See Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra
and Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll
See Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra
and Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll
The Invisible Great Divide
Adder Ladies & the Dawn of Ra 9
The peace-loving forerunners of the sexual revolution soared in impassioned flights over the entrenched skirmishing warriors of conventional mediocrity. They also bore hefty yet blithely ignored baggage aloft with them, as they pursued their dreams and predilections with vaguely self-aware and thoroughly avid conviction. They were a fresh generation exploring a new multidimensional terrain, with only a few partial reports from visionary forerunners and intrepid scouts to guide them.
Earlier generations of industrialised men and women had few chances to come to know each other, entrapped within rigid societies that kept the sexes separated for centuries. Males and females stuck in the segregated cells of schools, armies and workplace were as alien to one another as different barely-glimpsed species kept in the segregated cages of a hive-like menagerie. Most married couples had little space in their busy workaday lives to share quality time together, and the traditional structures welded onto the institution of wedlock were designed to keep men and women in carefully separated worlds.
Everyone was trained to view the complementary sex as their opposite, and men and women customarily treated each other – and themselves – as caricatures of the demeaning stereotypes their parents had presented to society. Very few role models, career goals or alternative lifestyles were available to most young girls and boys, save for the enduring bonds of dependent housewifery and various forms of wage slavery.
Before he’d escaped into the welcoming network of the alternative underground and its plethora of hippy safe houses, Ram’yana had rarely had the opportunity to speak with members of the ‘opposite sex’. Except for a few steamy fumbling encounters during annual mixed-sex survival training camps in remoter parts of the continent, he was utterly inexperienced with females.
The young magician had barely spoken to a girl since well before puberty wrought its changes on his body, mind and soul. He’d attended an all-male selective high school, an imposing edifice built on the site of the original Emerald City Zoo. The mismatched mix of colonnaded quadrangles and concrete slab buildings stood next to an all-girl high school, and there was no fence between the two institutions – just a length of greensward with a handful of artfully arranged bushes and shrubs, adorned with a few haphazard derelict artefacts surviving from the days of the defunct zoological gardens.
An invisible boundary extended along the dividing line between the boys’ and girls’ territories and trustworthy suck-arse prefects were dispatched from both sides during each recess and lunchtime to ensure that no-one crossed the invisible line. Clusters of older boys and girls congregated just out of each other’s reach on either side of the collectively imagined border, joking and teasing their audiences across the insubstantial Iron Curtain strung between the sexes.
A single strangely symbolic route existed between the twinned hemispheres of the unisex high schools; the zoo had once housed large European bears and a deep old cylindrical bear pit stood in the grounds of both schools. The pits were linked by a long, dark, arched concrete tunnel – a secluded secret space wide enough for a senior boy or girl to lie down in. The tunnel had been blocked by new construction just prior to Ram’s incarceration in the revered educational establishment, much to the chagrin of the more precocious students.
One bright sunny day just before the summer holidays the prefects found their hands overfull, when senior students hoisted them into the fountains by their regimented dry cleaned uniforms and converted the school’s huge incinerator stack into a giant circumcised pink papier-mâché penis. It happened during the annual ‘muck-up day’, when the twelfth year students who were about to graduate customarily kicked up their heels in flagrant disregard of all the school rules - and for a precisely ordered period of time authorities would turn a blind eye to their chaotic behavior.
The adventurous adolescents lived at the height of the Moratorium era, and many of the students had already joined in mass anti-war rallies and protests of all kinds that followed in the wake of the Summer of Love. Some of the graduating boys were fated to be conscripted and carted off to fight total strangers who were protecting their traditional homes in
Teenage boys were forced to fight a nation of innocents in an undeclared war for the CIA and invested transnational interests - despite the fact they weren’t deemed old enough to vote by the senescent dorks and warmongering buzzards who wanted to imprison them in military straightjackets and orderly symmetrical coffins.
The graduating classes at the selective high school became wildly exuberant that year, and muck-up day got a little out of hand on both sides of the Invisible Great Divide as hundreds of teenage boys and girls ran amok during the climax of a dozen years of authoritarian indoctrination.
The younger students were considered by some of the older kids to be fair game and fitting prey, and Ram’yana escaped from a scrum of scissor-wielding seniors eager to cut the clothes from any boy or girl who crossed their path. He darted across the greensward in his confining uniform, his eyes searching the landscape for a place of refuge. Crossing the Invisible Line was a caning offense, but screams issuing from younger kids’ mouths as they fell foul of the rapidly advancing skirmish line prodded him onward to stray into the neighbouring land of unknown girls.
Events were equally chaotic on the other side of the invisible line; girls were tackling and tearing at one another and whistles were blowing shrilly over strident screams - but at least this new territory represented unknown and potentially benign terrors, compared with the well-known blind fury of the post-adolescent males who were pursuing Ram’yana and his fourteen year old peers. As he searched frantically for somewhere to hide - and observe the entertaining action - his eyes lit on a likely place of concealment; the chain-link fence covering the entrance to the all-girl school’s bear pit had been twisted aside, revealing the yawning maw of a dark cave-like sanctuary.
He darted through the fold in the fence and ducked into the shadowy interior; it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness after the bright glare of summer sunlight. The bear pit was a deep and dusty concrete tube, its top sealed over with a lid of galvanised iron sheets; a tall arched corridor retreated into deeper darkness, curving off in the direction of the boys’ school.
Familiar jeering laughter sounded far too close for comfort just outside the shadowy pit, and Ram’yana scuttled into the deeper blackness of the underground corridor. He slowed when the darkness became almost complete in the dusty curving tunnel, and stopped when his hand suddenly bumped up against something in the hard concrete of the tunnel’s stark interior – something soft and warm, and surprisingly smooth.
A loud gasp hissed in the pulsating darkness and the fleeing young student almost jumped out of his skin when he realised his palm was lying on the slim naked thigh of a teenage girl. The lad’s fingertips encountered the fringe of a woolen miniskirt as the unseen girl gasped and jumped slightly at his unexpected touch; Ram’s mind spun as he reeled in surprise. What… oh, wow… The teenager’s thoughts staggered and stumbled as he froze with his hand plastered to the strange girl’s slim leg. “Shh!” a voice hissed at him. “I’m hiding.”
“So am I,” Ram whispered with an awed sense of illicit discovery. He wondered how long the girl would allow him to keep his palm on her slender young leg; wondered how old she was, what she looked like, who she was… The pulsating reality the girl’s fragrantly perfumed fresh femininity and the gentle gasping sounds of her adrenaline-charged breathlessness overwhelmed his straining senses in the dank darkness of their shared refuge.
Sounds of tomfoolery, tomcattery and adolescent torture wafted into the pit and the girl’s blazing heat shuffled a little closer toward him in the darkness; his unmoving hand slid along her firm down-covered thigh until it stopped at the tight elastic rim of her panties. The girl was crouching on a bare inner-spring mattress that some enterprising and intelligent lad or lass had dragged into the tunnel’s protective enclosure. “Shh,” she repeated - a little softer this time as a tiny warm hand settled on Ram’s. “Shh...”
As the sounds of chaotic youthful revelry continued in the dazzling sunshine, the unknown girl rolled over on the dusty mattress and guided Ram’s trembling hand onto the muscular mounds of her panty-covered bum. “Let’s wait together,” she whispered, and began to stroke her sleek cheeks with his hypersensitised fingertips as she crouched on her knees. When the girl pressed her warm body closer and pressed up beside him the inexperienced boy belatedly realised that she wanted him to feel her nubile femininity, wanted him to stroke her forbidden fruit in this serendipitous meeting in the womb of the earth.
The immature magician hadn’t wanted to believe the things he’d been told by so many of the sexist era’s purblind boys and men. Many older males swore that women and girls didn’t actually enjoy sex, but only let men do it to them for reasons of their own, or solely for the purpose of reproduction. Ignorance abounded even in more well-educated circles; there was much scholarly debate around the question of whether women could actually experience orgasms and the fundamentally repressive patriarchal cultures of the day viewed all sex and sexuality as unnatural, immoral, disgusting, dirty and, wherever possible, illegal.
Such was the depth of the chasm that separated the sexes, women rarely discussed such topics with men or boys and most youngsters were left to discover the truth for themselves – or robotically recapitulate the errors of their misguided forebears. But the romantic and inexperienced teenage hippy had hoped against all contrary evidence that all the wise pundits of entrenched sexism were fundamentally wrong, and that Mother Nature could be trusted to reward Her sensitive faithful children with loving soul mates, mutual mind-blowing orgasms and heart-melding bliss.
Emboldened by the strange girl’s obvious receptivity, he rubbed his hand back and forth, rolling his palm around her perfect young cotton-clad derriere. He could barely see her outline in the shadowy bear pit as she leaned forward and peered toward the entrance, propping herself up on her elbows. Her long blonde hair was tied back with a piece of elastic and her uniform’s white blouse stretched tautly around angular shoulders and a curvaceous lower back. All he could make out in the dimness was a slim feminine outline as her girlish hips tilted to meet his hand when his thumb slipped into her cotton-sheathed cleft.
The girl abruptly froze in a posture of poised expectancy – he couldn’t tell whether because it was because of his immodest intrusion or whether she was alerted by a sudden scream just outside the artificial cavern - and then she spread her knees and cheeks more widely in flagrant invitation to further fondling. And maybe more… the boy hopefully imagined as his erection burst past his underwear and tented his uniform’s overheated woolen trousers.
She seems about my age… The stranger never looked in his direction as he continued to stroke her parting seam, and her face remained invisible as she peered into the shadows; Ram could only glimpse a high curving brow and jutting arched cheekbone as he knelt beside the girl and spread her curvaceous firm cheeks wider with both his shaky hands. Her head dropped between her shoulders and she gasped; he paused in confused indecision, unsure of the nature of the teenage girl’s reaction until she breathed, “Don’t stop.”
Inhaling as deeply and silently as he could, the boy slipped his fingertips beneath the tight elastic of her underwear and slid his palms onto the curving softness of the stranger’s unbelievably smooth trembling skin. He couldn’t believe his luck – and certainly wasn’t about to miss this unprecedented opportunity. He had a real, live, hot feminine girl in his hands, and she was allowing – no, encouraging – him to feel her most intimate moist crevices.
Ram’yana grasped the girl’s smooth warm mounds and rolled them tenderly in his palms and fingers while the elastic of her panties dug into his wrists. His heart flip-flopped into his throat when she moaned so loudly it seemed they must be heard by someone outside. His fingertips slid further down between her cheeks with every rotation of his palms and the girl resumed her quiet moaning when his digits slid across her tightly puckering sphincter.
Ram’s erection pressed painfully against his clothing as he edged closer to the girl and knelt between her widespread legs. He moved slowly and cautiously as her firm young flesh trembled in his grasp while sneers, jeers, orders and pain-filled outcries sounded just outside - just beyond the dark timeless dimension within which the teenage strangers were encased like insects trapped in smoky amber. Ram’s fingers glided together in enraptured slow motion and he thrilled at the unspeakably arousing intimate contact with the girl’s fine spray of curling pubic hair; he was further inflamed by her muted moaning while he touched the steamy seam of her moist slippery slickness. “Oh, God,” she murmured, trembling at his touch as her taut teen lips parted around his index finger. “Oh, yes.”
Ram didn’t know how far to continue, but he couldn’t stop now. The kneeling girl’s calves rose up athwart his thighs and her glossy leather shoes stroked his flanks while his erection burned a hole in his pants. His index finger slipped inside the strange girl’s inexpressibly soft, tight, feverishly sizzling wet sex, sliding through her hair-fringed pussy’s silky taut resistance until it was fully embedded in her slithering muscular heat – and then he slid from the girl’s incredible grasp and she was off and away, scrambling on hands and knees to dash out of the tunnel and squeeze through the wire, to disappear into the anonymous hordes of tearaway schoolgirls without a backward glance.
Ram’s erection made it impossible for him to exit the tunnel for an extended length of time, and for months afterward he tried to match a face to the glimpses he’d had of the unknown girl, among the myriad unknown blonde females standing at the school bus stops or walking to and fro outside the entrance gates while they waited for their rides. He realised that he’d probably seen the girl many times and never knew it, in the remaining months before he ran away from school and his family home to discover himself and explore the world.
It wasn’t long before the teenager continued the endless but infinitely rewarding quest to penetrate the confusing veils of feminine mystery. In the glorious heyday of the hippy era, it wasn’t long before Ram’yana was penetrating the mysteries of a series of willing female students and tutors of all ages.
The Lady Racheal is Ram’s first true live-in love, and his wife in all ways except officially authorised ones; the teenage lovers are virtually joined at the hip. Now that he’s an initiated peer of the Court of Centraxis and a neophyte member of the magical group known as the Dawn of Ra, Ram’yana still doesn’t understand the intricate and inscrutable ways of most women and girls – but he’s slowly getting the idea, as the slightly more experienced teenager sports with his nubile Lady every night and day in the various far-flung and time-lost locations of the discontiguous Realms of Centraxis.
A warm wet elastic band is stretched tautly around his erection and the unbearably intense sensation brings the teenage shaman back to a semblance of consciousness. He takes another moment to remember where he is as he lies back amid bunches of nestling pillows and concentrates on the indescribably pleasurable sensation of being milked by tight feminine muscles and slick moist membranes. It’s easy to tell whose flesh envelopes his rigid shaft as it juts from the deep abyss of his sleep-drenched mind – Racheal’s athletic young vulva is more familiar to him than his own palm, which reaches up unerringly to enfold her ripely firm breast in the smoky darkness.
“Oh, Ramses!” The Lady Racheal cries out his name while she gallops toward the precipitous peak of her climax. Her firmly slender form feels uncommonly cool after the fevered heat of their earlier tryst, and a damp clamminess pervades her silken down-covered skin. She rides over the edge of the abyss and they tumble together within a bright ball of electrifying glory as their screaming fall becomes a wildly soaring flight of transcendent passion.
When the teenage priestess has ridden her prince well beyond their wailing climax she collapses into the Satori-like oblivion of their heart-melting, mind-melding afterglow. Racheal falls against his heaving chest in breathless ecstasy and the lovers gasp and pant in the sultry coal-black night. Ram’yana strokes his beloved’s hair and fondles the slick cleft of her bum, his fingertips dawdling around the tight puckered hole of her anus. Racheal surprises him by reaching back and grabbing his wrist. “Promised,” she breathes, “’member? I promised…”
He has no idea what the oracular young priestess is talking about and almost forgets her obscurely drunken interruption when his Lady’s tongue licks circles around his nipple and her cheekbone massages his sternum.
“Thish’s all yours,” the inebriated witch slurs into his chest, drawing his hand down with hers to grasp her smoothly silken tightly stretched labia. Her touch makes Ram buck involuntarily inside his drugged and drunken girlfriend. “Oh, Rache…” The arching ridge of her cheekbone slides up his throat as Racheal’s tongue meets his hairless chin, slithering upward to abruptly dive between his sensual lips with a rigid forceful thrust. While his lover’s nipples tickle his chest and her shaven loins contract around his shaft, Ram’yana tastes an unusual flavour mingling with the redolence of port and resinous smoke on her roiling talented tongue; he detects an unfamiliar salty odour clinging to her sleek cool skin and long flowing hair.
When the suspicious conjectures enter Ram’s incessantly muttering mind he dismisses them, unwilling to allow outdated notions of betrayal and possession to run their course while his lover’s tongue and loins entwine with his in innocent mutual lust. Yet he recognises the smell in her hair; Another man… Hermes? Did she mean that only her loving loins and fertile womb are all mine? Ram’s tongue slips from his girlfriend’s mouth and enters her pearl-studded ear, and her slender buxom body squirms against him as she squeaks and squeals. “Oh, love,” he whispers while he lowers his hips and slides up inside her, “it’s so good to be home.”
Racheal’s tight moist heat clamps around his manhood and squeezes him partway out, until he pushes back into her tight seam and begins to pump his moaning mate toward another orgasm. The heavily drugged girl’s pelvis slowly rises and falls as she resumes pleasuring herself with his arousal. Ram’s senses attune to her wildly insistent femininity as Racheal’s painted fingers rotate around her protuberant clitoris.
The unforgettable tactile pan-reality of being fucked by his utterly intoxicated witch bride is magnified by the tenebrous darkness that obscures her makeshift bedchamber. As his hands glide around her ripe curves and sleekly sheathed musculature, the prince surrenders to complete immersion in the momentously expanding moments of their enduring lovemaking.
“Fuck!” The drunken teenage priestess yells to the parachute-covered ceiling. She begins to buck toward another screaming frenzy of overheated membranes and lubricious flowing fluids - and this time Ram’yana races her to the finish. He lifts his slender bride into the air with hands firmly gripped around her clenching bum cheeks and she wraps herself around him while he rises to his knees. The Lady Racheal dangles from her young man’s rigidity as he stands and takes two steps forward to pin the orgasmic teen to the cloth-covered wall. He nails her to the cracked cloth-covered plaster with a willfully deep series of thrusts that makes the girl swoon within his closely squeezing full-body embrace.
The Lady Racheal’s new studded collar scrapes against Ram’s skin as her neck arches backward, and her blond-maned skull bangs against the lightly cushioned wall when she explodes into frenzied screams. She writhes around her mate while white-hot jets of his sticky plasm erupt inside her belly, bursting the dam of her womb and lubing her long-denied rush into a screaming, wailing, heaving ecstasy of multiplying orgasms.
The shaman prince glories in his lover’s uncontrollable quivering and her deafening shrieks while he squeezes her ever more tightly around his pinioning lance, pinning his demonstrably appreciative Lady’s pelvis to her bedroom wall. His mind explodes as he disappears into the blazing fusion of their interpenetrating heartbeats and the soul-sharing bliss of simultaneous orgasm.
Racheal pants around her writhing tongue while it delves inside her young man’s mouth - until their kiss is broken when the breathless young woman falls back in a fainting swoon, propped upright between the wall and her prince’s smooth chest and belly while he holds her snugly around his gently pumping hardness. Her slender pale legs droop towards the floor as she hangs from her lover’s jutting staff, her hard-pointed breasts mashing against his torso as she slides athwart his wiry frame.
The teenage shaman is utterly turned on by the livid sensation of pistoning through his young priestess in the smoky confined darkness of the half demolished building. His youthful body is ready for more exuberant loving, despite the creamy gouts of jism dripping down the lovers’ thighs - yet the teenage prince glides to a slow slippery halt within Racheal’s steamily addictive and perfectly receptive young body. He manages to override the passing base whim to use the unconscious High Priestess as his personal live inflatable fuck doll, and eases her into his arms while the arousingly beautiful teen sleeps on unknowing.
“Love,” he whispers as he hoists her body higher and his fingers slip around the teen’s widely parted firm cheeks to touch her tightly stretched smooth-shaven labia. “Rache… Darling…” His beloved begins to emerge from her slumber and then slips down against him with her arms dangling loosely over his shoulders. The girl has finally succumbed to the effects of alcohol and multiple drugs and orgasms, and judging by the rhythm of her breathing and the utterly supine feel of her torpid flesh Ram’yana can tell that she’ll be out cold for some time.
Who cares if she’s asleep? Fuck her anyway. The words are so fully articulated that the prince is certain Hermes must be standing by his side, and his head turns toward the voice that slithers through the darkness before he realises their distinct tones lack the man’s thick French accent. She’s so fucking hot. Fuck her… you know you want to… Ram’s skin prickles as he scans the indistinguishable darkness of Racheal’s bedchamber for a sign of the unseen interloper. She wants you to. You know she does...she’s made for it… bred for it...
The Centraxian prince is certain that the words – which he swiftly comes to realise are actually vivid thoughts – are not his own. They’re imbued with a will and tenor that’s foreign to his nature. He has a very good idea of the terrors that so-called schizophrenics go through, and the different personalities that can inhabit their blown-open souls; he’s known many psych patients and nurses in his time on the streets.
What concerns the young shaman most is the fact that he can’t honestly deny that a part of him definitely wants to do just as the disembodied voice prescribes. A willfully suppressed part of his psyche wants to continue to pound his velvet-gloved rigidity into his girl’s wet, taut, slick furnace and keep pleasuring himself with animal abandon for as long as he possibly can.
Making tender Tantric love with his sensitive and responsive young bride is the greatest experience in Ram’s entire world – but simply fucking the beautiful girl into a state of mindless oblivion when she’s overtaken by one of her regular fevers of irresistible animal heat is a vividly memorable second best, as the enraptured young prince knows from fulsome experience.
Yet the teenage magician balks at practicing the dark art of sexual necromancy. Ram’yana resolves to carry his unconscious bride to her bed, but can’t quite recall where the low mattress is in the complete darkness of the night-shrouded boarded-up condemned squat. Racheal’s slippery unconscious body shifts in his grip and her half-dizzy mate is vividly aware of her intimately familiar alluring slick pussy clenching tightly around his throbbing shaft, while her firm tender breasts swell and slide against his arching ribcage. The sleeping beauty nuzzles into his long hair and snuggles up against his chest as he turns in the darkness in search of her canopied bed. Fuck her…You know how good it feels…
The insinuative thoughts are furtively compelling in their accuracy. The prince’s lover is addictively, sensuously, desirably available; all he has to do is keep fucking his senseless bride’s starkly sensual flesh - just as his wanton girlfriend has repeatedly told him he can, any time he likes. But she’s so nakedly vulnerable, completely helpless, the young man tells himself as he steadies the drugged and drunken priestess back against the wall with his rock-hard erection rammed right up into her youthful belly. And it’s no good unless she’s here with me, enjoying it too… The bed can’t be more than a couple of paces away… somewhere…
Fuck her! The voice is clarion-clear in its insistence. You know you want to fuck her… you know she wants it… If he wasn’t a half-trained but precociously adept magician the Centraxian prince might believe he was schizophrenic, or at least a schizoid type; the strange unknown voice seems so self-evidently and vividly present that he might well believe the thoughts to be his own - but the young shaman recognises a distinctly different tenor in its alien rhythm and rhyme, a different accent within its urgent commanding tone. You know you want to… As he strokes Racheal’s sleeping skin he realises these phrases are precisely the ones used in malevolent forms of hypnosis – telepathic forms of hypnosis that he’s been warned about by fellow travelers in the magic group known as Dawn of Ra. Fuck off, he thinks in furiously transmitted reply.
Ram’yana firms his grip on the Centraxian High Priestess’s limpid body and leans backward so that Racheal sprawls against his chest as her mouth slides into his armpit. The glorious sensuousness of her breasts lolling and sliding against his skin is so delicious he hesitates, savouring the sensation of her hot sweaty feline femaleness plastered to his horny frame. Then he makes his way to the mattress, feeling the effects of drugs and alcohol wash over him, swaying precipitously when he almost trips over the unkempt pile of tangled bedding in the darkness. Fuck her… just fuck her…
A wave of dizziness assails the young man as he manages to climb into bed with his bride still perched upon his pole. He lays her down gently beneath his straining body, placing her on the silken sheet while he kisses her eyelids and lips. “Rache… Racheal…” The Centraxian prince croons her name as he smoothes the barbiturate-laden girl’s hair from her face in a futile endeavour to wake his recently reunited sleeping bride. She’s irresistible… fuck her… you want to fuck her all night… for as long as you can…
Ram’yana pulls the blankets up over their interlocked bodies, unwilling to leave the snugly familiar warmth of his unconscious lover’s loins. He tucks the covers around his beautiful bride as he burrows right up into her succulent heat - and Racheal’s arms and legs wrap around her lover automatically as a wordless moan glides across the tenuous border of consciousness, issuing from the blessed land of the oracular priestess’s pleasant dreams.
You want to fuck her again and again… You want it… you know she wants it… if you don’t give her what she wants she’ll find someone else… The Lady Racheal grips him tightly within the limber embrace of her slender limbs - and her leg muscles flex all the way up inside her belly and squeeze him with a desperately tenacious need. “Mm,” she mumbles, “
See? She wants you to… go on, fuck her! The voice seems to be coming from a point just to his left and Ram’yana turns his head through a dizzying surge of swelling annoyance to locate its source. His stunned mind freezes up when he comes to the realisation that the suggestive thoughts seem to be coming from the place where a circled pentacle is painted on the scuffed scarred floorboards beside his beloved’s makeshift bed.
You know she wants you to… go on, give her what she wants… give yourself what you need… The shaman grimaces inwardly as he caresses the sleeping girl’s cooling skin. The insatiable Centraxian priestess has urged her young prince to make use of her sleeping flesh in precisely this fashion, whispering her fantasies to him on a dozen or more occasions. He’s been unable to decide whether his Lady has delivered her unusual invitations to fuck her sleeping body because of the sensual effects of ardently bedded afterglow, her surfeit of sensuous largesse, her eager teenage generosity, her cat-like curiosity - or from some strange sense of guilt that his adventurous loving girlfriend harbours, whether unwarranted or otherwise.
His passionate witch-wife has pleasured herself with Ram’s sleeping, drugged or drunken flesh many times in the many moons they’ve shared together; sometimes he’s awoken to the electrifying bliss of her loving ministrations, and sometimes she’s told him all about her self-absorbed explorations afterward. Racheal still shares many of her otherwise well-guarded secrets with her first and foremost lover. “To know when not to keep silent is the fifth law of the Craft,” as the wise Wiccan witch has informed him on numerous occasions.
She wants you to fuck her… you need to fuck her now… The young shaman experiences a brief moment of self-loathing, when he feels a leering satyr - which lurks somewhere deep within his hide - nodding in furtively eager acquiescence to the lewd suggestion. His barely nineteen year old body begins to move inside his sleeping bride, and this time the raddled young prince is barely able to halt his deep plunging dive into the magnetically attractive body of his sleeping mate.
He pauses halfway into the sweet suction of his gorgeous Lady Racheal’s taut belly and hovers above her in the darkness while he wrestles with himself, barely able to turn aside the wave of overwhelming lust as it swells to an ego-gratifying crest of blazing self-fulfillment. The gorgeous blonde teenager’s charms are utterly delectable and the girl’s tight heat is already wrapped around his manhood; he’s sorely tempted to avail himself of her offer whether his lovely beloved is aware of it or not.
The prince rebels against the insidious thoughts that seem to issue from the painted pentacle, but as he holds himself above Racheal’s unconscious body he’s unable to bring himself to rise all the way out of his unconscious girlfriend’s warm embrace – or to plunge all the way into her delicate membranes, and slide up through her intimate embrace to the gates of her womb.
Ram’s hands caress the familiar contours of the Lady Racheal’s perfect young body and he marvels anew at the softness of her skin… and at the inexpressible delight of her succulent inward flesh gripping his irrepressible young manhood with an automatic caress. Fuck her! You can’t resist her!
A true story
The Whole is Greater
Shaman of Centraxis 8
“Err…” the Cold Wanderer’s eyes roll wildly in their sockets as he considers the limited options available to the trapped hitchhikers. Ram’yana focuses on the pallid neck of the vehicle’s driver, barely visible above the upholstered leather headrest of the Mercedes sedan. Dandruff dots the curving top of the driver’s plastic-coated animal skin seat and his eyes are totally masked by his dark glasses in the rear vision mirror. “Hey, man…” Wanderer drawls.
The younger Centraxian stares at a point between the short sharp border of the executive’s clean-cut dark hair and the starched white collar of his spotless shirt. He opens himself to receive impressions of their host’s intent as the vehicle races along the remote forest road. The teenage shaman perceives no immanently dangerous intent emanating from the stranger, but can’t maintain his composure or concentration in the surprising shock of this repetitious turn of fortune.
Adrenaline blurts through the hitchhiker’s tensing body and his young heart thrums against his inflating ribcage as the careening of their surrounds slows in his accelerating perception. He drifts in slowed motion through the tunnel of the primitive roadway, covered by a deep green canopy that strives to keep blazing sunlight from the living roots and nourishing fungi of the cool forest depths. The shaman’s green eyes shift to watch the impassive driver’s pale half-smile in the rear vision mirror, while dust streams around the fleet vehicle in a crazy flowing patchwork of sunlight and shade. He’s enjoying this.
The Centraxians hold onto the sedan’s centrally locked door handles until the canopy abruptly breaks apart and the Mercedes bursts into a world split neatly betwixt wide open sky and a vast rolling plain of barren brown land, stretching all the way into the hazy distance. They’re no more than a quarter of a mile from the deceptively forested grandeur of the National Highway - now revealed as a narrow strip of concealing camouflage, retained only to assuage the shock and offended curiosity of passing tourists and voters. The car brakes to a sudden halt in a wide graveled parking area large enough to accommodate a large fleet of trucks.
“This is what’s just off the highway,” the driver announces with banal triumphalism as he flicks the switch of the central locking system. He opens his door and springs from the vehicle with brisk confidence, throwing his shoulders back and conspicuously filling his lungs with salty sea air. The passengers unbuckle their rigid bodies and hesitantly follow him onto a gently rolling naked moonscape, totally devoid of life and utterly denuded of cover in the baking midday heat.
A fine haze of spray in the east signals the nearby presence of the
The dusty hippies bask in the insistent glare of his expectation and the blazing heat of the Sun, momentarily too stunned to reply. Ram’yana turns slowly on the spot, taking in the enormity of the devastation that surrounds him. The ground is devoid of any living thing. There’s no sign of a shrub, sapling, stump or blade of grass and not a single bird or butterfly adorns the deathly peaceful landscape. He can’t even see an ant or a single lost scout of the cattle-infested continent’s ubiquitous legions of flies. The churned soil is a roughly leveled crust of splintery fragments, and the earth is completely covered with an endless expanse of tiny smashed shards of trees. Hundreds and thousands of species of plants and animals have been reduced to a drab carpet of woodchips.
“Err…” Wanderer reflexively crouches in horse stance, uncharacteristically lost for words.
“This is what I do,” the elegantly dressed man declares. His well-polished hand-tooled shoes gleam in the sunlight, unmarked by the dusty soil. “We’re just starting timber extracting operations here. This is only the beginning. Pretty impressive though, don’t you think?”
“Where are all the stumps?” Wanderer finally spits out. “There’s nothing…”
“The stumps are part of the resource. We don’t leave them behind to rot when we log.”
“Log? This is logging? You call this ‘timber extraction’?” Ram’yana finds himself flailing for words as he stares at the murdered landscape, searching for something to fix upon in the bland monotony of ubiquitous extermination. He turns around and his eyes follow the crisp green wall of sheared-off trees and undergrowth that fringes the highway with a narrow veil of primordial splendour. The undulating strip recedes into the far hazy distance and the shaman’s eyes slip out of focus as he struggles with his emotions and searches for appropriate words.
This suit’s the devil incarnate, he thinks before correcting his wayward acculturated thoughts. No – he’s a self-servicing tool of Rex Mundi, the magician decides. Then he adds a leavening of compassion and a pinch of insight to the immature confection of his mental meandering. Not a peon in thrall to some feudal King of the World – no, he’s just another fear-filled, willfully self-blinding mortal, desperate to make his mark on eternity.
“Woodchipping,” the young executive corrects him. “We create woodchips for paper production and a variety of other purposes.” Ram’yana can see that The Man is relatively young, probably not quite into his thirties - hovering on the border of flexible youth and grim fossilisation, from Ram’s teenage perspective. The executive spreads his white-sleeved arms wide and embraces the void. “What do you think?” The Centraxian shaman’s rationality sprints ahead of his coiling emotions and their ungracious rag-tag train of thoughts. This hypnotised running-dog arsehole told us he’s been to a brainwashing training seminar; that’s why we’re here; he’s going to try his spiel out on us! The Man continues blandly; “Isn’t this the best use of the total resource?”
The Centraxians consider themselves environmentalists and conservationists in a time when the term ‘greenie’ has yet to be coined; primitive ecologists, they’ve both read Racheal Carson’s Silent Spring along with a range of works from other bell-tolling researchers. They’re well aware of the threats of pollution, nuclear war and bomb tests, chemical contamination, deforestation, biological warfare and intermittent astronomical and climate catastrophes - among other possible challenges their tribe may have to face and surmount in the coming decades.
Yet their environmentalism remains naïve and rather untrained, so Wanderer sputters, “Totaled resource, more like.” He’s untroubled by concerns about soil erosion, water degradation, species extermination, carbon cycle stuff-ups, sea level rises or climate catastrophes. These likely consequences and all the cascading range of vandalistic deconstructions resulting from nature’s commercialised mass murder are quite obvious to the Centraxian logician, but currently utterly irrelevant. All that comes to the Cold Wanderer’s mind as he stares into the bland corporate face of mass extinction and global genocide is a simple, naïve question; “Why don’t yer leave, say, a third of the trees, so there’ll be something to recover - something to grow back?”
The Man inhales deeply, unreeling the scroll of his memorised script and steeling himself for a potentially hostile reception. Ram’yana can easily recognise the hallmarks of decades of privilege and ego-bolstering success in the executive’s every preening movement - the slight elevation of his chin and the suddenly serious caste of his pleasant patrician features; the surreptitious edge of his curling half-smile as he tugs creases from the arms of his tailored shirt; the way he ostentatiously flashes his opal-studded gold cufflinks at the young strangers in an attempt to demonstrate that the hand is faster than the eye. The Man clears his throat and begins a short well-rehearsed oration, outlining Corporate Lore 101 for his small captive audience.
“Well,” he begins, “that’s one way of looking at the resource and I can certainly understand your point of view - but we view matters in a slightly different way. You have to understand that as a responsible employee of a listed, publicly owned corporation I have a duty to maximise the profits for our shareholders. To achieve that all-important end, we must make best use of the available resource in the most responsible and efficient manner possible.” The executive sees that the stunned young men seem quite able to absorb Corporate Philosophy Idea One, so he continues his oration. “We know that this resource is here now, ready for us to use today…”
“It was, you mean,” Wanderer objects.
“Oh, you mean this? Here? This is nothing.” The Man adjusts his sunglasses. “This is just a trial area.” He attempts to hold his audience as both young men turn around in tight circles, conspicuously drawing attention the undeniably vast area of total destruction. The speaker continues, unfazed by their theatrical display. “So to answer your point, this resource is available now. We know what it’s worth now. No-one has any idea what it will or won’t be worth in the future – but it’s definitely worth our while to take it now. The rest is not our concern.” The Centraxians slowly absorb Idea Two of Corporate Philosophy 101 as The Man takes a deep breath and delivers the Third Idea, the classic amoral Corporate coup-de-gras to any objection;
“What’s more, we have many competitors and we know that if we don’t take this resource now, they certainly will. So there would be no point at all in saving a third of the resource for later. It will only be used by someone else.”
Ram’yana and Wanderer mull over the Three Ideas for a few moments while The Man smiles winningly, sure he’s passed the seminal points of economic reality on to the slightly hostile yet surprisingly receptive young hippies. The young shaman struggles to encapsulate the horde of concepts roaring through him, all screaming to be given voice at once. His mouth opens and closes a few times before his tongue unties itself.
“But what happens,” he asks, “when you run out of trees?” It seems he’s caught The Man off guard behind the shields of his black sunglasses and he’s surprised at the answer that springs readily between the executive’s perfect teeth; “Well, when that happens we’ll just move on to another resource.” Multinational Corporation Philosophy Idea Number Four strikes home with deadly, mind-numbing illogic.
The Centraxians look to each other and silently agree that there’s not much point arguing with a madman who has your backpacks locked in the boot of his car. They return his smile for a few moments, thinking of something innocuous to say - but Ram’yana can’t help himself. “What do you do when you run out of air?”
The ironic and insulting double entendre appears to go right over The Man’s head as he takes a deep breath to begin another short speech that the rebellious hippy teenager intercepts. “You’ve learned all this at executive training school, haven’t you? Do you really believe it all?” The Man freezes, suddenly aware of the possibilities of many kinds of vulnerability in the remote empty landscape. He glances at the reassuring sight of a bulldozer working in the far distance.
“It’s not a local company yer work for, is it?” Wanderer squints at him through fogged glasses. “It’s some multinational corporation.” The executive shrinks slightly within the armor of his shirt, withering beneath the stormy grey steel of the Cold Wanderer’s condescending glare. “If I say what I really think, will yer just dump us here and piss off or will yer give me a fair hearing – and still give us a lift?” Time stops for a few heartbeats as they stare at each other through layers of optical glass and acculturated preconception.
The Man suddenly relaxes and drops his arms to his sides, along with a large slab of his corporate persona. He slouches in the enormous wasteland with his two fellow humans, his head tilting toward the maroon Mercedes. “What do you have on your mind?” He doesn’t really want to be doing this, the young shaman sees. He wants to get something off his chest. That’s probably why we’re here… unless he’s hoping for a challenge to his newly-trained brainwashing technique. Maybe he’s a public relations front-man who’s ready to throw it all away…
“Yer’d be, what, not thirty yet?” Wanderer suggests. “But yer can already see the beginning of the long, slow slide to the grave, right? And yer can see what it’s like for the numb and powerless when they get old, huh?” The furtive astonishment that the executive quickly covers with a fixed rictus of a smile shows the Canadian he’s struck home. “Well yer cain’t buy yer way out of reality, man. Why don’t yer forget all that crap and get out while yer can, get on the side of life instead of spreading death?”
“And live on a commune eating brown rice I suppose,” the driver jeers softly. “You can’t change the world like that, my young friend - you’re just avoiding it. You can only expect to have a chance to exert any influence on the system by being part of it.” The hippies watch as a layer of the man’s unaffected veneer slowly peels away when he notices the cloying smudges of dust on the toes of his well ventilated shoes. He unexpectedly squats on his haunches in the dust and gravel and the hippies automatically assume the same position. “You have to be part of the system to even have an inkling of how it really works,” he continues with a serious expression leveling his thin lips, “to have a decent chance to see what really needs changing…”
The Cold Wanderer leans forward and the inveterate game player makes his next move. “That’s what they all say before they give up and sell out. Yer sure don’t sound like yer want to change the system.”
The increasingly beleaguered executive stares into his reflection in the clouded surfaces of his shiny black shoes. Then he tilts his head to the ground and removes his sunglasses before turning a transformed visage upon his interlocutors, his unlined pale blue eyes open and vulnerable as he speaks in quieter tones of sincere reflection. “Look, fellows, I have responsibilities, you know? I have a wife and a young family and I…” He wavers and Ram’yana slips into the breach; “And you want them to have a future, naturally? With trees and fresh air and real quality of life - the same world that your grandparents left for you?”
“That’s a very glib little speech. It’s very easy for you to say when you don’t have a family to take care of or a mortgage to service - or anything else to worry about.” The Man recovers some of his dignity and the rising intensity in his clipped tone borders on outright anger. An inhalation of outrage fills out the exec’s tailored shirt as he springs to his feet, his confident equanimity expunged by a flurried flush of consternation. “When you don’t have kids and a wife to keep or the expectations of your community or anything to think of but your own… pleasure - when you don’t have to consider the future or anyone but yourself...”
All three men suddenly become aware of their respective vulnerabilities as they realise they’re exposed to the potentially wild passions of an unknown stranger amid this remote scene of desolation. But the young shaman likes to think it’s the other man’s innate humanity - and not the impetus of querulous fear - that prompts the executive to squat back on the gravelly ground just as swiftly as he’d stood to yell down at the younger men. He places his sunglasses on his knee, his eyes fixed on the earth as he recovers his aplomb. The Centraxians wait before him, forming a triangle with the young executive at the apex of their foci.
“The future?” Ram echoes. “Is this the way to build a future – by destroying the planet?”
“I think that’s a little extreme…”
Ram’yana interrupts, unperturbed by The Man’s tension. “Trees aren’t timber, you know. Did you ever hear that old saw about ‘not seeing the forest for the trees’?” He continues in a breathless rush before their driver can respond. “An individual tree is a single nerve cell – but the forest is an immense living conscious being made of millions of different creatures – it’s not just a stack of timber. It’s constructed like the human brain and nervous system…” The young shaman leans toward the co-opted young corporate. “…and this place you’ve brought us to is what a lobotomy looks like from the inside. A forest is more than a bunch of trees – the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”
“Oh come now – conscious? Even if we assume…”
“Assume that the precautionary principle is pre-eminent over your simple indoctrinaire corporate philosophy in every respect,” the Cold Wanderer interjects. “You’ve heard of it, I suppose? No? I guess they don’t teach you about logic in business school either.”
The executive stares at the Centraxian general with semi-respectful surprise as he realises the bearded young anarchist is not a completely uneducated moron. He looks toward the splinter-covered soil and the words slip from his lips in a rapid stream as unconcealed concern begins to wrinkle his smooth brow; “I really didn’t want to be doing this, you know, but my career was all arranged for me… laid out and waiting. I’m like a train running along well-laid tracks - my life’s all planned out for me. And yes,” he stares at the hippies and smiles as his eyes flare at the Cold Wanderer, “I have heard of the precautionary principle – you’re exposed to the idea very quickly in forestry studies. It’s a relative concept.” He wipes his brow with his blindingly bright sleeve. “It’s too late for me to change career track now, even if I want to.
“Do you want to?” Ram’yana doesn’t let The Man off the hook. Am I acting like a dog, pushing him further when he’s already laid down his mask and revealed his dilemma? The executive loosens his necktie, and the Centraxian prince fixes on its design - an array of golden crowns on a navy blue field – as his eyes drill into The Man’s incorporated soul. “I don’t know,” the suit replies as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “What do you think you’d do in my position?”
Wanderer’s response is reflexively quick; “I wouldn’t ever be in yer position – wouldn’t ever want to. You think yer bargaining your way into a position of power when in fact yer so powerless yer have no freedom at all…”
“Ah, but I’m the one with the car, aren’t I?”
“That’s the kind of poor excuse fer a refuge I was expecting yer to take, sooner or later.” The Canadian removes his glasses and blows on them gently before cleaning the lenses with his cotton shirtsleeve. He squints at his protagonist as he continues. “Company car? Can’t even touch the leather – have to coat it in plastic. Not actually yer own, eh?” The Man’s lips firm into a narrower line. “And if it was, it’d be another mortgage around yer neck anyway, right? So why not use it to take yer family to some better life? Man, this country is paradise! Yer can’t go on fucking it all up like the rest of the world! This is the place to bring up yer family!”
“You don’t know my family,” the executive replies with an obvious effort not to sound plaintive, “or what my life’s like – the problems I’m up against every day. So please don’t think you know what’s best for me…”
“Actually,” Ram’yana interrupts, “we’re primarily just trying to stop you from destroying our planet. The rest is natural compassion for a fellow being, but the most important thing of all is that you corporate guys stop trashing every place you can for filthy lucre.”
“If I wasn’t doing it, someone else would.”
“Maybe – but either way, at least it wouldn’t be you. At least you’d be able to live with yourself with a clear conscience…” The hippy shaman responds with Alternative Philosophy Idea Number One. “You’ll have better dreams, too…”
“I sleep very well thank you…” The Man thrusts himself to his feet again, but staggers in the glaring heat for a moment as he places his sunglasses on his nose and continues. “…in a very fine bed in a tasteful house with a beautiful, ravishing wife who loves me.” He regains his composure and adjusts his tie. “I have three fine children and another two cars at home that are mine – and my lovely wife and I have another child on the way. Can you say the same?”
The Centraxians climb to their feet and dust themselves off. Ram’yana sees the barb strike home in his companion – and feels the dull echo of its thudding impact in his own heart, feels momentarily wracked by the consternation of his puzzled loneliness. It’s the baby in us all, he reassures himself, male or female, crying for its mother… the wish to be loved… But the spike still strikes home. …and to love…
“No doubt your wife profits from all this as well,” Wanderer sneers through his flesh wound. “No doubt you and your family live very comfortably.”
“Well,” The Man says, dusting imaginary particles from his trousers with swipes and slaps of his hand as he turns toward the Mercedes, “whatever you think of it, it’s an extraordinary sight, isn’t it? Not many get to see this, you know…”
It’s hardly surprising. A few hundred yards of cosmetic fringing regrowth shields this rather private corporate exploitation of ‘public’
Woodchippers pay a few cents per ton in royalties after government subsidies are taken into account, as the Friends of the Earth and a handful of other impoverished environmental organisations have been pointing out at protest rallies and market stalls over the previous few moons. For only a few cents a ton, private companies get to cart off and shred irreplaceably unique remote ecosystems - whose plants and animals aren’t even surveyed, investigated or documented before they’re exterminated. When road building and maintenance costs and infrastructure demands are taken into account the government actually pays money to have its forests dragged off.
The Man has donned his visor and is impervious to the Canadian hippy’s arguments. Wanderer recognises the moment to play his last card. “To misquote the wise Native American leader faced with the extinction of his tribe, ‘Only when you’ve killed the last buffalo, poisoned the last river and felled the last tree will you discover that you can’t eat money.’”
The Centraxians are both slightly concerned that Wanderer’s series of cold declamations and Ram’yana’s pedantic entreaties have placed them in jeopardy of being abandoned in this lonely parking lot, to trudge back to the highway with their heavy backpacks. Ram’yana is faintly surprised when The Man turns and speaks to them as he reaches the driver’s door. “I tell you what – I’ll take you another hundred miles or so, what do you say? And there’s some whisky in the car if you fellows like a drink. Eight years old.
“Let’s not talk any more about politics or other bones of pointless contention, what do you say? I want to hear about how you live, and where you’re going.
“What are your names again? I’m John…”
A True Story.
images - author's
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a link to the original along with this notice. If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment! Thanks for reading this far…
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment! Thanks for reading this far…