street. As the teenage shaman explodes inside his beauteous girl for the thousandth time and feels her come with him in a blaze of simultaneous primal fusion, he fulfills his years-old dream - and keeps the pledge he swore to himself, when he first discovered the joys of orgasm as an utterly inexperienced but romantically hopeful boy in this very same bed.
Ram’yana lifts his bride back to a vertical position with the effortless strength of his groaning climax as he comes into the gasping, grasping delight of her screaming orgasm, and the overflowing stream of his searing semen spurts into Racheal’s slender belly in a searingly livid rush of womb-drenching ecstasy. He smothers his Lady’s gasping mouth in passionate kisses and she suckles on his tongue while their long manes mingle to cloak their rapt faces in a cocoon of veiling strands. Ram luxuriates in the utterly familiar, ever-arousing femininity of his amazing mate as she writhes around him and envelopes him as deeply as possible, inside and out.
After the last gouts of their mind-blowing climax subside into tingling echoes in their overloaded nervous systems, Racheal pulls her lover back onto the bed and lies gasping beneath him on the skewed mattress; her cheeks, throat and breasts are flushed a rosy red, shading through carmine in the amber candlelight. The priestess’s long legs lay torpidly asplay around the fulcrum of Ram’s slowly moving frame, and she moans while he massages her breasts and belly and gently rotates her swollen ultra-sensitive panic button with his sex-moistened thumb.
The teenage shaman keeps reaming the utterly familiar flesh of his insatiably responsive young witch woman, inside and out. He moves with undulant slow gliding strokes while he massages the bright tension of her muscles and caresses her radiant skin with his large smooth hands. Ram’yana spreads the girl’s silken textured surfaces and glories in her unforgettably talented musculature while he drinks deeply of her inimitable and faintly ferocious beauty.
The priestess’s eyes glitter as the prince falls into his reflection within their lustrous depths. His gorgeous girlfriend’s orgasmic candlelit features are a perfect reflection of his fondly recalled adolescent dreams, which return to him as he kneels beside the sanctuary of his childhood bed and moves within the sacred core of his Lady Racheal’s magnetically attractive nubile body. I imagined this… The young shaman reels with an electrifying shock of realisation. When I was fourteen!
The image of the alluring blonde girl coming in his arms is burnt into Ram’s random access memory, still fresh and clear as the night he first imagined making love with her – Nearly five years ago… I imagined it many times; how could I have forgotten? He relives the fantasy as he lives it for the first time, immersed in the glories of the illustrious moment while he revels in the fulfillment of his most ardent youthful wish. And I saw her on top of me, riding me to rapture… the girl of my dreams was her all along… my Racheal!
He senses his Lady is swooning in a reciprocal blown-away state of overwhelmed yet continued arousal, and the pace of their lovemaking remains slow for a few tender minutes while they melt into an autonomic fusion of interlocking blood, muscle and bone. Ram’yana feels his body moving by itself as he plows through the greedy suction of his bride’s sticky heat and she calls his name through a semi-inarticulate haze of sensual bliss while her flesh responds with ingrained semi-automatic zeal.
The young shaman fills his gasping priestess’s come-soaked quim with languidly slow, deeply plunging strokes until he’s certain she’s recovered her breath and composure. He waits until she begins to respond with a rush of inarticulate intensity before he recommences fucking the intoxicating girl toward another inevitable swelling peak. He rides his wild young hippy bride with ever-mounting rampant enthusiasm as she fucks him with all the flaming passion of her sacred heart and all the lusty strength that’s coiled within her limber lean muscles.
While the Lady Racheal’s young prince spreads her thighs and fills her foaming loins with his ever-ready manhood, his witch-bride recovers her centre and manages to still their interlocking thrusts long enough to flip her young man onto the mattress and climb atop his slender frame. She starts impaling her spreading lips with short sharp stabs, caressing her swollen clitoris with his meaty crown before working herself down with longer slow dives. The brazen blonde swiftly winds up to a galloping frenzy as she milks his rod for all she’s worth; the Wiccan priestess rakes his chest with her nails and howls like a banshee as she comes and writhes, bumps and grinds, and calls out her young man’s name with ego-gratifying abandon.
The Lady Racheal’s libido is legendary among the clans. As others have oft assured the young prince to his occasional embarrassed chagrin and secretly swelling pride; his Lady is a fucking natural.
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Lyrics – Some people I know (Think That I’m Crazy)
Copyright by Billy Thorpe (and the Aztecs)
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Nesting Urge – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 2
See White Bird Must Fly – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 3
Which Craft – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 4
Black Dog – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 5
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana