Between InitiationsSex & Drugs & Rock & Roll 14
“Tonight’s the night,” the prince informs his beloved and the reunited couple embrace when the bedroom door closes behind them. The Lady Racheal pulls the overhead string that turns on the light - a modern echo of the bell-pull system widely used to summon servants in earlier days. “’Tis thy night,” he says into her sandy blonde hair.
Her head tilts and she smiles quizzically as Ram’s eyes roll upward to the arcane patterns painted on the spherical paper lampshade. He stares at the light as if judging the time of day by the wan imitation of the solar orb. “Actually,” he says, “’Tis still a little shy of midnight; pardon me for my error, love - thy special night arrives on the morrow.”
The Lady Racheal says naught in response, and the young magician notices the washed-out watery appearance of his lover’s sky-blue eyes as a slight vertical crinkle appears above the bridge of her nose. She seems uncommonly tired; dark crescents underline her bloodshot sclera and the priestess’s lips are unusually puffy. A dozen questions burn at the Centraxian prince’s tongue, but he manages to restrain himself from interrogating his witch-wife as she leans into his embrace. As they cuddle in the doorway the tide of Racheal’s relief overflows her lips and escapes as a satisfied sigh. “Home,” she breathes. “With you, my Ramses…”
The free-living hippy more than half suspects that his Lady’s unusual absence has been repayment for his trysting with young Crystal – a ploy to make him seethe with undirected jealousy, or to prove his love for his paramour with a display of genuinely worried concern. “This night’s as special as the last – or any other,” the teenage priestess murmurs into his mouth as her hands begin to untie his cotton pants.
Her kiss blows away all of Ram’s multitudinous queries and the teenage shaman is soon ready to cease probing his intended bride with immaterial words. He hugs his beauteous mate and she squeezes closer; her cotton-covered breasts cushion his chest amidst the clinging strength of her insistent ardour. Now that his lover has returned to the squatter’s comfortable nest, he no longer struggles with his overloaded conscience or imaginative fears. His need to learn of her whereabouts during the brief hiatus in their relationship no longer seems quite so urgent. If anything, he feels that their unprecedentedly interrupted twenty-four hour, seven day a week relationship has been invigorated by her temporary absence. The young hippy is content to let his questions slide – for now – and revels in the confirmation of his lady’s obviously enduring love.
The tip of her tongue limns his lower lip with sweet nectar. The obviously exhausted girl sighs; she’s been gone for most of the previous night and all the long summer day. I don’t own her, the prince reminds himself as he sniffs her freshly cleaned hair and rose-scented skin. He notices the unusual scent of commercial shampoo in her long golden hair and wonders anew where his lover has spent the night; other scents waft from her flesh, almost thoroughly overwhelmed by the strong perfume daubed on her freshly washed skin. The young Wiccan customarily uses only natural essential oils and the faintly chemical tang of her new perfume is slightly jarring to the shaman’s senses.
The Lady Racheal ensures all his teeth are still where she left them with an exploratory probe of her pointed tongue. She leans back within his embrace until she can see his face as she murmurs, “My love…” The rest of her sentence never emerges from her parted lips; they press back against his with sumptuously tender gentleness while her fingers explore his knotted drawstring.
When Ram’s hands slip beneath her ultra-brief new leather miniskirt he’s only slightly surprised to discover his witch-bride is wearing no underwear. After her first few moons in the hippy commune she’s come to regard bras and underpants in much the same way as the rest of the wild tribal children of Centraxis. The freewheeling clan sees such garments as little more than unnecessary corsetry. They view underwear as nappies for incontinent adults suffering from inadequate potty training, or as fetishistic fripperies for sick traumatized puppies. Most of the women of the tribe find a legitimate use for panties only a few days in every moon. Ram’yana caresses his lady’s firm naked rump while they kiss, and she wriggles her soft smooth cheeks into his cupped palms as a lithely feminine leg twines round his thigh to provide him with greater access to her charms.
Racheal’s barefoot semi-nakedness is wonderfully familiar to the teenage prince, but his beloved’s black animal hide skirt is a particularly unusual aspect of her strange ensemble. His lover has hitherto maintained the colour scheme of the Trump she has adopted as her own; the blue, white and violet hues of the veiled High Priestess. She’s always foresworn wearing any black garments, and usually avoids wearing leather. The brief skirt is surprisingly revealing, particularly when compared with most of the relatively modest wardrobe Ram’s lady had brought from her parent’s house when she moved into the Centraxian squat.
When the lovers come up for air the shaman prince clarifies his earlier pronouncement. “I was sworn to secrecy,” he tells the priestess, “but such a prohibition is all but unprecedented, and I find it to be a strangely arbitrary injunction for the Court to enact.” The Lady Racheal eyes her young man with an arched brow and her leg muscles bunch around his thigh when she finally unties his bindings and reaches into his trousers.
“Besides,” the chivalrous young nobleman declares while he exults in the pleasurable attention his girlfriend bestows, “such secrecy is unfairly dishonourable – and impossible to maintain in the face of true love.” Her fingers encounter Ram’s heated readiness and she pulls his irrepressible teenage manhood free of his pants; her leg unwraps from his thigh to allow the thin garment to slide down his long legs.
Racheal’s aquamarine eyes widen and her mouth works around syllables that never emerge from her larynx; Ram’s hands slip from her fine derriere when she unexpectedly falls to her knees. The prince’s trousers pool around his ankles on the geometrically patterned Afghani rug - swiftly joined by his Lady’s black t-shirt when she lifts the unfamiliar top over tumbling blonde tresses and throws it onto his bare feet. In another instant the unsurpassable slick heat of Racheal’s magical mouth surrounds his swollen crown, and the prince decides his news can wait a few minutes longer. Her tongue immediately begins to swirl around his velvet surfaces while her hands claw at his naked buttocks.
Ram’s fingers sift through Racheal’s soft wavy hair and squeeze her earlobes before they glide across her cheeks. His fingertips follow the curving lines of her distended lips while she suckles upon his knob; slightly swollen when she returned to the squat, they swell outward around his crown with uncommon puffiness. She smothers the unknowable words which had threatened to spill from her lips, swallowing them into her throat along with her handsome young prince’s proudly rearing erection; she envelopes him with her tender pouting mouth and fellates him without preamble.
Racheal’s limber fingers caress and tickle his buttocks and thighs and caress his furry scrotum while her head rocks back and forth; her tongue twists around the thick shaft that fills her mouth as she presses him into her throat. Her thoughtful young man restrains the impulse to piston through his girl’s tender membranes in lusty counterpoint to her hands-free technique; she carefully holds her jaws wide, so her sharp even teeth don’t snag his blood-engorged flesh as she slurps and grunts with animalistic fervour. Racheal’s bloodshot blue eyes roll upward to meet Ram’s ecstatically glazing emerald orbs; they bulge widely when his pubic hairs touch the tip of her pretty nose. His lovely young mate stares directly into his soul with all the fully absorbed passion of her primordial succour, and her fingers slip under the leathern hem of her black miniskirt. She milks her prince with long slow thrusting swallows while she pleasures herself in time with the increasingly rapid rocking of her gold-maned head.
She swallows her boyfriend’s long hard cock as deeply as she can while their gazes remain locked in hypnotically mutual love-lust. The horny young woman’s eyes widen further when her face pushes forward to entirely encompass her beau’s feverishly hot hardness. Racheal almost gags when she pulls her slightly younger lover all the way into her mouth and his shaft blocks her windpipe. She maintains a tight grip on his balls and her fingers swirl more rapidly beneath her skirt as his full length rams right into her spasmodically clamping throat. As the prince stares into his lover’s eyes he feels the wave of her climax swelling with the rising tide of his ecstasy.
Racheal holds him deep inside for as long as she can, sucking on his hard silky man-meat and vainly attempting to snort air past his girth - until her eyes squeeze shut and fill with salty fluid, as her pallour darkens from shades of pink towards a deeper purple. The shaman marvels at her expertise; She’s never been into deep throated cock sucking before… His mind seizes up as she sucks on his shaft with unbridled vigour and thrusts her face against his belly. Ram’yana’s knees actually tremble as his sensitive flesh is completely encased in his loving female’s amazingly hot and incredibly tight enfoldment. Racheal’s nose burrows into his dark pubic curls while her fingers fondle his testicles; her tongue squeezes around his thickness inside her bulging cheeks as she snorts and snuffles for air. Her young man loses himself in the Nirvana of his beloved girl’s demonstrative devotion while she screws her face back along his rigid pole and comes up for a momentary breath. After a single gasp she slides around him again, fucking his cock with full-length strokes of her stretching pink lips as he burrows into the even tighter tube of her squeezing throat. “Oh, honey,” he moans. “Mm… That’s so good…”
She hums around his cock in reply, vibrating his shaft in her lubricious mouth. During the unbelievably long interlude of her sucking, tonguing, grunting oral fornication, the prince watches Racheal’s puffy lips repeatedly press inward and stretch outward as his proud young cock is laved with her saliva. Her taut lips swell outward as they slowly glide along his full slippery length, before being drawn back into her mouth with his reentry. Each time he slides back between her lips she cloaks her teeth behind her swollen pink membranes until his fuzzy balls bump against her smooth hard chin. He feels the irresistible pumping of his oracular priestess pulling an orgasm from his roots, and struggles for self-control in the face of her unheralded display of confident expertise.
When Racheal opens her eyes twin rivulets overflow her pink-veined azure orbs and slide down across her prominent cheekbones. Her nostrils flare widely, as snatches of air jet in and out of her lungs in quick snorts and choked-off gasps each time her head rocks backward. Every time Ram’s crown slides down into her throat the priestess’s lashes flutter and her eyes bulge up at him through welling tears while she strokes her loins with relentless autoerotic passion. His fingers tangle in her hair as he attempt to slow her movements, but she ignores his half-hearted wordless attempt and continues bringing them both toward climax with an increasingly rapid tempo. Her expression is unreadable as her beautiful face stretches and contorts around Ram’s pole; he can’t decide if his newly returned mate is crying from discomfited pain, or with relief at being reunited with her egotistical young lover.
Mayhap both… She wants to make me come, he decides with utilitarian self-absorption, as the Lady Racheal’s unrestrained enthusiasm swiftly overcomes his unease. He manages to suppress the burning need to explode into his willing young woman’s tightly clenching throat, and becomes utterly absorbed in her sensational ministrations while he leans forward to stroke her firm ripe breasts and massage her surprisingly tense shoulder muscles. Ram’s fingers gently encircle his girlfriend’s sinuously undulant neck; he feels her flushed flesh swell beneath his fingertips each time he bottoms out, when the tight ring of her lips stretches round the thick base of his shaft.
When she begins to gag and suffocate at last, the witchy teen’s lips slide back to stretch around Ram’s summit and her weeping eyes drift shut. His slippery wet shaft pops out of the Centraxian priestess’s mouth for less than an instant and is immediately encased in the loving caress of her hands. The witch-girl’s lover notices that the tears streaking his Lady’s flushed cheeks are flowing more freely. He strokes her long hair and opens his mouth to speak - and the image of the first Trump revealed in his recent Tarot reading returns to fill his vision, and only a single word comes forth; “Honey…” he breathes as The Devil leers at him - a smiling goat crowned with a lopsided wreathe, standing before an erect phallic pole that pierces the heavens.
Ram’yana blinks when his lady’s fingers unfold around his erection and his slick shaft encounters the cooling night air. Her soft hands immediately cup his balls and return to stroke his saliva-wetted length with an intensely familiar caress. “No good,” she declaims between barely repressed sobs as her lover massages her shoulders. “Oh my love…” Racheal shakes blonde strands from her eyes as he bends to kiss her tenderised lips. “I’m no good…”
She continues to stroke his length while she avoids his mouth, and her crinkling forehead settles against his hipbone. “Can’t wait any longer… must tell someone…” The prince almost says ‘please do’ aloud, but waits for his girlfriend to collect her thoughts while she continues to pleasure him with absent-minded strokes. She slowly rises to her bare feet, staring up into her young man’s eyes while she manipulates his flesh between her sensitive artistic hands.
