Crossed Swords
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
The swinging
In the days before an adequate welfare safety net has been securely strung beneath the recession era’s castaway crew of laid off workers, hopelessly unemployable vagabonds, destitute retirees, single mothers and starving students, the district’s residents scratch out a livelihood however they can. Tax-free cash-in-hand economies prevail in the most underprivileged climes. Underground economies nourish the underprivileged and an underground stream of inspiration waters the arid hopes and desiccated dreams of the hungry and homeless. A new generation of hippies has joined the aging beatnik poets of the inner east, and they celebrate their new unfettered freedoms in every way imaginable.
The never ending party (and concomitant eternal hangover) is mainly restricted to a neon-centred circle of jasmine-scented stately homes and brick-walled blocks of pre-modern flats. The rest of the city is constrained within an outdated monocultural straightjacket of workaholic conformity, but the precinct known as Kings Cross is a crossover point between many different lifestyles and realities. While daylight’s bright metronome slowly ticks across the sky, hordes of Munchkins ply their workaday trades in the busy streets and byways. During the hours of darkness a very different nightlife emerges onto the well-worn roads and laneways - and most everyone wears smoky dark glasses which obscure the naked windows of their curiously shy or purposefully battened-down souls.
Crowds flock to the brightly-lit strip of subterranean strip joints, second-storey pool halls and brothels, and ground level goldfish bowl bars. Polyester-suited businessmen rub shoulders with street walkers who service the eternally replenishing needs of uniformed servicemen and frustrated suburbanites. Their appraising smiles flash through thick pancake makeup, which covers bruises bestowed upon their painted faces by gangster pimps and other wannabe bully-boy alpha males. The ladies of the night sashay on speed or loiter in the thrall of smack, studding the red-light streetscape with their flamboyantly entrepreneurial presences.
Poets, artists, musicians and actors share the old surrounding dockside suburbs with the shrinking remnants of a proud working class. They follow their muses through a low-rent and no-rent district full of opportunists pursuing a miasma of opportunities - and every activity is overseen by various competing and corruptible agencies of the ubiquitous boys in blue.
This maelstrom of inequitable iniquity is focused within the confines of two small valleys arrayed around a single sandstone ridge, where an asterix of roads forms the locus of the legendary Cross. The once verdant vales descend in sweeping arcs toward the viridian harbour, their restructured rectilinear surfaces framing a hotbed of ruddily lit enterprises and tawdry domestic dramas.
Very few of the urbane municipality’s denizens are aware of the landform that slumbers beneath the scabrous mantle of bricks, mortar, steel and cement which comprises their waking reality. Most are deaf to the whispering spirits of the land and blithely unaware of snatches of trans-planar discourse which resonate through the stones and bones of the dreaming Earth. Some of the mythic district’s inhabitants are cognizant of the endless communication of evanescent yet eternal beings – agencies who dream of freedom from the fetters of the colonizing termite people that drift across the surface of their world with eyes wide shut.
Wiccans, magicians and friends of the Earth come in all stripes and creeds; some are allies or missionaries of foreign gods while others follow the agendas of more localised deities. It’s obvious to the land’s indigenous people that the harmony of aeons is disturbed by the mindless bustle of a self-absorbed overpopulation of usurpers. Anciently patient spirits are loath to bear the burden of the insectile supplanters’ populous hollow mounds. The myriad hominid artefacts which infest the hill-homes and sweet dells of slumberous ancestral entities are a pestilence, but a temporary one; the end of any civilization is foreordained within the tainted seeds of its builders’ mythological religions. The builders of Oz have constructed their houses and temples on unstable ground, prone to regularly recurring destruction and inundation; their dreams have been built on shifting sands.
The larval white-skinned human population dreams universally prescribed dreams, enclosed within topsy-turvy womb-tombs - agglomerated surreal creations that have sprouted from their ancestral primate cave-dwelling fantasies. Everything the city-dwellers see, hear or touch is a construct of the human mind made concrete. They move from chamber to chamber inside a vast three dimensional maze of artificial caverns, without ever being exposed to a single purely natural form or being. Much of their time is spent in indoor retreat, isolated from the last vestiges of their transformed natural surrounds; they stare with fixed passivity into ersatz glowing windows that open onto the ever-changing panoply of other people’s fantasies. The newly arrived colour screens are particularly mesmerising for the termite people of the latter second millennium. They’ll gladly spend an entire month’s or season’s salary to obtain one, and will then spend most of the free time of their lives staring blankly into a hypnotically buzzing rectangle.
Even when the they see and touch each other - or the narrow range of reshaped living creations they allow to coexist with them in their massive hives - the Munchkins of Oz and the Good People of Kansas are seeing or touching flesh, blood and bone which has been subtly or grossly altered by the conscious and serendipitous artifice of their industrious species. Yet all the biological breeding and genetic tinkering that domesticated primates have explored is but a reflexive reiteration of the artistry and happenstance inherent in their own creation.
Sedentary humans settled into their current state of static ‘progress’ through a muddled transformation. The pliable primates underwent a series of meddlesome interferences throughout their existence on the long-suffering globe. They were subjected to subtle and gross manipulations by six-fingered or four-digited hands of external agencies, possessed of widely differing ethics and agendas; even versions of their own five-fingered future selves had a hand in their reconstruction.
Non-human and post-human beings ultimately delivered human primates from nomadic lives in an idyllic
Humans and their domesticated plants and animals are the products of imaginations which have straightened and twisted their universally oriented malleable protoplasm, turning multifaceted beings into simpler tools with specific mundane functions. Wild, free-willed and vitally living creatures have been fashioned into domesticated forms which diverge from their naturally evolved antecedents, until they’re often barely recognisable from their ancestral lines.
Chihuahuas, sausage dogs, Afghan hounds and Irish setters all come from the same basic stock and are one single species, still capable of fruitfully interbreeding with their progenitor wolves – or reverting back into the same primal form in the fullness of time. The same fearsome killer canines that dogged humankind from the dawn of their nomadic existence are cuddlesome companions while their primate ‘masters’ keep them fattened and docile – but one day their true carnivorous natures will emerge and they’ll hound the human tribes and gnaw at their children’s bones once again. A dog’s apparent domestication is merely a thin veneer stretched tautly cross inborn dormant needs, awaiting the prime time for their expression and satiation.
The same can be said for all the races of human beings in the current post-glacial world – but their ultimate progenitors remain elusively obscure, despite all the delving and digging of patient paleontologists. The domesticated primates of the late second millennium have been altered as thoroughly as their pets by their own predilections and imaginations – and by the long-range machinations of unseen presences. Beings possessed of extraordinarily long-term viewpoints and plans channel Humanity’s progress down predetermined routes with hamstringing fetters, hypnotic mental blinkers and subtly rutted tracks. Naturally, those who have been so altered and guided have little notion of their own true natures, or of the workings of the invisible hand which binds and blinds them to the wider, wilder reality wherein unseen demiurges dwell and play games with purblind mayfly mortals.
“Hermes?” she’d repeated when the prince had uttered the Frenchman’s name. Her face had swum with an expressive series of unvoiced emotions. “Of course I know where he lives.” Racheal flicked a loose strand of blonde hair from her makeshift pallet of coagulating acrylic paints and glanced up from the glowing translucent screen of the animation desk. “Why?”
I want to get those photos back,” her lover had replied while he hung a swathe of drying paper sheets from a clutch of wooden clothespins. His lady dropped her brush into a chipped cup that was half filled with paint-stained water. She swung around on Ram’s swiveling piano stool to examine his features as he turned to face her. “Let’s forget about it,” she said, reaching for her ciggies.
The scene was vibrantly lucid in the tribal shaman’s mind, and the memory of his Lady Racheal’s innocuous dissembling had lodged within the cortexes of his holographic brain. He’d lit her up with a Redhead match and examined her work - the latest twelfth of a second of the detailed animation they were collaborating to create, during seemingly endless hours of caffeine-fuelled creativity. An extraordinarily dimensional visage of a wide-mouthed demonic face swirled across a fantasy streetscape, in a highly detailed scene which had taken Racheal only fifteen minutes to complete; the image was destined to last for a fraction of a second onscreen.
“I shan’t let him make off with them,” the prince had declared while his witchy wife crossed the loungeroom and turned on the radio. “Thou knowest him well…” Ram’yana had winced when he saw his lady-love’s reaction to his unsubtle comment, and paused to take measure of her reaction before he continued; “He might be willing to swap one set of negs for…”
“No way.” The Lady Racheal had forestalled his suggestion, before he could complete his reference to the photographic evidence of her drunken trysts with the opportunistic Frenchman and his anonymous friends. She’d turned up the volume and begun to dance barefoot from rug to rug, twisting and bopping to Chuck Berry’s twanging guitar in Ram’s harbourside apartment. “He has shots of me as well as thee,” Ram’yana reminded his oblivious young lady, speaking more loudly as he removed a copious supply of seeds from a handful of buds. “And soon I’ll be working full time – and mayhap shall be too busy...”
The Centraxian High Priestess had turned to him with a dubious expression on her beautiful face; “I’ll believe that when I see it.” As she’d spun around on the spot her thin gown flew open to reveal her bouncing breasts; she moved into a patch of late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the tall wide leadlight windows of the living room. Her ploy failed to distract the perspicacious young prince; he’d simply nodded at the building next door, where a set of equally large windows opened directly onto the girl’s exhibitionist display. “Certainty’s always better than belief,” she said as the Watusi segued into the Traffic Cop, which slowly transformed into the Scuba.
Ram’yana glanced down to ensure that the mull bowl and bong were out of view while his young woman practiced old ‘60s dance steps to the classic rock and roll tracks, blaring from the oversized walnut cabinet of the antique A.M. radio. “The neighbours won’t know what to believe,” he’d replied. Racheal had simply slipped the dressing gown from her angular shoulders and begun dancing skyclad before the sunny window. The garment had pooled around her feet on the floor while she watched the couple next door eat their evening meal in their conservatively appointed loungeroom. “So what?” she murmured as she twirled in front of the window. “They’re digging it.”
When Ram’yana had leant forward to glance through the window he saw that the middle-class couple was neglecting their dinner while their widening eyes were intently focused on his lady’s distracting display. He’d leaned back and packed a cone with a theatrically deep sigh, inserting straight treated black hash into the head of the ceramic wizard’s oversize staff. The young shaman watched his hippy bride cavort before the well-dressed strangers while he drew a lungful of smoke through the pointy cap of the bong. He felt his ever ready youthful arousal stirring between his thighs, and wondered how far he and his lady should stretch the pedestrian naiveté of their neighbours’ suburban voyeurism.
Racheal skipped from the window and knelt by his side while the sound of bubbling bong water filled the artistically decorated and elaborately painted apartment. She fingered the silver pentacle seal of Hermes Trismegistus that hung suspended about Ram’s slender neck. “Give me a shotgun,” she’d commanded while her hand slipped beneath his robe and she kneaded his fuzzy thigh; he’d bent down to meet her mouth and breathed a gush of smoke into her expanding lungs while Chuck Berry was supplanted by the sonorous tones of Oldfield’s Tubular Bells.
The Lady Racheal’s hand slipped upward and wrapped around the object of her desire, and a smoky outpouring of breath warmed Ram’s loins in preparation for the tropical heat of her sumptuous lips and enveloping mouth. She licked his full erection with the entire curling length of her talented tongue - eliciting an unrestrainedly loud moan from her young prince - before her gorgeous kissable lips stretched around his girth and squeezed down and around. Using the individualistic technique she’d acquired and developed over the last year and a half of endless lovemaking, the teenage temptress teased her lover toward climax without using her hands.
Even as he gloried in his lover’s silken textured sultriness, the prince’s mind had flashed to the events of the previous few days and nights. When she’d returned to his apartment - two days after leaving him sleeping in the bed of his friendly rival - Ram’yana had feigned ignorance of the things she’d done with them both while all three were totally drunk and heavily drugged. He hadn’t mentioned the deeply intimate acts they’d all performed together, and they hadn’t discussed those she’d committed without him while he’d lain beside her.
The Centraxian prince awaited his wayward bride’s absolving confession with a mixture of anxiety and annoyance. Mayhap she truly doesn’t remember… He prayed she’d be honest and reveal what he already knew, but was filled with vague uncertainty: Is it possible she doesn’t even suspect? How could she not remember that? Ram’s concerns soon dissolved into revelry as he became absorbed within the succour of his Lady Racheal’s sumptuous mouth.
The High Priestess had pleasured her mate into a groaning state of bliss with the blood-hot interior surfaces of her slick silken mouth. She’d swallowed him deeply into the vessel of her tightly clamping throat muscles, only disgorging him when she succumbed to the intermittent need for oxygen or hashish. She’d taken her time and stopped well before her young man came - merely lubricating his shaft for an easier entry, before she climbed astride his hips on the rotating wooden stool. The teenage beauty had slowly nestled upon the soft flesh surmounting the summit of Ram’s rigid young manhood and eased her sultry elastic seam down around him, inch by glorious inch.
The priestess’s extraordinarily responsive loins were even more deliciously dextrous than her oracular mouth. Just as the pubic curls of the teenage lovers’ began to mingle in a damp sweaty tangle, a loud rapping on the apartment’s lion-headed brass knocker echoed down the hall, filling the lounge with its intrusive clamour. “Oh, fuck,” Racheal had cried from the brink of fulfillment.
“Come in!” the prince had called as she’d yelled out “Come inside!” After a scintillating moment Racheal began to rock her hips with an ever-quickening tempo, unfazed by the prospect of being caught in a naked posture of flagrant carnal delight with her handsome young man. As the front door creaked open she reached behind Ram’yana to lift his robe around his shoulders and extricate a towel from the stool beneath his flanks. She’d wrapped the small piece of toweling around her breasts and settled down upon his lap; the ragged fringe barely dangled past her navel. The teenage priestess suppressed a deep-bellied groan as her lover jostled against her cervix, while a pair of reassuringly bare feet padded toward them down the hallway.
The woman who entered through the archway resembled a cross between a Native Amerindian and a deeply tanned female Himalayan shaman. A cloth-covered bundle was clasped in her long-fingered hands and she settled her burden onto the floorboards as her steady gaze lit upon the lovers. “Alion!” Racheal had cried as she hugged her man closer. She settled around his length while he caressed her sleek thighs and softly firm round cheeks. “Awa Ken! Welcome to the new pad!”
The slightly older woman’s only reaction to finding the lovers so intimately engaged had been the crinkling of her eyes as she uttered the ritual Centraxian reply; “Awa Ken, Mon Ken.” The Lady Alion beamed her unabashedly delighted grin down upon the tantrically joined teens as she reached into a voluminous velvet bag. Her raiment was covered with embroidered Tibetan images of clouds that matched the steamy swirls of Himalayan mist depicted on her huge handbag. “’Tis good to see you’re both in the pink.” She’d winked as she tossed a plastic sandwich bag onto the low table beside the wizard bong. “And I brought another housewarming present for thee,” she’d announced, bending to unwrap the cloth-shrouded bundle. The carefully unfolded wrappings revealed an intricately wrought lampshade, covered with a hexagonal crystalline webbing of coloured glass beads. Glittering starlets of rainbow colours were carefully arranged into detailed geometric patterns that flowed around a skeletal wire frame.
“Just what we needed,” the prince had averred, nodding toward the bare light bulb hanging above their heads from the elaboration of a psychedelically painted ceiling rose. “’Tis beautiful,” his Lady had agreed. Racheal’s barely covered close-pressed flesh pulled back from Ram’s torso and the towel slipped from her skin when she reached for the gift. The other woman scarcely registered the young priestess’s nudity; Alion had seen them naked on many previous occasions, and had observed the younger couple making love during wild parties in the old Centraxian Compound. She’d also witnessed them engaging in flagrantly revealing Tantric practices within the quartzite circles of the mountain sanctuary of the Group – the populous circle of magicians known as the Dawn of Ra, whose seal Ram’yana wears around his slim neck – and in other semi-public places.
As well as a being a member of the Court of Centraxis, Alion was an Initiate of the Group; as such, the committed Buddhist mage was no longer required to wear a seal to Hermes-Thoth. The prince was still a humble neophyte who still required the protective guidance of the silver talismanic shield – which was also a beacon to those in the know; magicians and witches from other circles, who tested the Dawn of Ra neophytes at every opportunity. Three short months remained before Ram’s initiation ritual at the harbourside temple of the populous Group, after which he’d be free to take hallucinogenic drugs once again. Meanwhile, the only joints or bongs available to him were comprised of the holy smoke of alchemically treated substances, which had been harmonised and transformed by various friendly initiates.
The Lady Alion’s presence was welcome at any time – even whilst the prince’s pre-come was lubricating the entrance to his Lady’s furnace-hot womb. Racheal held the beaded mantle over her head and peered at the initiate through a hexagonal rainbow veil. “And ’tis covered with images of the Centrax! It must have taken thee days,” the teenage artist had opined.
“Two weeks, actually,” Alion had replied as she descended onto a cushion and folded her hairy legs into full lotus position. “Try the Djinnegah – ’tis a treated batch, fresh out of the pyramid; Netzach, in fact. Should be appropriate for what thou art engaged in. I’ll mull some up.” A decision had been reached by convocation of the Group’s initiates and adepts at the previous equinoctial Tiphareth Festival; as a result, pre-initiates such as Ram’yana had recently been allowed to smoke alchemically treated marijuana, along with their long-standing allowance of treated hashish.
“How didst thou find us?” Racheal asked through the beaded veil while she leant across to pass the bowl. She pulled halfway from Ram’s engorgement as his hands settled upon her thinly upholstered hipbones. “This flat’s very hard to find…” As she slid back into position the teenagers sighed in unison. “…for most people.”
Alion had replied without lifting her gaze as she began crushing heads into the bowl. “Wanderer told me you were living in this suburb, so I just followed my nose.” Racheal lifted one leg and turned around on her lover’s fulsome mast with a delicious twisting squirm, to face their Centraxian guest more directly. Another sigh escaped her lips as she settled back into Ram’s enfolding arms and wrapped his robe about her shoulders. “The suburb?” she’d asked in surprise, while she pressed down around his erection and nestled more deeply into his furry lap. “Sure,” Alion said, and her gaze rose to meet the young priestess’ strangely mixed expression; a quizzical frown swam across the vibrant surface of Racheal’s lustful bliss, twisting her brow behind the hexagonal headdress. “I just drove around in the Kombi until I saw a place that felt like it was the one…”
“But this apartment isn’t even visible from the street,” Racheal had objected while her prince’s hands covered the pendant globes of her exposed breasts. “How could you have possibly known?” Alion met her incredulous stare through the beaded veil. “As I said, I followed my nose.” The clairvoyant initiate tilted her face into profile and displayed her impressive hooked beak to the younger magicians. “’T’was obvious, my dears. Now why don’t you forget about me and fuck for a while, while I make tea? Then we can sit in the sunroom and talk.”
When Ram’yana had finally left for work at the
“We’ll discuss Hermes later,” Ram’yana had said, and Alion had glanced up at the younger mage with a quizzical frown while Racheal had hunched over her cards. A strangely livid sensation passed through him as he mentioned the Frenchman’s name, accompanied by a vivid vision of their impromptu ménage in Racheal’s dilapidated squat. He suddenly recalled the other man’s rigidity sliding past his own, through the thin hot walls of his Lady’s straining vaginal sheath and her tautly stretched rectal membrane. The sensation had been so arousing – as he’d woken within Racheal’s supine body while Hermes had entered her– that it had veritably burned itself into his nervous system. How much of that does she remember? He wonders. She was way out on sleeping pills…
As he leaned against the apartment’s doorjamb, the young shaman tried to collect the threads of his unreeling mind into the loosely woven net of his distracted awareness. “See you soon, love,” Racheal had called after him as the swimming vision of illicitly shared ecstasy filled his mind with its ineluctable memory. “Awa Ken.”
“Awa Ken, Mon Ken.” As he stepped out the door he was transported to a warmly tender place where the delectable scent of his beloved and the familiar sensation of her succulent flesh enfolded his befuddled senses in an ardent multi-sensory memory. The vivid reality of their tryst with the Frenchman continued to burn into his soul with a searing physicality, and as Ram’yana re-entered the suburban dreaming world a viscerally lucid sensation aroused his spinning mind and reflexively hardening loins. If she truly doesn’t remember, should I tell her what we did? As he climbed the stone stairs to the street the prince recalled the more recent disturbing events of their shared night in Renondal’s apartment, and relived them in resplendent multi-sensorial reverie while the ferryman steered him across the rolling liquid field of the emerald harbour.
“Man!” A loud voice confides while Ram’s slumbering head slowly rises and falls upon the substantive pillow of his Lady Racheal’s breast. “This horny young fox ’f yours’s a fantashtic fuck – almos’ ’mazing enough to turn me ’way from boys. Well,” the voice slurs as a head jostles against the young shaman’s and a mouth begins to suck on his unmoving bride’s full breast, “almost…”
Ram’yana is all but lost amidst a swirling vortex of numbed flesh and smearing senses. “I might even keep her,” the other man’s voice rambles on. As he tries to differentiate between whose slippery hard flesh is doing what inside whom, one of Ram’s eyes gradually opens to a blindingly bright blurry image. He tries to focus upon an indeterminable face that’s suffused with a barely translucent golden haze, and watches a stubbly visage sucking and licking Racheal’s sleek pale skin scant inches away from his bleary eye. The slurring drunken voice is vaguely familiar and his slowly rousing awareness hones in on the more easily decipherable sounds, rather than the blurry image. “Oh,” the man says while Ram’yana attempts to swallow. Alcohol-scented breath washes over the prince as a barely perceived pair of eyes glitter at him through the brightly glazed veil. “You’re awake…”
Am I? Who… Ram’yana wonders. Hermes? The confused shaman squints into a beam of blazing sunlight and tries to recall where his is, and how he came to be lying beside and inside his naked, slippery, come-soaked bride while another man… Renondal? “’Course I am,” Racheal whispers as the taut rings of her slippery labia squeeze tightly around Ram’s blazing erection. Multiple legs are tangled together around the juncture of her loins and his rigid shaft is deeply embedded inside the young woman’s smoothly shaven vagina. When the Centraxian High Priestess clamps around him with all the torrid fury of her disconcerting inner strength, the prince’s Lady has never felt as amazingly snug and tight in all the moons of their passionate lovemaking.
He suddenly feels a more truly disconcerting and utterly unfamiliar movement inside his bride’s distended musculature. He’s shocked from stuporous semi-consciousness by the flagrantly arousing tactility of another man’s flesh moving within his teenage mate - squeezing alongside his unmoving erection within the intimate vice-like grip of Racheal’s unprecedentedly taut interior. “Ohh fuckk… ohh!” She groans into his ear and her tongue swiftly follows the deafening roar that accentuates Ram’s stunned surprise.
Squeezed inside her with him? The teenage prince realizes the truth when he feels the other man’s hardness slide against his erection. He feels the slightly older man’s almost identically proportioned slick heat glide up along his rigid shaft, squeezed incredibly close to his swollen cock by Racheal’s straining vagina. The elastic band of her entryway is a burning ring of liquid fire, stretched more tautly around his girth than he’s ever experienced. Who? “Uhh… Oh, Rae…” His numbed lips stumble over the name; “Rache…” Her slender legs are hoisted up to provide the men with easy access to her hairless loins; Ram’s body is curled around his witchy wife’s curvaceous silken surfaces as he snuggles inside her.
A second glance at the other man’s blurry features allows the numbly drifting teenager to determine who it is that’s fucking his wife with him; Renondal’s cock is pressed viscerally close to his morning glory by the incredibly tight, steamily hot satin enfoldment of his Lady’s utterly distended loins. Racheal is crammed completely full; her muscles and membranes are stretched to their extraordinarily straining limits by two well-matched lengths of rigidly aroused masculine flesh and blood. Ram’s lover has always been so satisfyingly tight that he wouldn’t have believed it was possible for her to accommodate two males at once – especially two well-endowed ones – if he wasn’t actually experiencing the extraordinarily reality of their ménage.
Ram’yana tries to caress his lady’s softly supine body when she begins rocking around Renondal’s slowly gliding cock, but his hands don’t obey his directions. The shaman swims in and out of convergent streams of semi-consciousness, barely able to move and hardly able to feel his drug-numbed body as he shares Racheal’s deepest mysteries with his insistent older rival. As the drug-fucked girl’s hips rock in automatic reaction to Renondal’s self-absorbed and absorbing fucking, Ram’s rock-hard erection slithers through the sticky vice of Racheal’s tautly stretching young womanhood while she groans in his ear.
As he fumbles through the miasma of his numbed senses and clotted brain, Ram’yana finds he can rock his pelvis. He begins to glide alongside the other man’s cock, feeling the elating rings of his lover’s elastic musculature swell around Renondal’s mushrooming crown as it slides up and down against his own shaft. He attempts to focus on Racheal’s flushed, perspiration-drenched face while masculine hands hold her come-drenched thighs wide and press her knees up into her breasts, dislodging Ram’s head. He strokes her flushed skin while he fucks her alongside the other man; his chest slides against her hot sweaty body and her nipples are rigid beneath his palms.
“Oh fuck,” she murmurs, “Ohh Ramses…” The young priestess’s tongue snakes toward her prince while both the equally besotted male magi glide all the way up inside her belly, locked together in an awe-inspiring tandem ride through the Lady Racheal’s straining teenage vulva. Ram’yana suckles on his bride’s tongue and she groans mightily into his mouth when both her admirers move inside her as one. They almost slip from her silken membranes when Renondal shifts around behind her and the full slick length of Racheal’s slim flesh is pressed between their hard male bodies. The drugged and drunken priestess moans and squirms as the men jostle inside her, before they all settle into a counterpoint rhythm that allows the horny intoxicated males even deeper access to the gorgeous girl’s smooth vice-like interior.
Renondal grunts his passion into Racheal’s long blonde mane as his hands enfold her breasts. He moans irreverently as he jams his long cock deep inside the girl; “You tasty little female fuckin’ sandwich.” It’s hard to tell where one of the trio begins and the other ends; while Ram’s body fucks his mate with long deep thrusts – his movements automatically attuned to the rocking of Racheal’s hips, and the tidal motion of her other lover - his thoughts swirl and fall apart within a sensuous miasma of blazing, all-engulfing raw sensation. He’s unable to marshal his mind from the fragments that orbit their copulating sweaty bodies; he can barely control his limbs.
While Renondal’s hands wander across the lovers’ interlocked teenage flesh, Ram’yana idly wonders whose come is squelching around inside the slippery seam of his semi-conscious young bride. He lies on his side facing the older man over her shoulder, and watches him lift and straighten one of her unresisting legs higher; Renondal places Racheal’s ankle over Ram’s angular shoulder and her toes wriggle in his long dark hair while her tongue wetly laps at his lips. He feels Racheal’s loins swivel around him as the larger man picks her hips up off the bed and twists her around their rock-hard cocks, screwing them both with the priestess’s swirling vagina.
Renondal’s insistent manhandling propels the moaning girl’s quim around Ram’s swollen teenage manhood. The arousing unfamiliarity of her completely smooth vagina entrances the young mage. She milks his shaft with an inexorable grip that presses the men together inside the foaming embrace of her clamping muscles. While Ram’yana sucks on her tongue and Renondal licks her dog-collared neck, they both squirm around inside her rocking pelvis and fondle her entire body with four ravenously questing hands. They stretch the thoroughly inebriated and always adventurous girl’s straining muscular membranes until they’ve literally worked her up into a screaming, panting, semi-conscious lather.
Is she screaming with pleasure or pain? Ram’yana ponders the question while he observes his semi-supine body fucking the drugged and drunken Centraxian High Priestess with the apparently endless vigour of horny youthful enthusiasm. Both males begin to glide through her clenching vulva in a more tender harmony of counterpoint, and the shaman is soon certain that they have her screaming for all the right reasons. Yet even as he begins to suckle on Racheal’s nipple and Renondal’s lips slide across the side of her tightly swollen breast, the young prince can’t keep his eyelids from slipping shut. Despite the ultimately arousing sight and sensations of his orgasmic bride surrendering to unbridled self-impalement by two rampant hard cocks, the strange drugs coursing through Ram’s system draw him down toward a warm numb pit of womb-like bliss.
His swiftly fading awareness is deliriously focused on sucking Racheal’s swollen nipple and caressing her slippery writhing body. He becomes completely absorbed in the incredibly strong taut silkiness stretched around his engorged erection and the arousing strange sensation of another man fucking his witch-wife alongside him. His lady comes in a screaming flurry of flailing limbs and lashing hair and he feels the unmistakable warning bells and whistle-stop signs, as the freight train of his oncoming orgasm begins roaring along the twin tracks of his roots, racing to streak through the wide open mouth of Racheal’s fully engorged tunnel of love.
“I’m coming,” he gasps into his bride’s breast as his balls contract against the other man’s smooth scrotum. “Me too,” Renondal grunts, and before the shaman or priestess can articulate a protest he moves inside her with a sudden haste. All three gasp in sensuously overwrought surprise when Ram’s rivalrous friend suddenly slips his long cock from Racheal’s flexible vulva.
The sensation sets off a flowering explosion that bursts from the teenage prince’s balls and soaks his screaming lover’s womb in creamy fluids while his mind spins off its precarious axis. He disappears into a blinding ball of searing white light as he fills Racheal’s tight crevices with billions of eagerly swimming spermatozoa, and they all begin to climb the ladder of life toward the core of her nubile young belly. She screams around Renondal’s tongue as her fingers knead Ram’s shoulder and dig into his rival’s throat.
The teenage mage’s sperm is still gouting inside his beloved’s reflexively clamping loins when Racheal screams even more loudly. She shrieks with absolute pleasure or agonizing pain when Ram feels the other man’s thick rigidity slide up against him again - once more encased within her flesh, but inside a very different tight enfoldment of Racheal’s incredible silken interior. It’s only a moment before he feels the hot pulsing spurts of Renondal’s own climactic explosion as his friend grunts his seeds into Ram’s young bride. While ecstasy transfigures the dissolving universe, the shaman dimly realizes that the bisexual man has jammed his exploding hard-on right up into Racheal’s virtually untried rear passage, filling her with a single long stab – and that her high-pitched shriek has ended as rapidly as it began.
“Oh, fuck,” Renondal declares as he strokes her long mane and glides through her rectum. “Oh fuck… ohh wow… oh man, what a fuckin’ female!” Ram’yana notices that his lady appears to have fainted dead away, from ecstasy, agony, shock - or simple drugged and drunken exhaustion. “You just grab at my cock,” the other man enthuses as he continues to slide through her come-soaked squelching quim. “So good to fuck her!”
The teenage prince is too blown away to move or reply. His undiminished erection is still embedded within his gasping young woman, and he lies close-pressed beside her as her breasts mash against his chest and her tongue slithers along his smooth jaw. Renondal moans with satisfaction and praises Ram’s beloved as his jism fills her rectum. “Oh, fuck! Feels even better now you’re awake…”
Ram’yana doesn’t know which of the teens the man is speaking to. He becomes caught up in the ultra-passionate sexual rush of their long-delayed yet impromptu ménage, and his mind slips in and out of focus around the flexible flesh of his athletic young wife. After an immeasurable nirvana of visceral sexual ecstasy his mind dissolves, while Renondal’s fingers glide around their sticky intertwined bodies as his lips slide along the undulating plains of Racheal’s firm flesh.
Ram’s drugged awareness repeatedly resurfaces, only to sink back through his drug-saturated fug, submerging beneath slowly lengthening waves of oblivion. At some point in the orgy – while Racheal is moaning, crying his name and gasping for breath in a mindless, cock-filled chaos of near hysteria – Ram’yana sinks into a blessed state of numbed blankness, wrapped up in all the screaming girl’s reflexively grasping limbs. He comes while her impassioned cries fill his ears, spurting his flaming seed inside the tightly clamped loins of his barely cognitive yet incessantly orgasmic young mate.
He comes almost as often as his demonstrative young nymph, who has been divested of her skimpy frock at some point in the eventful night. Her sole clothing is the studded leather collar around her shapely neck and a slight spangling of jewellery that adorns her perfect young body. Ram’s teenage tumescence never has a chance to fully soften before arousingly new sensations rekindle him to full engorgement. He floats in a blissful semi-waking dream of mesmerising pleasure while his Lady climbs athwart his body and uses his slumbering flesh with lusty abandon.
He watches Renondal’s long cock slide into Racheal’s beautiful mouth while he luxuriates inside the priestess’s come-filled seam. Ram’yana savours her intoxicating scent, her salty-sweet flavours and her vibrant nude embrace as she comes in a moaning cock-filled fit of spasm-riven flesh. He comes again with his mate while she groans and explodes into a bucking frenzy, gagging around Renondal’s long thrusting pole when he jams its full engorged length down into her throat.
Ram’yana drifts in and out of hazy semi-consciousness and the engrossed new lovers continue to fuck while their hands roam around his nude body. Racheal seems insistent that he stays with her through the incessant tag-team reaming, and her mouth sucks him back to randy readiness while the other man fucks her from behind. When he’s hard enough to suit her purposes, Racheal’s come-smeared breasts and belly slide against his body and her fingers cram him back where he belongs. Renondal samples all the teenage priestess’s orifices and membranes in turn, and slides his tongue around hers inside the recumbent shaman’s mouth.
When Racheal finally subsides and her breathing slows, Ram’yana comes to - lying beneath his young wife while her body is pressed down upon him by the other man’s overpowering weight. He feels his hard cock squeeze up inside her while Renondal continues to fuck her unresponsive flesh from behind. His friend screws the semi-somnolent cock-filled teen with the pent-up fury of his undiminished lust, and his cock slides up inside the groaning girl’s rectum and rubs against Ram’s as the prince fills her womb with creamy jism once more. Drugged exhaustion soon draws him down into torpid and tenebrous realms. His Technicolor dreams are punctuated by brightly livid half-glimpsed moments of sexual arousal and explosive fulfillment.
Dawn has become mid-morning by the time Ram’s eyelids attempt to open again. He tries to pry the heavy lids upward against a suddenly increased field of gravity, when Renondal’s cock slides up against his - and in a trice they’re both moving inside the come-slicked elastic seam of Racheal’s vagina once more. They fuck the girl with renewed vigour as she slowly rouses from her slumber, and the extremely High Priestess soon urges them on with loud wordless encouragements as her insatiable sexuality rides another wild wave of their recombining lust.
Renondal’s slips out and slicks his shaft with sticky lubricant jelly before he positions himself between her spread buttocks. He holds back his reentry into her straining quim until the moment when she comes while riding her prince to ecstasy – and Ram’s friend jams his cock up between her orgasmic clenching bum cheeks, instantaneously blasting his seed deep inside her steamy bowels.
The heated eruption sends the young prince into a discombobulated flurry of motion and four frantic male hands grab at Racheal’s breasts, flanks, hips and loins. Ram’s crown rubs up against the other man’s through the taut sheet of Racheal’s stretching rectum. The Wiccan girl groans as she rolls around atop her mate and her teeth tear into his smooth throat and chest while her nails claw at his sides. Renondal ensures his shaft remains embedded inside her clenching buttocks as he climbs atop the girl amidst the ongoing throes of his climax. He presses Racheal’s nakedness down onto Ram’s uncoordinated body and repeats his irreverent timeworn phrase; “Girl sandwich.”
The subject of their intermingling desires groans inarticulately as she sucks and bites a cerise pattern of galactic blotches along Ram’s pale throat. She bounces astride her half-conscious but fully aroused boyfriend while Renondal lifts her up and down her lover’s shaft with every long slow thrust of his swiftly rekindled erection. Racheal wriggles and withes between the larger male bodies, working her way around two hard rods that impale her from both directions at once - and she comes again in a screaming mindless rush while their hands rove across her enflamed, perspiration-drenched skin. Both men take complete possession of the receptive female and she falls into a helpless pile of moaning flesh, pressed closely between their insatiably stabbing lances. “Oh god oh fuck oh fuck,” she gasps through a numbed daze, “oh goddesh oh fuck o gods oyeshoyesoyes ohh FUCK ME!”
She surrenders to the imperative of their endless animalistic three-way rutting and screams at her captivated males through rasping breaths, exhorting the men to “Rub those fuckin’ firesticks t’gether,” and “God oh gods oh fuck oh fill me up!” She orders her intoxicated lovers to “Fuck yourselves inside me… Oh yeah…” She even screams, “Oh gods, fuck me to death!” She cries out both their names, one after another, and other names pour from her lips in a semi-conscious stream of expletive-saturated confession; “Fuck, oh fuck me like Arne!” she cries, and during a long interval of swearing and moaning she calls out the names “Joe!” and “Jesus!”, “Lucifer!”, “Kha-Aan!; then she calls, “Hermes!” before invoking an unraveling string of other familiar and unfamiliar identities and deities. The swooning priestess continues to reveal her secret fantasies and names her various lovers as she revels in the satisfaction of her long-suppressed desires. She mounts her equally drugged and drunken partners with an urgency Ram’s never witnessed, until she begins to faint away in a murmuring tide of pornographic ecstasies and her face falls heavily onto his chest.
Renondal’s hands wrap round her throat once more and his clamping grasp silences the fading tide of her vulgar outpourings. He squeezes Racheal’s neck, grinning as he cuts off her air with a terrifyingly convincing semblance of genuine strangulation. “Makes her even tighter,” he explains over her writhing shoulder to the exhausted Centraxian prince. Racheal’s aquamarine eyes bulge as Renondal lifts her upward, unsticking her sweat-slicked body from Ram’s torso. “Tighter and hornier…”
Ram’yana feels the proof of his statement when Racheal’s musculature clamps around him with renewed vigour and her body begins to buck and tremble from her core to her toes. The drugged shaman can barely keep his eyes open even when she begins thrashing, still impaled astride his unresponsive body - and a stream of hot fluid soaks his thighs when Renondal spreads the girl’s bum cheeks with deep plunging dives of his meaty rod. Spasms vibrate through the orgasmic girl’s writhing body and she pisses herself as he chokes the lights out of her. He throttles her in a literally overpoweringly erotic offering to his own self-servicing desire, and in service to Thanatos – to the knowledge that comes with the cold touch of death.
When Renondal slides out of her and his footsteps retreat into the apartment, the Lady Racheal gradually recovers from a swoon of genuine unconsciousness. Her swollen mouth searches the perspiring masculine flesh that lies beneath her sweaty body until she meets the lips of her barbiturate-dizzied prince. Ram’yana rouses to the familiar sensation and savours the welcome taste of her tongue exploring the interstices between his gums and teeth.
When Racheal mumbles a tremulous question into his mouth and her breasts mash against his chest, the shaman’s mind spins anew. His irrepressible teenage manhood hardens within her belly with his instantly refreshed desire. “Did it really happen?” she asks as her fingers explore her throat and neck. “Did he really do that?”
“I’m not sure,” Ram’yana murmurs in reply, trying to squirm away from the large cooling wet spot – and he comes to see that his lover has actually emptied her bladder in the desperate throes of her erotic asphyxiation, when Renondal’s capable hands had all but squeezed the life from her writhing orgasmic body. Her fingers examine her black-collared neck, where mouth-shaped hickies mar the pallid perfection of her skin and occlude any obvious bruising.
Neither of the utterly drugged and torpid teens can be completely certain whether the older man had merely feigned throttling her - as he jetted his semen inside her taut steamy depths, scant millimetres from the prince’s own utterly aroused orgasmic thrusts and voluminous creamy sprays. They’re uncertain whether the playwright was simply play acting the role of Racheal’s would-be executioner, while he earnestly sought the heights of sexual satisfaction in the spasmodic twitchings of her desperately panicking body.
Either way, the prince had been helpless to intervene as his beloved squirmed atop him, while the larger man had shot his wad inside the rear passageway of her fearfully suffocating body. “I don’t know,” the prince repeats indecisively as the room spins around him. He can barely turn his head, and vaguely remembers the little blue pills he’d taken by mistake the previous night. How could they have been so strong?
He wonders at the unprecedented torpor that suffuses almost every muscle in his entire body – save for the resurging tumescence that Racheal’s inward muscles are gently masticating, as he lies embedded within and beneath her – and barely manages to drape an arm over his lover’s back as the slowing pattern of her breathing signals her inexorable descent into somnolence. They fall asleep inside each other’s embrace, still inextricably linked in carnal bliss. The lovers drift in the exhausted aftermath of the ‘little death’, while distant voices beckon them to the vagrant shore of sweetly sex-charged shared dreamings.
Ram’yana next rouses to the smothered sounds and numbed sensations of his shrieking bride’s particularly prolonged orgasm as she comes astride his barely responsive body; the willful young woman has obviously ridden his resurrected erection to a dizzying climax while he slept inside her belly. She screams as she comes in the refulgent splendour of her necromantic fantasy, and her prince feels his Lady’s musculature trying to squeeze the jism from his somnolent roots as she grinds him all the way up into her womb.
She falls down against him and her cries are finally silenced when her mouth meets her beau’s. Her nipples sear heated traceries across his chest – and Renondal’s mouth meets theirs as both men kiss the girl at once. Their tongues swirl around her inside her moaning mouth while she remains locked athwart Ram’s pole, and Renondal stares into the young shaman’s eyes while he begins to share Racheal’s vulva with him again.
He squeezes his swollen cap inside the incredibly elastic rings of the Lady Racheal’s slick and swollen entryway and immediately starts fucking her into a state of senseless exhaustion; Ram’yana feels the other man’s cock pleasuring his woman while he lies supine beneath both their rocking bodies. They’re all perspiring freely in the heat of the day, and he momentarily rouses from slumber as the other man’s shaft exits the moaning priestess.
The Sun has shifted well past midheaven when Ram’s eyes slit open to the sight of a beringed pair of male hands holding Racheal’s jaws apart, while her lips squeeze around Renondal’s slimy purpled cock. Her eyes are closed and her lover can’t tell if she’s truly conscious; she guzzles the copious flow erupting from the circumcised head of the entrepreneur’s threateningly impressive manhood while he fucks her face. “Oh, yeah!” Renondal cries. He swiftly sinks his pylon through her lips and jams it deeply into her throat, reaming the teenage girl’s mouth with the same abandon he’d shown when he filled her talented pussy and unpracticed rectum. Streamers of creamy fluid shoot from her nostrils and drip from the corners of her mouth.
Ram’yana watches through a veil of drugged paralysis as Renondal grunts and sprays apparently endless gouts of semen into his lady love’s succulent mouth. “Oh, fuck!” he moans. “Mmm… yeah… Always wan’ed t’do that - to a woman…” he boldly announces through half-numbed lips. His cock begins to soften and his tightly gripping fingers relax and release her gaping jaw; her mouth remains open when he slides from the grip of her darkly swollen lips. “…Come inside every fuckin’ hole of a tight li’l female while she’s…” The remainder of his inebriated sentences disappears down the drain of Ram’s swirling awareness as the Centraxian shaman succumbs to Renondal’s stash of black market psychiatric drugs.
When the Centraxian prince half-wakes again the sun has already set and the teenage lovers are lying wrapped in each other’s arms, quite alone in Renondal’s come-stained and urine-soaked bed. Racheal’s loins are still firmly clamped around Ram’s resurgent tumescence, and with a grateful sense of relief he realizes his body is beginning to respond to his will again. Only after some minutes of energetic absorption within the addictive heatedness of his beauteous mate does the prince realize that his bride is still fast asleep. He doesn’t stop fucking her when he realises she’s sleeping; he continues ploughing through the sweet sticky cavity that leads to her come-drenched womb. His hands grab her bum and he pulls her clitoris hard up against the base of his shaft while he grinds around the insides of her sticky innards.
He fucks the beautiful blonde’s unmoving body and caresses her flesh with hands, cock and mouth until she moans softly and seems to rouse to his ministrations – doing just what the priestess has asked him to do on numerous occasions; “Wake me with your cock”, she’s pleaded many times. Besides, he tells himself while he savours the sensation of his lady’s swollen membranes wrapped around his cock, it’s my turn.
Ram’s slick palms cup the somnolent priestess’s come-smeared bum cheeks, and when he lifts her pelvis up and down around his irrepressible erection the encircling tube of Racheal’s inward muscles grips him with satisfyingly passionate strength. Her breathing remains slow and steady while the grasping rings of her swollen labia glide back and forth around his blood-engorged thickness; She’s done the same with me many times – just like today… Renondal’s earlier exhortations return though the fog that occludes his thoughts. …And he’s right – she’s so good to fuck!
When one of her eyelids crack open and the teenage hippy witch sees who it is who’s fucking her sleeping body, she rears atop her magical young husband and attempts to sit upright. She begins to ride him in a languid slow motion haze, watching his face all the while - milking his seed from his roots with irresistible clenches each time he withdraws from her rising loins, until she’s certain the slightly younger teenager is about to shoot more of his jism into her belly.
She quickly clambers from Ram’s surging pole and wraps her lips around his swollen crown just in time to catch the slightly diminished flow of his spurting seed – and just at the moment he groans her name through tightly clenching teeth someone enters the open door of Renondal’s bedchamber. He strides into the room without any forewarning, heralded only by the heavy clumping of boots; the lovers are too absorbed in each other to pay close attention. A shadowy form looms over the teenagers in the twilit gloom while long strands of Ram’s creamy semen flow from the blonde teen’s flaring nostrils and drip from the corners of her luscious swollen lips.
“Glorp…” is the only sound that exits Racheal’s oracular mouth after Ram’s slippery pulsing shaft pops from its blessed confines. He sees her ecstatic expression shift to a look of vague alarm as she stares up at the rude intruder. The prince has barely noticed the interloper, and is unaware of the reason for their lovemaking’s interruption. His eyes spring wide at the slurring words that emerge from the priestess’s come-filled mouth; “Yesh officer?” she asks, brandishing her erect nipples in the direction of the stranger – who is big enough to fill the entire doorway. The shaman is surprised at how rapidly his bride gathers her wits and aplomb. “’S there anything we can help you with?”
The policeman’s voice is disarmingly deep. “That all depends, little lady…”
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s; except header image of Rosaleen Norton from http://img132.imageshack.us/img132/2885/rosaleennortoncj6.jpg
Further true tales of The Prince of Centraxis -
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
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
Mandrake & the Magician – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 6
Watching the Watcher – Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 7
Promises & Compromises - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 8
The Invisible Great Divide - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
Circles Within Circles - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 10
Three Flaming Arrows - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 11
Round Peg, Square Hole - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 12
Monkey Business - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 13
The Blue Pill - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 14
Crossed Swords - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 15
Power Corrupts - Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 16
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
And see
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana