Waking Wet Dream
Shaman of Centraxis 14
The unceasing demands of his maturing masculinity continually surprise the teenage mage. The romantic young man watches himself responding to a rush of surging hormones with a robot’s predictable reactivity. The urgent pressures of his recently unchained sexuality are undeniably clamorous; he’s occasionally filled with self-loathing as sexually transformative urges steal through his being. After experiencing and witnessing the full-blown terrorism of rampaging male anger and testosterone-fuelled violence, the young shaman has come to believe that women are a superior segment of humankind.
He sees women as more highly evolved versions of their male counterparts - wiser beings whose inherent beauty is expressed and displayed by their gracile forms and gentler natures. Bitter experiences with his overworked father and competitive schoolmates have created a fertile breeding ground for Ram’s one-sided conclusions.
His chivalric sensibilities have been both blessing and burden to the young Centraxian mage. The notions of fealty, chivalry and honour which his mother and his guru-like tribal liege have so diligently imparted to him have been sorely tested by the realities of human relationships. Ram’yana has often been disturbed by the challenging and changeable natures of the few women and girls he’s come to know reasonably well. He’s overheard many of the kinds of conversations women have when they believe no man is listening, and has sometimes been filled with alarmed surprise at the concepts which emerge from their kissable pink mouths.
The long-haired hippy teen’s presence isn’t perceived as an obstacle to frank discussion by many older women – older females in their twenties – and they freely disclose many feminine secrets and mysteries to the unthreatening younger man. The haughty disdain they express for the men they make love with every night is a worrisome revelation, but the mind games he’s watched females play on their uncomprehending men merely confirm Ram’s conclusion that women are a superior demi-species. Nonetheless, the idealistic teenager has often been shocked and disillusioned by the ancestral games of dominance and submission which surround human relationships, and which precede and attend the glorious act of making love.
He passes through the wreckage of human relationships every day. The blinding mirage of marriage that successfully binds exhausted wage slaves to their homebody ‘little women’ is a horror to behold. Nearly everyone in the industrialised world destroys their lives and hopes ‘for the sake of the children’ - and poisons their kids’ innocent minds along with the planet, tainting their open hearts with pointless worries and unending daily familial feuding. Their children’s future happiness is effectively warped and discoloured as parents blindly recapitulate the errors and gross uncomforting madness of their ignorant forebears. Parents adopt the roles that have been bequeathed them, and their spirits are doomed to struggle within the patriarchal bonds of unnatural monotonous monogamy.
Most of the hippies have fled the evil banality of their family homes in a search for something better – and have found that the only way to a good, honest life is to create one together, far from the brainwashing doldrums of suburbia. Yet even in hippy households women usually perform most of the daily chores while their men pursue selfish games – and other willing females.
The young mage can’t understand what the gorgeous young hippy girls see in the egocentric (and usually slightly older) bristle-faced men of their tribes. He can’t comprehend why they tolerate their males’ outmoded behaviour when they could all be creating an ideal reality together – one which resides so lucidly in all the most idealistic hopes and dreams they all espouse on a daily basis.
Most of the men he knows have been ill prepared by their culture to look after themselves or each other. Women suborn their own ideals to the necessities of retraining their helpless mates, and regularly restrain them from their worst excesses; Ram’yana has absorbed this obvious wisdom from many proto-feminists who have sprouted through the muck and mire of the twentieth century, freedom-seeking lotus flowers escaping from the age-old constraints of a world ruled by men. He presumes that the superior nature of womankind is explanation for their apparently selfless behaviour, but finds the inherent sexism in many of their pronouncements and actions difficult to dismiss.
It’s obvious that many feminists and hard-boiled lesbians have been transformed into man-hating harpies in reaction to the terrible antics of the men-folk in their lives. Ram’yana tells himself that the chasm between men and women is solely a product of the selfish parochial patriarchs of past centuries – and the deplorable acts of the fathers, uncles and brothers of his contemporary world. The teenager attempts to traverse and heal the deplorable schism between men and women in his own young life, and wonders how true equality and fellow-feeling between the sexes can ever be achieved.
“Everyone has to work through their karma,” his liege lord Kha-Aan has told him on more than one occasion. “Some are self-destined to be servile devotees, while others are propelled by feelings of duty or inspiration to aim for higher things.” The attitudes of many males in the Court of the Centrax dovetail with their relaxed lifestyles and self-defined roles. Most of the nobles of the tribe seem quite comfortable with the caste systems that seem ubiquitously inherent in all human societies, and are perfectly happy to exploit their privileged positions. “The ladies of the tribe are free to take on whichever roles they desire, just as we lords and gentlemen,” Kha-Aan has assured his young shaman - while his goblet is refilled by one of the ladies of the court.
The tribal baronet often displays unfortunately deplorable attitudes to the half of the species which he customarily refers to as the ‘fairer sex’ – but he still enjoys the company of a bevy of beautiful women who see nothing unusual or unsavoury in his behaviour. Ram’yana is always disturbed by the fact that many of the most desirable young women and girls appear to be actually turned on by his liege’s chauvinistic displays and pronouncements; Kha-Aan’s bed never seems bereft of willing feminine flesh.
Ram’yana is continually puzzled by the way most women seem to be happy to take a submissive role in politics, business, the home and the bedroom. He can’t quite allow himself to believe that both sexes are equally culpable for the mess they’ve made of the planet, or that women bear equal responsibility for the subordinate positions they occupy on the human totem pole. The Cold Wanderer has oft attempted to disabuse him of his illusions. “You’re a sexist if you believe that either sex is better than the other,” the Canadian logician has often proclaimed.
“Yer can’t blame men alone for building this destructive civilization; why d’yer reckon most guys build houses in the first place?” Wanderer has swept Ram’s objections aside and continued his quasi-misogynistic diatribe on more than one occasion; “I’ll tell yer why – it’s because they can’t get a woman to live with ’em if they don’t! Women are the reason we create all this crap in the first place – and if we don’t do it someone else will get the girl.
“Besides,” he’s repeated many times - drumming the lesson into Ram’s disbelieving young mind - “Now that women are finally able to decide who to have kids with, they still pick footballers and guys in uniform - and breed more brutal men. It’s as simple as that. Can you really blame the men for the ills of the world? Whose fault is it, really? Ain’t it everyone’s?
“Wake up,” he’s oft announced with a cynical smirk. “Women use men, and men use women. That’s what keeps all this crap together – and it’s the reason why we don’t trust each other.” The younger man can sympathise with the Canadian’s reasoning, but hopes for a much better milieu in this wild incarnation on the millennial cusp. He’s beset by an unquenchable yearning to find his true soul mate, to begin healing the split between woman and man in a very personal way. He’s searched for the girl of his dreams with utterly naive diligence for many moons, and believes that he’s finally found his mate and match in his rediscovered first lover.
Ram’yana stares down at the drunken girl who lies sprawled beneath him with mouth agape and arms akimbo. He remembers their first sweaty strivings, back in the remote youth camps of their wakening post-pubescence. As his mind spins the twine of their mingling pasts he relives shared strenuous hikes along dusty roads and vigorous volleyball matches in grassy tree-girt meadows. He recalls vine-choked trails through shrub-clogged woodlands, where they walked hand in hand and found intimate moments alone and together; the survival training games in the dead of night when kisses were snatched in starlit groves, where other kids and indulgent supervisors couldn’t see the young lovers cuddling and canoodling.
Fleet images of their peers’ knowing looks return in vivid detail, alongside memories of reflexive sneers and occasional respectful asides; discomfited responses directed at the young teenagers across long trestle tables during their communal breakfasts. The inebriated teenage shaman recalls the envious leers of his friends when the young lovers retired to Natasha’s cramped sleeping bag in her communal army surplus tent. They’d sneak past the willingly blindsided eyes of the ‘Helpers’ – their eighteen year old supervisors, many of whom had amorous plans of their own – to explore each other’s nooks, crannies and protuberances in the overheated darknesses of sultry midsummer nights.
The open woodland that surrounded the campsite was perfect for non-violent survival training games, vigorous bushwalks and overnight expeditions. The camp programme had been designed to inculcate a prepared, non-violent and defensive awareness in their brightly impressionable young minds. It also helped salve the sense of all-pervasive paranoia that oft emerged into fanatical survivalism in the face of the brave new nuclear world their generation had been born unto.
Day or night, the slightly older teenage Helpers would arrange teams – which were named after famous philosophers - into attacking or defensive groups and formations, for various tactical survival games. They’d nominate goals, time limits and relative victory conditions before setting their young charges loose in the semi-domesticated wilderness. No violence was countenanced – the games were all designed to foster survival skills, stealth, teamwork, initiative and creative intelligence – and the kids were often split up into more than two competing teams.
The training expeditions in woodlands and tamed wilderness were also perfectly suited to more practical pastimes, and the young shaman often contrived to slip away into copses and thickets with Natasha. She was the fully budding post-pubescent girl of his adolescent wet dreams come true. Her nascent beauty shone through the psychedelic era’s adolescent trappings of glossy eye shadow, flavoured lipstick, bright nail polish, livid makeup and liberally administered perfumes and essential oils - which anointed Nasher’s freckled skin with random admixtures of sandalwood or musk, patchouli and amber, jasmine or olibanum.
Pouting lips joined and swimsuit-clad bodies melded together amid the primal teenage magnetism of their mutually fated attraction. The long-haired hippy soon lost his anxiety and swiftly overcame the paralyzing handicap of his youthful inexperience. The insecure shyness that trapped Natasha behind the glittering fence of her stainless steel dental braces dissolved into an eager sensuality when they were alone. She enfolded her young man in her warm embrace and satisfied the gratifyingly intense yearnings she’d learned to suppress beneath the layered veneers of insecure self-doubt.
Until their first kiss - on the fifth night of the month-long youth camp – Natasha had flirted and bantered with him. Despite her obvious interest the young mage had been unsure and unprepared, completely inexperienced in the ways of girls or women. He had no sisters or young female relatives and attended a prestigious all-male selective high school back home in the
The invisible border stretched through a grassy parkland studded with exotic imported shrubberies and graffito-engraved benches, scarred trees and chipped statuary - a salubrious meadow that served as a playground for both schools. Students weren’t permitted to cross the imaginary line; the barrier’s inviolability was rigidly patrolled on both sides by officious prefects, and the younger boys swiftly learned that transgressions were enforced by swift applications of the cane; girls were disciplined in a less corporal fashion.
The border’s sanctity was only breached by graduating students during the annual muck-up day. Once each year the eighteen year-olds were allowed a traditional celebration that preceded their departure into an infinitely wider and far more wonderful world. They’d already been well entrained to impose and maintain the fictitious nationalistic boundaries that kept humans separated from themselves and afraid of each other, with far more subtle and devious devices than a simple invisible fence. Since the innocent morning of childhood they’d been separated into ‘classes’ and ‘houses’, ‘streams’ and ‘grades’, and been split into various teams that played a multitude of different time-filling competitive games.
Their antique education system had taught the bright young students to look down on those younger and more helpless than themselves. Their training had demonstrated that physical punishment was a perfectly reasonable response to tardiness, unavoidable accidents, misplaced laughter or youthful enthusiasm. The graduating boys and girls could be trusted with one last taste of freedom before willingly chaining themselves to white-collared yokes - or driving careening careers down life-long preprogrammed paths, for which their mind-numbing tutelage had so inadequately prepared them. Their muck-up days culminated in drunken binges and inept attempts at orgiastic revelry that were particularly instructive to the more inquisitive younger girls and boys – including Ram’yana.
Despite finding the kiss-met girl of his dreams, the young hippy couldn’t help feeling out of place in the campsite. He was a thousand miles from home and a rank outsider at the four week camp near the southerly rim of the great southern continent. Regardless of his lack of experience with girls, he’d been exposed to far more wildly interesting times than most of his cosseted camping contemporaries. The young teen had felt that he was ready to experience the bliss of a girl’s sweet loving kiss, and anticipated his first truly passionate tryst with a member of the ‘opposite’ sex with a mixture of shy trepidation and eager impatience.
Natasha had been brimming over with complementary readiness, and when they first caressed each other’s pink sunburned skins in the sultry summer heat she was almost overcome by the quivering anticipation of her precociously mature but untested young body. After he’d first encountered the elfin girl during a peaceable nocturnal war game, the newly met teens had wasted little time getting to know one another more intimately - sinking into rapturous kisses while they launched themselves on a bold voyage into the turbulent ocean of adolescent sexuality.
Nasher’s slightly older brother Yakov had chaperoned her over the first fortnight of the summer camp, keeping as close an eye as possible on his wild young sister. It was only after her overly protective sibling had returned to
The young Centraxian magician has always remembered the day Natasha and her brother Jacob – who always used the Anglicised version of his
The campers had all waited together inside the capacious shadowy structure until the buses arrived to remove them from the wire-tied, fenced in concrete warrens of
The boy’s glistening smiles failed to extend to his vulpine chocolate eyes, which seemed to mesmerise most of the girls in the camp; inexorably attracting them to the plexus of his lustrous cynicism. Though he never showed his peers a jot of genuinely companionable friendliness, he’d proved to be a resourceful and surprisingly loyal associate in the testing first fortnight of survival games and mental gymnastics. All through the long days of the southern midsummer’s intense heat waves and the entertainingly terrifying electrical storms of its hot sticky nights, Jacob could be trusted to inspire a companionable sense of camaraderie among his tightly knit circle of associates. Even when they were soaked and exhausted on a muddy piece of ground in the middle of nowhere, his dry, wry sense of humour always managed to raise the morale of his team-mates – at the expense of fellow-feeling for all others at the camp.
Natasha had been a vividly attractive young elf with magnetic green eyes and rosebud lips, and her slim petit body was freckled with a sparse galaxy of tiny leopard spots. When he first spied the girl, her charming grin had been arrested by an embarrassment of bright silverwork in a detailed spiderweb of bracing, lacing her pearly white teeth with a glittering array of intricately expensive craftsmanship. Pink petal lips snapped shut over the miniature girders and gantries within her mouth, and her eyes dropped shyly to the ground before her smile could reach full flower. From the first time Ram saw her in her thirteenth year, Natasha’s teeth appeared to be perfectly aligned; he couldn’t understand why she bore the unnecessary dental stigmata at all. She never discussed the matter with him, changing the subject whenever he’d found a tactful way of raising it.
When the New Year celebrations had announced Jacob’s departure, Natasha began coming to the young shaman’s communal tent in the giggle-filled times after ‘lights out’ was announced. The eager young couple soon began spending more time beneath Nasher’s canvas canopy instead; her several girlfriends were more subtle in their voyeurism than the boys in Ram’s tent, and didn’t attempt to join their semi-private games with the same insistent tenacity.
The lovers began to venture forth into the moonlit eucalypt forests, thrilling to the cool night air brushing against their near-naked skins. They pressed their hormone-drenched bodies together beneath the sky spanning Milky Way, relearning the knowledge of the ancients at the edge of a vast uninhabited wildness. The teens dwelt in an idyll of concupiscent bliss, showing and telling, feeling and revealing with a not quite fully requited yearning that carried them through the first summer of their sensual awakening.
In the years since they first met, he’s regularly relived the vision of Natasha’s lovely pleading eyes shining in the moonlight and her nubile little body squeezing against him, while their hands rummaged beneath tight swimsuits or loose pajamas. They’d slither together inside cotton sleeping bags, mouths locked together for hours while the world slept around them in the hot summer nights that marked the final end of their childish naïveté. He’d experienced all she had to share and give, and gave everything back in return - save for actually filling and feeling the totality of her moist little maidenhead with more than the circumcised crown of his untried young manhood. Natasha would always pull away at the last possible moment, and her hymen had remained intact despite all his impassioned ministrations.
Ram’s reverie carries him back to the timeless hours when they could steal away to explore each other’s mysteries in the sweltering days and lazy nights. Rain had soaked them, dogs had disturbed their mutual explorations and dust had swum across their freckled skins, riding the waves of mingled sweat and flowing juices as their striving young bodies attempted to find union (but settled for satisfaction) on the sun-warmed ground. They’d wrestle in a sweaty mass beneath pollen-dripping screened bowers of acacia, bottlebrush and lantana, continually alert for an approaching footfall or intruding voice.
The young shaman’s thoughts return to the pride that had filled him at the envious looks of his friends and rivals, revealed in the bright glare of their morning assemblies; the decidedly antagonistic glare that Yakov had given him is a memory Ram’yana could happily do without. He suddenly recalls the puzzlement he’d felt at the enigmatically furtive glances which had passed between his girlfriend and her brother. Jacob had been easily and constantly nettled by the way Nasher always called him Jake - unlike the rest of his refugee family, who seemed to delight in annoying him by using the original pre-European variant of his name. Aside from the anger that flashed on his face when the girl used the pet name in public - and the identical dagger stares he’d occasionally cast at her hippy boyfriend – the young shaman had sometimes witnessed an entirely different order of emotions shining in the older boy’s eyes while he stared at his beautiful little sister.
Now, after almost three long years of separation, Nasher’s slim frame has become more than a vividly recalled wet-dream of curvaceous flowing womanliness, moist furry crevices and unripe pink-tipped breasts. Ram’s swollen crown is enwrapped inside the girl’s hot suckling mouth as she lolls insensate on her childhood bed.
The horny teenager doesn’t notice for a while. His mouth presses down until his tongue meets the swelling extrusion of the girl’s shiny pink clitoris. Her love button rolls against the slippery white pole that splits her furred lips into a protuberant puce ring. Natasha shivers when their moist membranes meet and twin spasms dart through her slender bare legs, while her boyfriend obeys her command to keep fucking the girl with her long white broomstick.
He keeps plunging the home made dildo through her tight musculature, moving to the swift breath-matching tempo she’d obviously desired the most. Natasha’s moist pink labia pout and invert inside their dark fur-lined nest, while he pistons part of his meaty length through the matching rubescent surfaces of her addictively suckling mouth. Ram’yana takes his time and savours the slowly ticking moments with grateful delight, plying his swollen flesh back and forth between the tight round ring of her saliva-wetted lips. He doesn’t want to come too soon, and end the splendid sensation of his girlfriend’s cheek stretching round his cock while her lips clamp tightly around him; Nasher seems happily willing to keep tempting him to come in her mouth for as long as he can take it.
She grabs at Ram’s hips and pulls him down onto her face until his fuzzy balls tickle her nose and his shaft sinks into the intense all-devouring heat of her throat. He keeps stoking his girlfriend’s furnace and her buxom little body rocks and squirms beneath his ardent pounding while she swallows him almost all the way down. Her breasts roll around on her slender ribcage and their magnetically attractive counterpoint orbits are only partly constrained by her rainbow bikini top.
The besotted young hippy keeps impaling her from both ends when Nasher stops fucking the artificial phallus and her thighs part for his fulsome thrusts. He continues to stretch the lustrous surfaces of her lips and loins while time extends to accommodate their passions. Her slick mouth bestows incredibly livid sensations upon his irrepressible teenage erection as he plunges into her throat with increasing confidence. Her lips continue to squeeze and flex around his girth and her silky throat clamps around his thickness when he pulls back through the tight muscular rings of her deep oral embrace. He glances down between his girl’s ripe breasts to the place where her mouth stretches outward, bulging around his sensitive crown as he hangs above her, poised to thrust yet again - and decides to inspire her with more dedicated attention.
He’s completely entranced by the sight of her lips swelling around his mushrooming glans, and saws his first few hypersensitive inches through her tautly stretching mouth - giving her time to draw breath through her nose - before pressing back down inside her irresistible musculature. His inebriated attention returns to the girl’s swollen clitoris and he sucks the sensitive little knob tenderly, drawing it between his lips as he works himself toward release in Nasher’s delightful little mouth.
I can always fuck her tomorrow if that’s what she wants, he decides while she moans and snorts and rolls with the flow of the dildo. Her lover relishes the blissful sensation of gliding the first few rigid inches of his young manhood through her lips - squeezing his head back and forth through her elastic rubbery ring and into the narrow opening of her throat for an uncountable number of strokes - and is well along the way to jetting his seed into her torridly grasping oral depths before he begins to realize that the girl isn’t responding to his fucking or sucking.
His tongue stops lapping at Natasha’s clitty when her legs slip apart and fall to the bed; her thighs flop open around his face and her bikini slips inside her seam with the last thrust of the broomstick. The reason for his girlfriend’s immobility slowly steals up on Ram’s besotted senses; he belatedly notices that she’s passed into swooning unconsciousness while he’s blindly continued screwing the unconscious elf. Her automatically gripping orifices have provided him with a comforting illusion of responsiveness, even after she’s sunk beneath the sparkling pyrotechnic surface of her overstimulated awareness. “Natasha…”
The beautiful sprawling girl is an exotic freckled butterfly, pinned to her soft pink quilted duvet by the long white shaft in Ram’s hand. The bulging phallus at the tip of the broomstick is wedged through the fork of her supine thighs, lodged deep inside her slim belly. Nasher’s mouth squeezes around the summit of his unsated young manhood, as tight and hot and wet as her grasping vagina. He reaches down and palpates her breasts while the cock-capped broomstick glides to a complete halt inside her. “Natasha?” The young man is aghast: She’s passed out!
He’s blown away by the intense recollection of the beautiful elfin girl coming and screaming beneath him mere moments earlier, driven and pummeled to a gut-wrenching orgasm by their eagerly entwining hands. He can’t bring himself to stop caressing her alluring recumbent body; when he pulls his erection all the way out of her temptingly wide open mouth, Nasher’s tongue lolls down over her swollen lower lip while the blushed panting girl lies back within her roseate pillows. His cock flops to a rest on the launch pad of her long wet muscle while her hot rapid breaths bathe his crown.
Maybe it really is all a dream… While he stares at her exquisite face the young shaman tries to convince himself that the lucid reality engulfing his senses is nothing more than an all-encompassing illusion. …A necromantic afterlife wet dream, while I’m really lying in my tomb and dreaming of her womb... The urgent intensity of his lust and the alluring proximity of his lovely young mate soon distract the mage from the follies of pointless solipsism.
“Nasher…” The flushed girl’s semi-naked little body lies helplessly exposed ’neath Ram’s roving vision and his yearningly unsatisfied seventeen year old flesh is as rigid as the plastic phallus between her thighs. Natasha’s breasts heave with her gasps as she lies unmoving amidst all the pink trappings of her bygone childhood. She sprawls unknowing beneath the impalement of her artificial white cock, a piercing arrow angling toward the bulls-eye of her central core; when Ram’s yielding grasp loosens the broomstick dangles from her unflagging grip.
She’s a waking wet dream… if I’m actually awake… Natasha’s purpled eyelids are virtually translucent, sealed lightly shut over her unmoving eyes in the fading candlelight - and the besotted youth is still utterly attracted by her unforgettable face. His wiry frame vibrates as he’s filled with the irrepressible horniness of his overweening libido; he’s wracked by tremors as he holds his frame above her perspiration-drenched skin, unendurably tempted by the availability of his drunken playmate’s supine feminine body. He can hardly resist the girl’s sweet pheromonal magnetism, her slick silken surfaces, alluring torrid heat or the intoxicatingly flawless form of her inspiring young flesh.
When Natasha’s breathing slows her lover calls her name once again and his quivering haunches shake the tip of his erection from her tongue. His diminutive girlfriend’s beauteous perfection, glorious textures and radiantly recumbent receptivity combine to inexorably attract his saliva-soaked rigidity back toward the yawing warmth of her kissable mouth. He squats lower and his cock slides between her bottom lip and the straight white pickets of her upper teeth. Hot steamy breath laves Ram’s slick crown, and he barely resists slipping back between her open mouth while he tries to wake her with increasingly forlorn words and slow tender caresses.
Natasha’s wondrous young bosom still bellows in the aftermath of her efforts toward heart-felt orgasmic release - and the breathtakingly throat-filling thrusts of Ram’s hard long cock. When he slowly withdraws the broomstick from the girl’s amazingly tight inward grip her nipples are still as hard and tumescent beneath the stretching fabric of her bikini as her swollen clitoris - which stirs in its dark curly nest as the shaft slides past. “Honey… oh Nasher, please… wake up…” He gently caresses her eyelids and brow as he entreats her to return to the bliss of their intertwining lusts; “Hey Natasha! Wake up, beautiful dreamer…” He attempts a little shock therapy; “A real live male cock is ready to glide inside you for the very first time…”
As Ram’yana pulls the dildo out through her pouting hair-fringed labia, Natasha’s nether lips stretch tautly around the plastic replica of his unrequited erection. The rainbow bikini slips halfway out of her seam when the base of the swollen artificial cap catches on the tautly stretched wet fabric. As Ram’yana slides the bikini from her tender folds he observes her inner lips stretch so tightly around the hard plastic that they pull right out of her interior; he watches as her pink membranes bulge around the emerging shape of the bulbous knob. The coiled strands of her dark pubic hair stick to the slowly emerging dildo, adhered to the sheer plastic by the glue of her copiously flowing juices. “Natasha,” he implores her, “Love… Please…”
The young man finds himself tempted by the impulse to pull the single string that dangles an inch from his fingers, and untie the bow that fastens the somnolent girl’s bikini pants to her perfect little body. A deeply suppressed urge from the depths of Ram’s hindbrain goads him to peel the scant coverings from his girlfriend’s sweaty skin while she sleeps unknowing; Do it… Strip her bare and give her the real thing… He tingles with excitement as the dishonourable yet undeniably tempting notion churns through his alcohol-saturated brain and thrills along the naked surfaces of his utterly aroused young body.
The teenage mage can’t tell whether the voice is another presence or being that’s intruding on his tryst with Natasha; its tenuous tenor is somewhat like the impulses of his more usual inner tutors and guides, but also very different. It could just as easily be an outmoded programme from the desperate days of Humanity’s ancestral tribulations; an outworn survival strategy bundled into the attic of his mind along with the rest of Man’s crazy heirlooms. She’s already had some other male do this for her… The insinuative stream of thought keeps wending its way through his mind; give her something new to chew on…
The lewd ideas cajole the drunken youth while his body quivers with lust, and he holds his fleshy shaft paused and poised but a hair’s breadth from the alluring succour of Natasha’s parted lips. You know she wants it… His conscience struggles with the insinuative voice that whispers Go on… from the back of his brain, and the Centraxian shaman rebels against the insidious rapine notions. He resolves to dispel their sticky contaminants from his idealistic young mind – but his body stays right where it is.
She told you she wanted it… She’s perfect… made for you… bred for you to mate with… this is your chance… He can well imagine how Natasha would react to the self-servicing act that he’s dreamily contemplating – an unevolved notion that Ram knows he mustn’t countenance for his own sake, as well as for hers. The idea of breaking his newly rediscovered girlfriend’s trust appalls him every bit as much as his own weakness. He continues quivering with frustration, still locked within the interrupted anticipation of coming inside her succulent mouth. He longs to feel her completely nude sheer skin pressed against his when he finally squeezes inside her untried loins. Strip her… fuck her…
The intelligent young feminist has always been careful to ‘preserve a little mystery’ - as she’s said many times, back when he was wooing the girl as a much younger teen – and she’s never allowed him to see her completely naked. Like a slow-motion old time fan dancer, she’s always been careful to conceal a thing or two, and has never exposed everything to him; at least, not all at once. When the teens were two years younger they’d explored the gamut of glorious sexual sensations available to their newly maturing young bodies.
Ram’yana reminds himself that he’s already done almost everything with the adventurous and intelligent girl that bright adolescents could possibly think of. When they’d first become lovers he’d stopped only at the tremulous moment of the ultimate step, when her natural caution had entreated him to hold himself back from tearing through the fragile veil of her maidenhead. We’ve done almost everything, he reminds himself; except for what we’ve just been doing, and what we can still do if…. “Nasher! Wake up!”
She said she wanted me to come in her mouth… The partial accuracy of the suggestive thought impresses itself on Ram’s unsated young lust-driven awareness. The idea tests his resolution even as the distasteful flavour it leaves in his mind makes him mistrust its provenance and recoil from its flagrant immediacy. He gradually pulls the plastic-capped broomstick up through the elastic band of Natasha’s entryway; he kneels astride her unseeing face and his erection hovers above her invitingly parted lips and lolling tongue. He rocks his pelvis forward to avoid the ongoing temptation to slip back inside her, and one of his furry balls flops into his unresponsive girlfriend’s open mouth as the base of his shaft slides along the smooth membrane of her bottom lip.
He moves further away from her face until his erection juts down between her newly filled-out cleavage - a compass needle pointing unerringly to her pounding heart - before gliding past its close throbbing beat and pressing into the declivity of her breasts as her heated breath pours across the soft underside of his scrotum. “Natasha…” He caresses her cheek with his palm as he glides between her tautly sheathed mounds and wonders how to revive her.
“Honey… Natasha – rise and shine, baby!” The besotted teen starts to climb off his unresponsive girlfriend and the saliva-soaked head of his cock slips back to graze her slightly swollen lips, flopping lengthwise between their softnesses; an electrifying jolt straightens his curving spine and his shaft slides along her open mouth. Fuck her now… As the drunken teen shifts his weight he tilts off balance and leans against the wooden pole. Fuck her while she’s spread wide for you… The hard dildo slides down into the supine girl, squeezing between the resilient membranes of her silky lips until it buries itself right up –or down - inside her. He watches aghast in unbalanced stuporous surprise as the artificial phallus penetrates the taut resistance of Nasher’s girlish musculature, burrowing all the way up past the last red circle that’s painted round the molten plastic base – while withered old whispers suggest unwholesome deeds through the smoke-hazed caverns of his drunken young mind. Pull it out and fuck her with the real thing… Ram’s heartbeat races as he pauses between both pairs of the sleeping girl’s lips. He hovers on the brink of committing one or two acts which he knows to be dishonourable, reprehensible, unethical and illegal.
“Time to wake up, pussycat…” The glinting hexagonal charm that hangs between Natasha’s surprisingly upright breasts distracts him from his fixation on the gaping feminine lips which sandwich his long pole - and Ram’yana decides that he’s not so drunk that he doesn’t understand the reality of what he’s so desperately close to doing. He lifts his painfully swollen organ from the freckle-faced girl’s enticing mouth and carefully climbs away from her body. Yet the horny young shaman can’t quite bring himself to fully withdraw from the intimate tenderness of his lover’s billowing breath, nor pull the dildo from the elastic vice of her unconsciously clenching loins; he easily convinces himself that the slumbering drunken girl will likely reawaken at any moment. “Natasha…”
He crouches above the gorgeous little female with his crown still bathed in her breath, inches from her succulent mouth. Even as he hopes against hope that she’ll rouse from her drunken stupour, Ram hovers on the brink of succumbing to the craven need to push his engorgement all the way back between her pouting pink lips. A particularly obtuse part of his multi-leveled shamanic personality dearly wishes he could sink his pythonic pylon into the girl’s fragrant loins - and take the place of the poorly crafted substitute that occupies what he considers to be his rightful place inside her. Ram’yana shakes the possessive idea from his long dark hair as he prepares to pull the long plastic tube from Nasher’s muscular grip.
“Natasha? Nasher… Please honey, wake up!” He vibrates at the zenith of arousal as he looks down at the vulnerable dozing girl from the incredulous heights of his urgent adolescent desperation. Time seems to slow to a trickle as he freezes in an indecisive haze of drunken self-hypnosis. The living object of the long lone years of Ram’s post-pubescent desires - the reality of his most fervid fantasies and wet dreams made flesh - is spread like a repast before his famished stare, and he’s not sure what he might do if the extraordinarily beautiful young creature doesn’t wake up soon. “Nasher!”
The drunken teenager doesn’t want to betray the trust this loving girl has placed in him, yet he still aspires to rouse the sleeping beauty and make glorious fucking love with her at last. His body vibrates with irrepressible arousal and he yearns to feel the longed-for reality of Natasha’s hot wet feminine tissues stretched around his painfully swollen sex. The promise of wide-eyed rapture painted across her flushed orgasmic face when he finally rides her to the summit of mind-blowing ecstasy fills Ram’s desperately ardent imaginings. He shudders with a willful need, longing to witness the moment when primal selfishness, total surrender, ultimate union and utter satisfaction are refracted through Nasher’s wide open eyes - the instant when she experiences her first cock-primed detonation as he fills her with his real, hard, achingly unsatisfied young manhood.
“Sweetheart…” He implores the girl to respond as she lies beneath him with slender limbs spread as widely as her luscious pink mouth. Time ceases to flow for the young shaman as the entreaties dissolve from his tongue. He savours the sweet fresh nectar of the flavoursome young female sexual juices which taint his lips and mouth with sweet pheromonal enticements, while the rotating carousel of his thoughts grinds to a standstill. It’s been less than a minute since he realised his young lover had slipped into unconsciousness, yet an eternity of unrequited lust has already scorched Ram’s as-yet unsold soul into an utterly enflamed pyre of adamantine arousal.
“Oh princess – I have to make love with you – tonight… right now!” How can he possibly wait even a single minute longer?
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
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