An unexpected giggle bursts from her swollen lips and she bites down hard before her shrill chortle becomes a full-blown cackling laugh. “Sorry.” Racheal licks her tender lips and combs her long fragrant tresses with the damp fingers of one hand while the other grips him in an ardent squeeze. She turns to face her reflection in an art deco mirror hanging on the wall beside a bright batik mandala. Her eyes flicker toward her prince in the world behind the looking glass, as the alluring girl’s reflection mouths the words; “I’m not myself.”
She reaches for her large shoulder bag - still dangling on the chair by the marble-topped antique desk where she left it the night before – while she absently strokes her young man’s slippery hardness. The smooth swirling surface of the antique table seems like a fat-marbled slab of pink meat as the hungover witch-girl’s sight traverses its flat surface. The desktop is strewn with a batch of her drawings and a series of partially completed small watercolours. She inspects her work with a self-critical eye while she rummages in the bag’s cluttered innards, staring at a lone yacht plummeting down the sheer face of a skyscraper wave as a bolt of lightning splits the turbulent sky and opens a rent into another world, where hungry-eyed presences dwell. The preoccupied girl’s hand emerges clutching a stick of carmine lipstick and a packet of cigarettes, and she stares at the articles for a frozen moment; the priestess decides to paint her lips before searching for a light.
When he’s certain that Racheal’s uninformative declarations have stalled to a halt Ram’yana finds he can contain his own news no longer; “Thy tribal initiation is to be held this very night.” The magician steps out of his pants while he watches his witchy bride coat her lips with a sticky gloss. Her hand keeps stroking his rearing length while she stares at her reflection in the mirror. When she fails to react to Ram’s tidings he wonders whether his distracted bride has heard him. He smiles when she inverts her swollen lips and kisses herself to spread the deep red lipstick more evenly, before pouting to inspect her work. He never tires of the sight of his lover’s beautiful face or the range of expressions that flit across its youthful high-boned planes and elegant curves. “At midnight,” he adds, hoping for a reaction while he puzzles at her unhealthy pallour and darkly rimmed eyes. She keeps absently stroking his erection while staring into her reflection, reversing the roles of Narcissus and Echo as she drops the lipstick into her bag.
The shaman reaches for a pack of matches and his gaze falls upon the red haired woman imprinted on the cover of the softwood box. He strikes a red-capped sliver of poplar tree to light Racheal’s filter-tip cigarette while his eyes slip in and out of focus around the iconic logo. The profile on the box matches young
His internal reverie of punning entendres is interrupted by the gravely disturbing expression that appears on his lady’s tearful features when he lights her ciggie; both her hands suddenly grip his shaft tightly, as if she’s hanging on to a lifeline in a wave-riven ocean. Racheal falls into Ram’s arms while she squeezes his length, and her quavering voice commands all his attention as a surprising tale begins to pour from her painted mouth. “I’m breaking an oath…” She struggles through abrupt sobs. “A solemn oath with dire penalties…” Her fingers release him and his hardness presses upright between their bellies when she wraps her arms around him.
The teenage priestess cries into Ram’s shirt and hangs from his shoulders as she begins to tell him of the events she experienced during the preceding night. She commences her halting tale by gradually informing her stunned lover that she’s already been initiated into a different Court - a magical circle of an entirely different order. She omits all reference to the manner in which she arrived upon the doorstep of the coven’s opulent manse, and avoids relating how she was abducted and taken to the temple by their liege-lord and Ram’s own mentor, the Lord Kha-Aan. Racheal’s narrative begins with her awareness of being surrounded by strangers when a blindfold had been lifted from her drug-blurred eyes.
“What sort of drugs?” Ram’yana asks, interrupting his intended bride’s rambling discourse. His eyes flare with viridian intensity ’neath his furrowing brow as her eyelids flutter. “I’m not sure,” she says, recalling the alternately terrifying and exalting visions of intricately confusing multi-dimensionality that paraded through her blown-open mind. “It felt like I was watching everything from behind a screen, unable to react to what was happening; everything was moving in slow motion and I was almost blinded by incredible coloured patterns… Sleeping pills, maybe? And maybe acid, too… how should I know?” She flounces her short black skirt in a bout of flustered frustration, exposing her blonde curls to Ram’s shocked regard. Teardrops well in Racheal’s eyes once more as she cries out in a pleading tone; “I’m not pure any more!” She shakes the tears from her eyes and whips her stunned lover with long blonde strands. “Another man has been inside me! Has come inside me!”
Ram’s mind flops around like a beached fish as he contemplates the innumerable possibilities portended by his lover’s statement. He’s confused by the dizzying events of the previous couple of days, and is stricken with vague guilt. Is she talking about Arne? He’d been certain that Racheal had been unconscious when the young monk had taken advantage of her naked vulnerability. How does she know? He hasn’t had time to tell her how he and Crystal had stopped the muscular teenager from fucking her supine body - when they noticed what he was doing through their own impassioned coupling. The newly initiated Centraxian monk had been taking advantage of Racheal’s sated flesh, while she lay on the floor of their bedchamber in a state of unconscious oblivion.
The young shaman’s blood boils when he remembers the disgusting (yet damnably arousing) scene. The intensely embedded image of Arne servicing himself with the somnolent flesh of Ram’s enchanting defacto witch-wife haunts the prince with its livid vividness. The muscular youngster had displayed all the signs of having a crush on the priestess for many weeks. When Arne had seen Ram’yana mating with the younger teen’s elfin red-haired girlfriend, he hadn’t contained his lust a moment longer.
The prince despises the way he stiffens to even more rigid arousal against Racheal’s naked stomach, as the memory of their fellow tribesman’s thick cock sliding in and out of her wide-splayed thighs replays itself in his mind. It’s a vision the young mage knows he’ll remember for all of his days; his virtually eidetic random access memory is both a blessing and a curse. He opens his mouth to assure his Lady that he loves her, and that what happened while she was lost to the world in a drunken stupour wasn’t her fault – and Racheal throws herself to her knees and hugs his torso as she resumes suckling on the tip of his rigid cock.
Or is she talking about another man? The thought belatedly occurs to the shaman, only to be swept away by a flaring rush of excruciating pleasure. “I’m so sorry,” Racheal sobs when her lips slip back from his crown. “I’ll make it up to you… I promise…” Her young man stands in dazzled silence as his distraught girlfriend tongues him back into her sobbing mouth. She sucks on his tumescence while she sniffles around his swollen flesh and gulps down the river of tears that pours from her sealing eyelids.
After a few moments she succumbs to the need for further expiation and holds his stiffening hardness at bay with slowly stroking fingers. “He… I…” She wipes her nose with the back of a wrist before pressing her palm to her naked belly. “I promise, my love – from now on I’ll save my womb for you and you alone…” she says. “No other man will spray his seed here again…” That Racheal has slipped from her customary Centraxian parlance is enough to show her lover how disturbed the priestess must be. “…From now on… oh I’m so sorry! Please forgive me – please don’t exile me from your heart…” As he caresses her shoulders and attempts to pull his sobbing girlfriend up off her knees, Ram’s stunned mind slowly rotates through inconclusive circles: Does she mean Arne – or one of the ones who…
When his young lady takes him into her mouth again he retains enough self-possession to wonder whether she’s using his flesh to delay the completion of the tale she’s barely begun. “Who came inside you? Was it… did he…” The questions begin to slip from his lips before he can think to suppress them and Racheal stops her avid sucking; he’s silenced by the unnerving pressure of her teeth as she bites down gently on his mushrooming glans, before leaving him high and dry once again. “Not ‘he’”, she says as she stares into his blazing eyes through brightly glittering tears. An unmistakably naked expression of indubitable truthfulness suffuses her distraught features. She utters the syllable through gasping sobs; “Them.”
“How can you bear to touch me?” The sentence still rings in Ram’s ears as the party livens up all around the young shaman. He ruminates within the cracked shell of his uncomfortably numbed shock as he sinks more deeply into an art deco lounge chair in the Centraxian longhall.
Music fills the narrow gaps between the multileveled conversations which bounce between the graffito-painted walls, as the Lady Racheal’s tear-jerking confession - and her stark description of her drugged and forced initiation into hypersexual rituals - echo through the young prince’s being. He glances toward the ceiling and takes a long draw on the oversized joint as he wonders how his beloved fares upstairs in their candlelit bedchamber. Ram’yana had left Racheal to her own devices after she begged to be left alone, to regain her composure and prepare for her formal rite of Initiation into the tribal court of the realm of Centraxis.
What an ill-omened night for a noble rite… the shaman concludes while he holds the strong smoke deep in his lungs, to allow the THC to fully penetrate his alveoli; …despite the fortuitous arrival of such a wide range of wondrous substances… Images swarm through his mind as he attempts to decipher Racheal’s halting description of the ritual she’d somehow found herself integrally engaged in enacting. He can tell she’d shied away from divulging all the details of her abduction; the witchy girl had broken down while she described her subsequent ravishing by the entire group of unknown black-cowled figures. He glances toward the Lord Kha-Aan, who laughs with boisterous zeal as he shares another joke with the heavy-set Negro and lanky Charmayne.
Snatches of conversation drift through Ram’s disturbed distraction, intermingling with the high-pitched Led Zeppelin lyrics in his worried mind; ‘Queen of light took her bow…’; “The true wampum wasn’t ever really money…”; “What a crock – we’re gonna get the crazy grazier again f’sure…”; Malcolm X was a great man, buddy…”; ‘And then she turned to go…’; “How the fuck was he ever going to get away?”; “Pretty good weed, man, wow, I see bunnies – Playboy bunnies...”; “Chaos Castle awaits, and gold tops are in season…”; ‘The prince of peace embraced the gloom and walked the night alone…’ ;“Hey, Bogart!”
“You gonna pass that or play it again?” Arne Stook’s loud query penetrates the prince’s dark funk and he leans forward to pass the younger Centraxian the party-sized joint.
The red-haired pixie splutters and coughs as she attempts to hold the rich smoke in her lungs - just as she’s seen Ram and Arne do many times, since she first arrived in the squat hanging onto the martial artist’s branch-like arm less than a handful of days hence. “I guess I can’t stay here later tonight,” she wheezes. “For Racheal’s thingie, I mean.”
“Her initiation,” Arne corrects the younger teen as he grips the doobie between his chipped teeth; Ram’yana cautions the new tribe member against further disclosure with a stern glance. “Charmayne said you could go to see a movie marathon with her – and Joe,” he tells the girl. He notices Arne and Crystal simultaneously glance at the American G.I., and as he mentions the man’s name Joe’s unmistakably accented voice booms through the wall of interlaced music and boisterous noise; “Well, ah don’ know that ah have th’ time to travel that far right now – but thanks fer th’ offer, man!”
‘Oh, dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light…; “She really blew it that time, as thou knowest.”; “Oh, it’s not so far – we could have you back here from the land of Mullumbimbi Madness in four or five days…”; “Of course the CIA and MI6 kicked Whitlam out – what did ye think? Drug Anthony was their made man…”; “Why not take the moose by the horns and beard the beast in its den?”; “Avast, varlet! Bring not that vile home brewed Retsina anywhere near the vicinity of mine goblet!”; ‘The dark lord rides in force tonight and time will tell us all…’
Kha-Aan bangs his goblet down on the makeshift round table like a mighty thunderclap. “Are you feeling all right?” Arne leans toward the prince with solicitous sympathy. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.” Ram’yana smiles at his young friend and ally - and newly revealed rival – with wan falsity as he hears Racheal’s earlier words vaguely echoed in Arne’s amiable voice. “I’ll brighten up,” he says as he meets
Joe responds to the bearded anarchist’s bait without missing a beat while Charmayne crosses her long denim-sheathed legs on the uniformed man’s lap; “Man, ain’t you heard?” We don’t have wars no more; jus’ ‘police actions’ - with helicopter gunships, supersonic bombers an’ lots of napalm and hi-x. No war no more, man. No-one wants t’take on Uncle Sam! Why you askin’? You wanna see some action?” His big teeth and dilated black eyes are suddenly the focus of attention in the crowded hall. “Where yo from, anyway?”
“You a commie, man?” The music supplants all conversation in the momentary silence that follows the Negro’s challenging question; ‘Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all…’ The Cold Wanderer makes his move and glances up to return his fellow North American’s leveled stare. “No.” Charmayne cuts in, interrupting their conversation before the Canadian can dig a deeper hole for himself, while she kneads Joe’s thick thigh with her long-nailed hand. “He’s an anarchist.”
‘I hear the horses thunder down in the valley below…’ Kha-Aan’s voice resounds through the hall: “An anarchist? Why, that’s Nestor Makhnov himself, reborn!” Joe’s eyes narrow and he turns to his host as the Centraxian lord continues. “Though I’m sorry to say our general has sworn an oath of personal pacifism, and isn’t permitted to respond to the call of the code duello – not even to defend his honour.” He frowns at the Cold Wanderer for an instant and gives the tribesman the subtle admonitory hand signal that means ‘be fully immersed in thy role’.
Joe grabs a tall brown beer bottle from the table as he eyes the Cold Wanderer. “Keep playin’ yer games, friend.” He slings an arm around Charmayne’s hips and drains the last of the longneck. The mumbling murmur of conversation resumes while the prince glances beyond the speaker boxes mounted beneath the psychedelic rainbows and haphazardly painted symbols of the squat’s high ceiling. He wonders if he should return upstairs to help assuage his emotionally ravaged young lady’s indubitable distress.
‘I’m waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow.’
‘The apples of the valley hold the seeds of happiness…’
“She said she’d be down soon,” Ram’yana replies as the redhead’s tiny fingers slip into the gaps between the prince’s bare toes. As he stares at the pretty pixie the convolutedly-minded shaman recalls the many hours he’s invested in learning to visualise a three dimensional object and rotate it in his mind, as an essential part of his early magical training. A popularist paperback tome he’d perused had advised making use of an object that contained no intrinsic emotional loading or inference, and the book had given the example of a box of matches.
‘The ground is rich from tender care, repay, do not forget, no, no…’
The fifteen year-old runaway magician had selected the nearest box at hand and practiced embedding its form and substance in the field of his awareness, viewing the matchbox from all angles as a projected thought-form in his internal mindscape; the image on the cover had been that of a beautiful redhead in profile. Ram’yana smiles at the young girl he’s so recently bedded; her fingertips stroke his calf muscle while her muscular new boyfriend caresses her nipple with a meaty wandering hand. Arne reaches all the way into the wide gap between the flaps of the Lady Racheal’s bolero jacket to manhandle
As the red-haired girl winks at the prince an idea lodges within the shifting sands of his increasing inebriation; The matchbox’s cover must have been fixed in my mind - is that the reason for this raging lust I feel whenever I see this fey little redhead? He winks back at her. I’ve already met my match, he thinks, glancing at the stairwell, but… There’s no denying the girl’s fey beauty; he swallows a sip of champagne while the gorgeous wee pixie stares into his eyes and licks her scarlet lips with wanton suggestiveness.
Judging by the glances her naked bosom garners from the other Centraxians and their various guests in the crowded longhall, the prince surmises that he isn’t alone in his appreciation of the girl’s alluring femininity. The half drunk and completely stoned girl steams and seethes within the emerging tide of radiant teenage sexuality that infuses her delightful form. The luminescence of her beautiful features and bouncing breasts are an irresistible magnet that draws flickering stares from throughout the longhall. The girl’s diminutive half-nude perfection and the irrepressibly radiant enthusiasm of her enticing personality enthrall most of the males present – and not a few of the other women and girls.
‘The apples turn to brown and black, the tyrant’s face is red…’
“Haven’t ye heard?” Nathan the Marcon is in full-throated role. The irascible tribal Justice slaps Arne on the shoulder. “The slogan says, ‘Make love, not war!’ – not ‘make war some more.’ Forget all that Kung Fu malarkey – it’s useless in a real barney. When yer not so busy I’ll show ye how t’fight fair and square.”
‘Oh the war is common cry, pick up your swords and fly…’
In a wordless answer to his importunate question,
‘The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know…’
“I wouldn’t take anything from you – and certainly not after you’ve finished with it,” the Marcon declares in his inebriated Welsh brogue. “Never know where it’s been. Besides, she ain’t yours to offer – and she looks a wee bit fragile to me; a little under-ripe.””
“She isn’t mine to offer – and I still say she’s old enough,” Arne demurs while his large hands completely conceal
‘Oh well, the night is long and the beads of time pass slow, tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow…’
“Fuck me dead,” a friend of a friend declares as he watches the teens roll around onto one of the low batik-covered mattresses lining the walls.
‘The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath…’
“I dunno,” the blonde surfie dissembles on his companion’s behalf. “I don’t think so…” He pulls the ring-top from a cold gold can. Nathan leans closer and exhales a cloud of hashish that surrounds the stranger. “Well I could’ve sworn I saw you at the
‘The drums will shake the castle wall, the ring wraiths ride in black, ride on…’
The stranger’s friend intervenes; “Hey, man, is this a party or what? Here,” he says, passing a can to the Marcon. “Take it easy, man – we don’t want any hassles.” Nathan takes the beer and places it on the rug unopened.
Ram’s ears prick up and his eyes sidle from
‘Sing as you raise your bow, shoot straighter than before.
No comfort has the fire at night that lights the face so cold…’
Nathan leans back and sucks on the chillum while the strangers eye each other uncertainly. When the Marcon realises the pipe has gone out he holds it out toward Arne. “Time for a refill,” he proclaims to the besotted young man – who is currently exploring Crystal’s tonsils with his long thick tongue; his hand is fully outlined within her borrowed pink hotpants. His fingers slide in and out, out and in, in time with the red-haired girl’s gasps. Half the room is staring at the coupling teens, who seem entirely unaware of the attention their shameless display is attracting – or of the inspiring effect their lovemaking has already had on Joe and Charmayne, who kiss and cuddle inside the upholstered arms of an oversized lounge chair.
“Anyway,” the Marcon says, turning back to the cross-legged pair of seated visitors - who haven’t taken their eyes off the canny Welshman. “It’s almost time for you fellows to be leaving.” He turns and smiles at Ram’yana. “Ain’t your girlfriend expected down soon?”
“The Lady Racheal is attending to important matters,” the prince avers. Now that he knows the Marcon has singled the strangers out as potential police informers he’s glad no transactions have taken place between Joe and the squatters while they’ve been present. The men glance at each other and stand as one before striding out of the longhall without another word, hastily departing via the rear entrance of the Centraxian compound.
“Ha!” The Marcon laughs without mirth. He nudges Arne’s ribs with the chillum and the lad rolls off his little lover and brushes his long blonde fringe from his eyes with sticky moist fingers. Nathan leans toward him. “They knew they was outnumbered!” he guffaws. Arne’s mouth is smeared with lipstick as he sits up and takes the chillum from the older Centraxian. “Who?” he asks. “Is someone looking for trouble?”
“Never mind.” The Marcon shakes his head. “Pack some more spinach in me pipe, there’s a good lad.” The tribal Justice lifts his weary mask to face the prince and his eyes twinkle while he regards his erstwhile protégé. He reaches for a passing bottle of tequila. “It’s about eleven now – and we’re due to start at midnight, ain’t we? That’s when Fifi said the planets will be arranged just right - ain’t that so?”
“Aye,” the prince agrees with monosyllabic simplicity as his eyes lift toward the ceiling. He relives the moment when he first reacted to the stunning news his loving Lady had delivered, when she whispered her unexpected secrets into his unprepared soul while they lay in their queen-sized bed…
A true story
Lyrics – The
Images – author’s & Arcanum XV from the Thoth Tarot deck by Lady Frieda Harris
Further true tales of the Prince of Centraxis -
And for further enlightenment see
The New Illuminati - http://newilluminati.blog-city.com/
The Her(m)etic Hermit http://hermetic.blog.com/
Save the World from RamPage - 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. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites - you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a small donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com